It Really Is Crazy How Quickly People Were Willing To Just Let Chatgpt Do Everything For Them. I Have

YOU

Sweetheart, you own me, body and soul.

Promise that you'll fight to hold on. Promise that your hand won't ever slip out of my grasp.

Promise that you'll never let go. Not if you can help it.

Believe it or not, I need you.

More than the air that I breathe. More than the blood in my veins. More than the water that quenches my thirst.

I've needed you everyday since we first met.

I don't know what I'd do if I'd lost you.

It'd destroy me. I would be a shadow of myself, a soulless shell. I'd be nothing without you.

You're important to me.

Please know that.

I couldn't possibly live without you. I can't even fathom it.

Don't you dare tell me that you are not worth my time.

Darling, you're worth every beat of my heart.

Why, my lovely, it only beats for you.

Only you.

BEE KINGSLEY

bumblxbitch

replace one word of your url with bitch

LIFE

Life is nothing but a mere illusion. A hallucination in which that you breathe. A mirage that blinds you from the crude reality that threatens to smother you whole.

It has the power to take several bites out of your already-bitter soul and spit them right back out, leaving it beyond recognisable, as if it had left a nasty taste in its over-sensitive maw.

Life can be warm and bright, but is covered up by the several worthless lies that lure you into the swirling depths down the darkest crossroads of your sanity, the most ruthless torturer.

It has the power to bleed you dry, to force out the warm red liquid fire that resides within your arteries and veins, fresh as it blossoms scarlet against your droplet-splattered skin.

However, in great contrast, despite that all, deep down, it has the kindest heart.

BEE KINGSLEY

Top three fave books?

oh, that's such a good question. i love books. i breathe ink on paper. i've bloody read so many. erm, very hard to answer. you're very cruel to ask me of this. i'm sorry if it takes me forever to choose.

however, at the moment, if i was stranded on a desert island with only three books, i would need something that'll keep me always on the edge of my seat like The Girls I've Been by Tess Sharpe, some poetry because i'm not an imbecile so i'd take LOVE HER WILD by Atticus and, maybe something that i could curl up in bed with like Special Topics in Calamity Physics by Marisha Pessl.

i'm such a sucker for american books. they're my guilty pleasure. my british literature arse ought to be ashamed because my mother would bloody disown me.

If you have Spotify reblog this and tag what your number one song on your “on repeat” playlist is.

this is so beautiful! there are tears in my eyes!

arabic poetry is so beautifully yet painfully romantic, i mean “they asked “do you love her to death?” i said “speak of her over my grave and watch how she brings me back to life" and “because my love for you is higher than words, i've decided to fall silent" and "it is not enough to say love in Arabic, you must say 'be the thing that buries me'" could have got jane austen crying and shaking

i just slept through it and prayed that when i awoke, the bloody “maintenance” page had gone.

So, I have thick desi waves for hair and, omg. baby, don't even get me started on how much of a hassle it is to sleep in it.

It used to be down to my butt, but I managed to lob it to my biceps.

First, I brush my hair and almost go bald in the process, tie my hair back with a strong fluffy black hair bobble and then plait it relatively loose.

Then I tie it off with my reliably strong, but simple, red hair bobble.

And I would leave my hair like this until the very last moment before I go to bed. I take out the fluffy hair bobble, put my head on my pillow and go to sleep - all with the red bobble in place.

I would wake up the following morning with a good enough hairdo to be comfortable out of the house.

The best bit is that my bed hair doesn't even look like bed hair.

GIRL

When I was sixteen, studying for an exam in the school library, I met a girl.

Not any old girl.

It was obvious that she wanted to be a man but it was obvious that she was not quite ready to admit it and she clung to her female pronouns the same way a fictional knight clung to his pig-iron shield against the fiery breath of a dragon.

This was a girl who had seen life in ways, with certain hardships, I could never imagine.

A girl with brown mousy hair that was hastily chopped to her chin and above her pastily white bare shoulders as if she had cut it with a pair of garden shears, dark eyes reminded me of the mud that dripped off the bumper of the right side of my mum's car from when she drove through the murky countryside visit to my grandma's house, wrinkled lips that were pulled so far back by her tight skin that I could see where her cheekbones arched and how much her sallow cheeks had been sucked in as if there was a vacuum residing under her skin.

I had never met anyone quite like her before.

There was a dwindling fire in her brown eyes, lined by sore red scratches where it was obvious she had itched away the hay fever that made her heavily pierced nose sweat and run with snot.

I was tired that day. I knew that I wouldn't be able to sit through the exam without my head drooping towards the table like a weeping willow and my eyes dying to slip shut.

She could tell that I was struggling, so she grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me awake.

Mind, I'm perfectly sure she was sober.

I was worried that I was going to fail the exam and that my mother would punish me if I didn't do well. This girl wasn't buying an ounce of my unnecessary panic.

She looked deep into my soul and whispered, slurring her words like a drunk man, "There's no room in life for other people's bullshit."

Such crude words of wisdom from such a wise young person.

After all, it was those very same crude words that changed my life and gave me the courage to take the reins of my own life.

Girl, if you’re out there, and you recognise yourself within my words, thanks for being a tough bitch and giving me the harsh truth.

BEE KINGSLEY

and then she complains i’m too much like her, while refusing to wash the dishes because it would ‘ruin her nails’. like, dude, wear a pair of rubber gloves.

my mom didn’t raise a quitter. she raised a perfectionist who’s so afraid of failing they don’t start anything to begin with