I Want To Eat Love And Spit Out The Root (the Arteries Hidden Under Your Flesh) And I Want To Drink So

i think about my mother and what she had to let go to take care of me. i think about the photo of her when she was young, her eyes bright and golden, maybe she passed them to another child in another world. i think about how she didn't grow up, i think about the pain she was inflicted with to prove herself of her womanhood, of the burden she earned when she had children. i think about being in her womb, warm and parasitic, sucking the life force out of her, making her losing all locks of her dark, long hair. i think about her drastic weight loss, i think about her face holes, i think about her sudden shift in mood and satisfaction. i think about how i was the end to my mother, how i brought death to her the moment i was born and months i laid in her womb. i think about her mother calling her every other day, wishing she could see her and embrace her. i think about the nights my mother misses my grandmother, and how i wish she didn't have to be with me instead. i think about my mother and it aches because no matter how hard i try, i can never be gentle with her. i think about how i hate her with so much fury, but never wipe her watering eyes when she wanders. i think about how i love her to the point a part of me breaks and shakes and dies, but i can't show it without shouting and screaming and yelling. i think about how my mother yearns to be hugged and embraced by her own mother, how i wish i could be that for her, how i want to coddle her and kiss her forehead and tell her everything will be alright. i think about how my mother has crossed oceans for me to sleep beside me on lonely nights, how her mother would cross the same oceans to wash her hair, how i can't even seem to reach out to her and hold her close. i think about my mother shampooing my hair, and how warm her hands are, how safe i feel so bare infront of another human being, how the love from the womb comes back.

i don't know what to do with myself anymore

lowkey survived and better now

my girl ghosted me. hope i die

A.F. Vandevorst installation for Arnhem Mode Biennale 2011

“A girl sleeping in a hospital bed in her A.F. Vandevorst dress. But here, the girl as well as the mattress and pillow are made out of candle wax. Once lit, what starts as a perfect image will slowly melt and perish during the biennale.”

behind the scenes of hirokazu kore-eda's monster (2023)

death will not do us part you stupid cunt

i adore the thought of soulmates in every century/world/universe/life/forever but they aren't lovers every time. like in some worlds they are just a dog and a person and that's okay. in another— a cat and a butterfly that landed on its nose, a young person who befriends an older person, a fisherman and a mermaid they catch, a pirate and their squawking parrot, two orcas communicating from miles away, whatever. doesnt matter cause its always you. it will always be you and yes theres reincarnation's random surprises but ill take any form of you, as much of you as possible and expect you in my life always and anyways

sometimes i think about how hard it is for me to cry and how numb i feel about everything, i wish i was still a crybaby i miss who i was before i let the emptiness take me over

i'm so in love with the "legend" that your beauty marks / moles are where your lover liked to kiss you the most in your past life. like how beautiful is it that some pretty girl who loved me kissed me all over my back and neck and hands in some past life and i get to carry all of that love with me in this life ?? that is lovely to think about

I'm fucking sippy juice