Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
Cosimo Galluzzi
styofa doing anything
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Sade Olutola

Kaledo Art
todays bird

if i look back, i am lost

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Kiana Khansmith
taylor price
Peter Solarz
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
Today's Document

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Origami Around
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Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
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@onsecond-thhought

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Silly little daydreams
That someone might actually care
About what goes on in my mind
Wanting to see more from there
Silly little fantasies
That someone could want my time
To learn about all my quirks
Looking past all my inner grime
Silly little delusions
That I’m beautiful and adored
Wanted for both body and soul
Given love that I could endlessly hoard
Silly little Me
Getting lost in all these things
Letting wants and wishes blind me
To the reality life always brings
being weird and full of love can save you
and it might save those around you, too
Le Trou (2015) by David Altmejd
There is a mastery in my ignorance, the art of desperation and want. want to be known. want to be seen. want to be heard. While I turn my back, close the blinds, lower myself to a whisper. An apology. for existing. for scaring you. for everything. This is no fight, no battleground, this is a kitchen table by candlelight. this is safe, this is home, words we do not recognize nor abide by. I will not take my shoes off, I don’t plan on staying. Pull the trigger, let me leave yet another gaping wound. you can feel vindicated, I can move on. there is no expectation for you to stay. in a place you are not happy.

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“You have to talk, otherwise your head turns into a cemetery.”
— Chuck Palahniuk, Consider This
Carol Rifka Brunt, Tell the Wolves I’m Home
Overgrowth
I never had to ask to know— like breath, like pulse, like something pressed deep into bone. It has always lived in me. There was no revelation, no sudden bloom— only the slow untangling of what was always there.
But you look at me like overgrowth, like something unwelcome curling through cracks, roots pushing up through pavement, breaking the lines you traced in stone— unnatural, you say, though it grows all the same.
And I will not apologize for the way I wish to hold her.
You don’t know why it unsettles you— only that it does. That it takes up space where you never meant to leave any.
You mistake my hands for something reaching too far, my mouth for something tainted, because they love gently and without shame. You say love should not feel like this— as if love must bend to your will, must bloom only where you allow.
But love is wild by nature. It does not yield to walls built from fear. It moves in ways you do not expect— it is soft and unshaken, pressing against my ribs and against a body you swore I was never meant to love.
When she looks at me, I feel it like sunlight— heavy and warm where it rests on my chest. You see the way she holds me, and it bothers you, though you cannot say why. Still, you call it unnatural— as if love were a thing to be tamed, as if it needed your permission to exist.
As if the rain asks before it falls. As if the ivy begs before it climbs.
As if I could be anything but this.

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Christa Wolf, from her novel titled "Cassandra," originally published in 1983
Trista Mateer, from a poem featured in her collection titled The Dogs I Have Kissed
― Federico García Lorca, Blood Wedding and Yerma

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Stillness
There is a kind of hunger that doesn’t live in the stomach. It hums beneath my ribs— a pull, low and steady, from something I don’t let surface.
I scroll past the image, then back. I look away. Then back again. I don’t know what I’m searching for, but something in me leans closer.
I study the pattern— skin wrapped in lattice, the symmetry, the way it holds.
I watch the rope cross their skin, calm gathering across every feature.
I wonder what it could quiet in me.
I like to imagine stillness—finally. Everything inside me falling into place.
My body has never felt like home, but maybe this could show me where the walls are.
I close my eyes and picture my limbs folding into a shape of surrender. For once, it isn’t because of fear.
Here, my body isn’t something to escape— it is something finally being held.
There’s a line around my hips, anchoring me gently to myself. A weight across my chest, and it feels like peace.
I imagine someone near. Their breath is steady, mine slows to meet it.
Fingers trace along the rope. Their gaze and touch holding both a hunger and something far more tender than I’m used to.
I have never been so seen without bracing. I can feel my shame slip between the knots.
For a moment, I believe I am beautiful. Not in the way I’ve tried to be, but in the way you feel when someone shapes their hands around all you thought was unworthy and doesn’t let go.
When the ropes fall away, I am bare again. The room is still.
I don’t move. Not yet. I close my eyes and try to stay inside whatever is left.
I don’t cry. But something in me feels like it’s cracking open.
I press my hands to my arms, searching for the echo of pressure. I wind my limbs around myself.
It isn’t the same.
Still— beneath the surface, the shape of it remains.
A longing I can finally name, a space inside me I didn’t know could still be opened.
A part of me that wants to believe someone could still find something in me worth holding.