Noah Kahan
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
blake kathryn
Monterey Bay Aquarium
almost home
★
todays bird
Aqua Utopia｜海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
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Cosmic Funnies
Cosimo Galluzzi
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if i look back, i am lost
One Nice Bug Per Day
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Xuebing Du
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@lemonthief3
Closure.
A dawn of light on the horizon.
First mistaken for the sun.
Uncontrollable wildfire.
Razing everything in its path.
Until all that's left is
The Truth.
I grieve in the ashes of the trees that shielded me from understanding.
The ruins painting a vivid landscape of the reality of "what really happened"
And I almost wish I hadn't looked for the fire of
Closure.
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That moment when your literal nerves are so inflamed from stress that the physical therapy doctor tells you that you have to play with beans twice a day to calm your nervous system down and make your hands work again
Biting my tongue, holding back from the "I love you". Holding my breath as I cradle your head, can't say "I want you". Kissing your lips to avoid calling you my darling. Knowing you'll pull away the moment I confess.
The moon is high, your voice soft on the call. I say "sweet dreams" and hesitate, my breath catching. Silence hangs heavier than our eyelids. My fingers fumble and the call ends.
The distance between us is no more than tissue paper, but with every hitched breath and missed step it grows thicker. Water rushing through my ears as I drip with sweet nothings, trying to catch every drop before they reach you.
My calloused hands hold your soft fingertips and kiss each little tip. You call and ask me to pick up dinner since you're working late. I scrub the dishes in your apartment before you get home and take out the trash. You nestle closer to me as we play board games.
Please darling let me tell you I miss you when you're away. Please my love I can't bear this heartache. I can show you a hundred ways that I love you, but you insist we're not together because you're afraid.
I can't bear seeing the pain in your eyes every time I pull back, but I know if I confessed you would walk away. This dance we spin through stabs us both through the heart. One spear keeps us connected, and yet so far apart.
Tonight when you come over, I'll bite my tongue when I hold you close. My greatest act of love will be pretending we're "just friends".
420 stitches. 6 hours of work. So little, and somehow also so much. 1/4 done. This is a commissioned work for a Drakkenheim DND campaign. When all is said and done, it will be a purple delirium glow worm monster.
TRIGGER WARNING: unsuccessful suicide attempt
37 white pills in the bottle. In my hand. In my mouth. Washed down with sink water. I wanted to die. I chose to die.
Every second of the last 26 hours and 14 minutes I wondered if it would be my last. After every exhale I was surprised at the next inhale. When my hands would shake or I would get a headache, I would wonder if this was the beginning of the end.
I reviewed my life, my choices, relationships with family and friends. I imagined the funeral and grieving process my loved ones would endure. I counted down the minutes until I would take my last breath. But the clock kept ticking and I kept breathing.
I thought about what I should do for my last day on earth. And I decided to go to work. I love my job after all. And make dinner. And put gas in my car. And clean my kitchen. I spent time with my best friend and my coworkers. I called my mom. I ate swedish fish and cheeto flavored mac and cheese.
Now as I drive home after my shift at work, I think that maybe it isn't so bad that I lived after all. Tomorrow I'll drive down to see my family. Maybe I'll buy a plant too.
Tomorrow isn't promised. For any of us. All we have is right now. Maybe I'll wake up tomorrow, maybe I won't. But right now, I'm happy I didn't die.
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Oct 21, 2025
I dream of her. In my slumber and upon waking. I dream of holding her again. Of telling her how beautiful she is. Even just one more time.
If I was given the chance, I would do it all again, if only to have another day with her. Even if I couldn't change a thing and would have my heart broken all over again. The pain of never seeing her again is much more excruciating.
I would give everything to be given another chance. To fix things. To try again. For, without her, I have nothing.
I struggle to see the simple beauty in the world. All I see is a world without her. I think of her beauty. Her curly chocolate hair. Her soft green eyes. Her delicate hands. Ones that I will never hold again.
I wish her happiness and to find what she is looking for. If I knew she was happy, it would be enough. But I wonder if I'm not the only one suffering. I wonder if she looks at the night sky and thinks of me too.
Dreaming of her is painful, because even unconscious I know she is gone. But waking up and knowing that no amount of dreams or prayers will bring her back to me? That is more painful by far.
But dreams and memories are all I have left of her.
Spiraling. Twirling. Glimmering in the light. I watch as the microphone finishes its ascent and begins the trip back down. Time slows. When I was 5 years old they handed me a microphone and put me on a pedestal. Then a parade float. Then a stage in front of hundreds. I never really put the microphone down after that. Now as I watch its silver and black coating shine in the sky, I wonder if I'll catch it. I wonder if it'll crack when it hits the floor. I wonder if I'll crack when I hit the floor.
Can I step off the stage now?
Hey just wanted to say your content is very beautifully written 💞 and quite relatable too.. have a nice day :)
Thank you!!
White tipped wings. No one taught him how to fly. He broke his wing trying on his own. No kindly stranger saw the poor bird and patched his wing up. They all said "poor thing, this one won't make it" and kept walking. So he patched himself up, taking shelter in the hollows of trees and under dumpster lids. But the squirrels and raccoons didn't take kindly to the unfamiliar bird in their home. He wandered streets with the warm sun bright in the sky or the stars overhead and it was all for nought. The stars don't glitter when your wing is broken and there's feces in your feathers. Every time he thought he had found a home, he was bit and scratched and hit. He learned to trust nobody and nothing. Around every corner lurks something that would hurt him. And as time went on, his wing slowly healed. One day, he stretched his wing and it didn't shudder or twitch. He thought to himself "if I try to fly and I fall, who will catch me?" Then he thought "if I fall, maybe this hell will end" and with a shaky breath, he jumped off a bridge. And the air caught his wings. And he soared. He flew with other birds. He nested with them. Migrated with them. They called him Mangle. Even fresh and clean, he could still feel feces in his feathers. He knew that if he fell, nobody would catch him.
