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I bet queerbaiting feels so good. it’s a shame I’ve already established myself as a lesbian who writes gay shit because I’m just imagining the high I would get from writing something where my audience has no expectation of anything more queer than the barest of crumbs, like the real top shelf queerbaity stuff, give them no faith that I’d ever follow through but also give them plenty of material to imagine, and then slap them in the face with the queerest faggiest ending they’ve ever seen. Make my straight fans look like absolute clown shoes. I think the rush I’d get from doing this would be so intensely addicting that it would briefly fix everything wrong with me but since this is a stunt you’d only ever be able to pull off once I would immediately go into cardiac arrest and die

the eyes of someone who just vomited carry a vulnerable acceptance to grief only known in portraits of saints

Sometimes, I wonder how fandom spaces and the Internet would react to a mainstream piece of Queer Media, where every single character is AroAce. No Romance subplots, no "Sexual Tension" and not even non-aspec side characters. Not even a mention of anything related to sex or romance. All of the characters would just be friends.

if suffering creates beauty then every beautiful thing is a scar and i wonder how many wounds this world wears beneath its polished skin. how many of us are just stitched together in ways no one wants to see because it’s easier to praise what shines than admit it bled once. i keep remembering nights when pain made the room so small i could barely breathe, and now they say those years made me strong, but strong feels like another word for broken—so clean it looks holy when you place it on a shelf and call it grace. i have seen faces that learned to smile through fire, and they say it makes them radiant but all i can hear is the crackle of what they lost. there is no art that does not come from ruin. we take what hurt us and make it gentle so others can hold it without cutting themselves. and maybe the cruel part is that we turn wounds into decorations and clap for them like they were born of tenderness, when in truth they were born of nights that chewed our hearts raw. i tell myself this body is still mine even if it carries traces of battles that no one watched. because the world only loves aftermath. they never look at the hour when you thought you would never crawl out. and maybe this is why i write. because i want someone to know that what they call beautiful once tasted like iron on the tongue and burned like fever through the spine. but they don’t want to hear about the fever. they want the flower so we give them the flower and swallow the thorn again and again until all that remains is a garden no one knows is grown from hurt.

The devastating difference between how much time it takes to write something vs how fast people read it lol

you're falling in the trap!! it will be read by many people, many times, and it will live on in their memories. and maybe no single other human will match you in time spent dedicated to your story, but as a collective we will outlast you. acts of creation only grow when they are shared

This. Writing is not like dinner. It can be consumed many times

you write it once so it can be read forever