đšđđđ˘ đˇ, đˇđżđˇđş, đđđ đłđđđđđđ đžđ đľđđđđŁ đşđđđđ, đˇđżđˇđş-đˇđżđ¸đš
[ID: July 1. Too tired. END ID]
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đšđđđ˘ đˇ, đˇđżđˇđş, đđđ đłđđđđđđ đžđ đľđđđđŁ đşđđđđ, đˇđżđˇđş-đˇđżđ¸đš
[ID: July 1. Too tired. END ID]

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â melissa febos, abandon me
Deftones: âWhite Ponyâ (2000)
It is June. I am tired of being brave.
Anne Sexton via wordedarchive

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laurent says something > damen remembers it
+ bonus
ManâŚ

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Sylvia Plath, from The Unabridged Journals
I Thought Youâd Be Louder Jujutsu Kaisen Fanfic by MythboundCal
The apartmentâs still here.
Second floor, third window cracked open like it always was. As if Geto had just stepped out for groceries. As if curses didnât bleed out of the walls in Tokyo now.
Gojo lets himself in.
No key. Just memory. The door creaks like it remembers him. That annoys him.
He stands in the hallway too long, not looking at the coat rack where a black hoodie still hangs. The air smells like old books and hair product and something faintly citrus.
âI thought youâd be louder,â he mutters to no one in particular.
He doesnât mean the apartment.
He means the grief. The silence. The absolute wrongness of this. He thought it would come like thunderâlike Geto used to, all ideology and noise and conviction.
Instead, itâs soft. Itâs suffocatingly soft.
Gojo moves to the table. Thereâs a chessboard there, half-played. Suguruâs side is one move from checkmate. Of course it is.
âSmartass,â Gojo whispers.
The chair opposite it is still pushed out, like it waited. Like it knew he'd come back and lose.
He sits. Doesnât move the piece. Doesnât touch anything.
Just⌠listens. To the quiet. To the ghost of someone who used to know how to pull a laugh out of him like a rabbit from a hat.
Geto once said the world was broken.
Gojo never argued.
He just kept trying to fix it anyway.
And now? Now he sits in a dead manâs kitchen, playing the last game they didnât get to finish. And he loses. Gracefully. Silently.
âI hate you,â he murmurs. Then adds, almost gentlyâ âYouâd hate that Iâm still here.â
The board says nothing.
But the room understands.
Ch'ang Ch'u Ling, translated by Kenneth Rexroth, from a poem titled "Since You Left,"
peppa is so real

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