i take off my hands and i give them to you.

we need more priests being tortured by lust representation

there was no perfect path. you did not get punished. your life did not unravel when you made a left turn. the memory will always be there. you can visit whenever you want. there is no alternate timeline where you made a better choice and got a happier ending. you were a little girl chasing the ice cream truck, playing hopscotch, swinging and aiming for the never ending blue. yes, the grief was waiting up ahead. but so was the miracle of saturdays in a car headed wherever you wanted to go. enough sky to wrap around every wound. friends who, despite your perennial bouts of silence, kept an ear close at all times.

I don’t remember where this story was from but it was about how the writers older brother died when he was young and years later had a son who, had never met the brother had the same mannerisms as him. Ok I think I remember the key words were “my son drinks from the water fountain like my brother” or something

covering up a murder together is such an underrated form of intimacy

sorry for not answering messages for three thousand years i have. Stew. in place of a brain. you know how it is

you know how it is with the saddest broth imaginable occupying your skull. Sloshing around in there. with the unidentifiable chunks. lukewarm at best

the line between not going out as an act of self-care and not going out as a symptom of depression is but a gossamer thread