
Kiana Khansmith

Not today Justin
NASA

izzy's playlists!
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me

blake kathryn
Sweet Seals For You, Always
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noise dept.

Discoholic 🪩

titsay
Claire Keane
hello vonnie
almost home
AnasAbdin

ellievsbear
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year

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@dyinginback

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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What would you think if someone were to get a tattoo of your words, something you've posted on here?
While my first thought would be that of genuine flattery, I’d also want to remind said person that tattoos are permanent and do you actually want my stupid words imprinted on your body for the rest of forever?
New Blog
Not that you care, but I’m moving my focus to a new blog, Water-Damaged Library, which will be a strictly writing and essay blog. And not that I’m around on this one that much anymore anyway, but I’ll keep it as a dumping ground for selfies and pictures and whatever.
Anyway, if you have any interest in continuing to read my stuff (you don’t), head on over to Water-Damaged Library.

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
New Blog
Not that you care, but I’m moving my focus to a new blog, Water-Damaged Library, which will be a strictly writing and essay blog. And not that I’m around on this one that much anymore anyway, but I’ll keep it as a dumping ground for selfies and pictures and whatever.
Anyway, if you have any interest in continuing to read my stuff (you don’t), head on over to Water-Damaged Library.
New Blog
Not that you care, but I'm moving my focus to a new blog, Water-Damaged Library, which will be a strictly writing and essay blog. And not that I'm around on this one that much anymore anyway, but I'll keep it as a dumping ground for selfies and pictures and whatever.
Anyway, if you have any interest in continuing to read my stuff (you don't), head on over to Water-Damaged Library.
Vivaldi, Cello Concerto, for cello, strings & continuo in E minor, RV 409: Movement 3Â Emil Klein, Hamburg Orchestra
four salves for loneliness
I spend most nights on the porch like it's a new room in Hell, breathing smoke and casting dreams to mix with the motor oil and pulled weeds floating in the gutters. Soupy rainbows, pocket universe shouldering up against one another, sliding across the dirty rainwater. I leave my front door unlocked most nights. I'm filling a jar up with screams to save for the day when I need them most. I keep it under my seat, holding open a place in a book whose beginning I've forgotten.Â

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
More Earthlight zines now available — gemmatopliss.bigcartel.com
March - today
Progress?
Now, I've never given birth or designed a rocket, but I'm pretty sure building solid bulk muscle is the hardest thing a human being can do.
Tegan and Sara-Nineteen
i love and hate this song equallyÂ
Look. Look here, at the speckling along your leg, fighting the losing fight against the gravity of your inner thigh. Like any kid, you took a Bic to your freckles and found the constellations embroidered on you. Ancestral memory on the hunt for the pattern that could unlock who you were. The Huntress. The Shivering Wolf. The Squid. The Sickle, arcing between your shoulder blades. But here, along your thighs, look. You told me it was a perfect representation of Ursa Major, the Big Dipper. You whispered it, thirsty for the cold well water it might hold. Look. Look here, at the curve of Ursa Major, which is no great bear but instead a question mark. The all-stop to a question you don't know or don't want to share. I have guesses. I give you guesses, each pinging off in the dark like pebbles of hail against a tin roof. I cover that question mark with my thumb but still its weight persists. A dissonant chord awaiting resolution. But you keep running a finger along your sides, your ribs, your back. The Old Bed. The Gravel Pit. The Unopened Gift. The Abandoned Game of Chess. You cover them as I covered that question mark. Look. Please look. You can't erase them. You can't.
The fallacy is in thinking we only measure our lives in years when other currencies will do just as fine. Such as breaths and heartbeats. There are only so many we'll experience and then that will be the end of it. How many of these pulse-quick beats thrumming in my veins have I spent now, this night, waiting for you to pick up the phone? How many cold lungfuls sitting still in my chest, unable to exhale, knowing you're avoiding the calls or worse. How many more until the morning when I can call again to see that you made it through the night? How many spent telling you Please, don't go?
Oh God, for one more breath.

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
three stories for monsters
i. Never knew Mother or how I burst her stomach, her poor body unable to pass the rack of horns crowning my infant head. She might have been lovely and likely didn't deserve it at all. She lived in the estuary plain between the rivers and so I too live in the estuary plain between the rivers. The children in the nearby town dare each other to crawl through the reeds for a chance to see me and my bent spine and the nettled branches that grow like quills along my back and through my cardigans. They peek through the windows of my shack and confuse my black deer eyes for pedestrian darkness, until it's too late. I've never chased them as they run screaming. They sink in the mud to their knees and are certain that death is upon them, or worse. What is it they think I will do to them that is worse than kill them? There was that hunter what killed his son by accident some winters back. Plugged him full of buckshot in the fading November light. The boy gasping there on the new snow. His own father did that, and no one runs screaming from him at the post office, I imagine.Â
ii. Of course I don't even look like that, the horns and the quills. There's only one mirror in that house I inherited from Mother. There's only that narrow face that stares back, looking shrunken in these too-large clothes. It's bile on the back of my throat. I'm the monster.
iii. I'm the monster. No one has to be afraid of me but it's me, the monster, it's me. All that black staring up out of me, you'd think I'd be blind for it. Holding up my pants to keep them from falling, my teeth clicking. Run a hand along my back and feel the spine pressing up through the skin, a knobbed line that might as well be quills. There's no one who should fear me but me. And there's nothing to fear from the things I do to myself, to me, the monster. What's the worse that I could do? Even if it's killing me, what could possibly be worse than that?
The ball of rot and sharpened bones and nights too light to sleep.