37.

37. UK. Was lambslayer before I got nuked. Trying to keep things a bit quieter this time. Previous blog got a little bit too popular for my liking. Only very limited nsfw stuff here to reduce the risk of getting nuked again. I do have a nsfw side blog that goes further than my old blog, but I will be very selective about who I share that with. I want this blog to be a space for the things I love. For art, for music, for poetry. Still keeping the masked photos though, don't worry.

I like things quieter.

Not to sound like an old man, but I went to bed at a reasonable hour and got like 8 hours sleep and I feel like a new person.

I think I was 21 when I got caught. Thorns in my wrists and forearms. Sure, I shook them off. Paid no mind to the blood that emerged from soft flesh, and spat in the direction of the weeds that turned from the sun that morning and decided I was burning to bright. But that was it. I was just too headstrong to see it. Snags became tears, they moved from wrist, to thighs, to chest to throat. Barbs joined the thorns and the price became not just blood but flesh too. Late nights spent on my knees. Hands balled into fists pounding against the mirror. Smashed glass contributing to the bloodletting. Violence in worship and suffering became sacrament. It was me. The whole time it was me. I railed and rallied. Thought I found what would save me time and time again. And I thought it was love. I was so sure it was love. But love has become just another serrated edge, to impale myself on.