Cottagecore

i want to sit on pebble beaches in sweatshirts and jeans while we read to eachother and light bonfires, both literally & figuratively

i wish we could be back in the middle of last summer, sitting on your back porch with the fan lazily circling in the evening heat. you playing with my hair as the gnats buzzed outside.

the constant plight of the queer community is deciding between living in a cottage w only the one you love for miles or living in a bustling metropolis full of culture and community and life.

i also want the very modern pleasure of sitting in the back of my car, lying in the trunk with pillows and blankets, listening to indie music with a person and just breathing the same air.

i love women like i love warm pizza and hot cocoa and rain and fog and indie coffee shops. i want to be home to each other, but not feel homeless without each other because women aren’t warm pizza and hot cocoa and rain and fog and indie coffee shops. they’re people. i’m a person. i deserve time and space and also love and companionship.

i want to go on whirlwind vacations with a person and be the only two who understand each other fully. i want to have adventures with a girl, jumping off cliffs in to crystal turquoise waters or try street food in a marketplace. more than anything, though, i want to grow and learn together in the most kinetic sense of it all.

darling, i only seek to make your life better than it already is, you perfect, holy being

there’s so much loneliness in the wlw/ nblw community, and we’ve grown to romanticize it as yearning. granted, i too am single and yearn to frolick in a field of strawberries, lavender, and dark academic books and ancient languages and all that. yet, i don’t think that’s beautiful. i think it’s sad and lonely and i hope each and every one of you is happy with or without a girlfriend someday 🍓🌾🐌

sitting on a train with a girl on a trip into a historical city, drinking tea from the dining car or the snack cart. reading poetry aloud as it rains outside and children sleep in their mothers’ arms across the aisle.

last night i was walking on the railroad tracks, and the moon was out, a waxing gibbous. i saw two deer, and have never felt more of a sign in my life that i’ll be okay.

there are certain things that ooze queer culture like fishnets and the rocky horror picture show and marijuana; but then there’s also feeding each other strawberries at picnics and the monopoly we have on flower crowns and . i find the duality of punk and staying out late at night and doing illegal things, but ultimately just wanting to rebel against society and it’s constrictions versus the urge to live in a woodland cottage with only you and your wife for miles.

women are holy, and i should have known i loved them in the seventh grade when i led a protest for the right of the girls to sit on the literal floor because we didn’t have enough desks and got detention. the teacher always picked a boy to do it. well, now i know that boys oftentimes belong on the floor and that there are more things worth fighting for.

oh to be a girl in the victorian age who governesses by day, telling children stories of pirates brave and women that save themselves, but then to be a bar cat by night, partying in underground enclaves of women who like to hang around their friends and stare at the Mr’s wife a bit too long.