If you put a gun to my head, I would write a poem about the cool metal touch. A sonnet about your steady hands and your gaze, unflinching from mine.
You smile when you talk about your new girlfriend and a bullet loads into the chamber.
You laugh at my jokes, and then you look away. The gun cocks.
I tell you that your new shirt looks very nice and you blush and try to hide your smile. I can feel the steel against my forehead.
If you were the one holding the gun, I would thank you as you pulled the trigger.
If you were the one holding the gun, it would mean you still feel something for me, even if that feeling is hate.
But the gun is in my hand
and I can't pull the trigger.
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Because your body still thinks it’s falling. Sometimes you might not even notice, still feeling the winds as you soar, but what happens when you land? When, unlike Icarus, you don't drown? When I hit the water, they forced a flotation device on me. I could see the pity in their eyes. “Why can't he swim?” I'm floating—and still, I splash like I'm drowning. My parents say they’re proud, as if survival is the same thing as being okay. The hard part was never the fall. It’s what happens after. The walk home under everyone’s eyes— everyone sees the burns left behind, and suddenly people know how to be gentle with you. I think if I drowned like Icarus, I would have smiled too.
Beautiful. Painful. Poetry. 🤌 *Chef's kiss*
based off @lemonthief3's recent post because there's something so poetic about having your heart and your body move long after your brain has given up.
Something about the breakage of your mind knowing there's no use, that the only hope for escape left is for something for the impossible or a strategically placed bullet enough to take you out for eternity, enough to free you from a battle that you've fought too long and too hard for. There's something about the futility of effort, and not just logically. There's no emotional hope, there's no spiritual hope, there's just doom, there's nothing left. But your body moves on autopilot. it keeps fighting, it keeps firing, it keeps loading that gun up again and again and again, there's no hope in it, there's just desperation, hammering in your chest like a war drum that won't quit, because long after you've given up, it hasn't. like a car engine that keeps running even after you've taken your hands off the wheel and pressed the pedal to the metal, it keeps running but it's not drifting, it's just running forward, keeps on running, until you either cross the finish line or hit a pole. It will fight when your soul has given up, it will fight when it's tired and when your mind wants you to give up. it is a machine, one without feeling or hope, just desperation but it is a machine that will hold you up when you want to fall. there's.... i don't know, there's something about that. something about the routine that keeps you from giving up. even if it sounds cruel, even if it sounds hopeless, even if it sounds desperate and pathetic and broken. it won't let you put down that gun. until you get the strength up to put the reins on your heart, and perhaps by the time you get that strength up to finally control that gun, perhaps you won't set it down at all. maybe you'll reach for the trigger deliberately.
There's a war being waged in my brain. Sparking and explosive like a summer forest flame. And I, trapped and engulfed on all sides, no longer holding out for hope of being saved. Every day I look to the horizon and wish for a wad of cash and a train to take me far far away. But not even a spaceship could take me far enough away to escape my mind. So maybe I'll wish for a time machine instead, turn back the clock and undo the past. Fix whatever was broken so that the war never needs to be waged. But for now, I pick up my rifle and aim for the chest. Maybe if my heart didn't fight so hard, my brain wouldn't need to fight it. Bang. Silence........Gunfire. The war continues.
@commanotes
They tell me to write happy things. They tell me to write about flowers and sunshine and gratitude as if there weren't grenades exploding in my head. Rapid fire memories of screams for help drown out the feeling of grass under my fingertips. Living halfway between bombshells and shelter, constantly trying to bridge the gap with slats of would've could've should'ves as if I could have changed the actions of other people by being good enough. My mind a broken CD, forever skipping back over the same line, wishing I could've stopped them. And maybe that if I do everything just right, it won't happen again. If I am just good enough, I won't be treated that way again. Not enough. Not enough. Not enough. The track keeps skipping. Or maybe I'm just falling, about to crash into the rocks, unable to stop gravity from pulling me down. I feel the grass under my fingertips, drowned out by memories of screams for help.
Magic isn't real. Miracles don't happen. Wishes don't come true. So when you tell me you're sorry and you see fear dripping from my eyes, don't mistake that for forgiveness. You plucked on my heartstrings until they snapped off one by one, turning the tuning knobs tighter and tighter when you never needed to. If God existed, maybe when you said sorry you would've really meant it. Maybe it could've made a difference. But as I look into your eyes, I can see a mocking smirk hiding just around the corner waiting for me to tell you that what you did was okay. Waiting for your mark to miss the manipulation and subtext you string into every sentence you speak. Love might be real, but yours never was. And that might be the most terrifying part.
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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Ripped in half. One half longs for you. One half desperate to forget you. But every part of me still loves you. I wish I could hate you. You were never the problem. I wish I could've seen that sooner. Every day I love you more, if that's even possible. We're just friends. Your selflessness and kindness will never cease to astound me. You deserve better than me. I'm glad you have somebody better than me now. I'm glad you're doing better now. I just wish you could be happy with me. You deserve all the happiness in the world.
242 days since my puzzle was shattered, pieces scattered to every corner of the city we explored together. 8 months I've been picking up the pieces, trying to piece my puzzle back together. You have the last piece. I am incomplete without you. A rift torn in my soul. The puzzle can still be beautiful, but never complete without you. I could live a thousand lives and write a thousand poems, but you are one in a million. I'll never find another you. I keep searching for puzzle pieces, trying new ones that kind of fit the hole, but they could never replace you. I may be an atheist but I'll pray to any god that might bring you back to me.
