"self-care," i whisper to myself for the fifth that day as i create a new pinterest board to save my silly little pictures to instead of acknowledging the ever-growing pile of revision looming on my consciousness
Dancing in a hazy nightmare;
Loving in a sharp daydream
convinced that 96% of my problems would be solved if i had a private library
for the second time my hopes of having a tasteful, respectable spotify wrapped this year have been dashed by josh groban playing the titular character of a historical musical based on a piece of old literature in which he is a sad lonely guy in a toxic relationship and at odds with society (and there's a failed elopement)
i don't want a hot girl summer, i want to go and live in a crumbling, weather-worn lighthouse on the edge of a remote scottish town and wear turtlenecks and cableknit sweaters and and own a big shaggy dog and speak just a little too fondly of my late husbands mysterious death (i totally killed him) and knit scarves in the ruddy light of a mottled oil lamp and clutch a mug of hot tea whilst a storm pelts bullets of icy rain against the glass and-
hot girls don't know their lefts and rights
am i more productive at nighttime or am i so choked with responsibility and duty during the day that my free time is now only ever available to me when in exchange for a sacrifice of tomorrow's wellbeing? (because apparently revenge nighttime procrastination is an actual thing??)
ink-stained fingers, crumpled sheets of unfinished poetry, withered roses, lipstick on the rim of a coffee cup, dark chocolate, forgotten gods, starless nights, red candles, bloody knees, ribbons in hair
Sorry I’m not here, I’m mentally at Francis's country house thinking about when Henry smile there is a slight chip in one of his front teeth and it gave his smile a very engaging quality
i find it so charming that so many ancient civilisations - if not most of them - believed in gods of some sort. like, the world was so inexplicably incredible that, to them, it could be the work of nothing but the divine.
sometimes i wanna be red nails and cigarettes and cat-eye sunglasses, but then again i wanna be lipgloss and rose petals and lace, but at the same time i also like baggy sweaters and second-hand book stores and polaroids, but then i think about long scarves and fog and well-worn books, but then i see fingerless gloves and bruised knees and tangled jewellery, but also what about messy braids and daisy chains and knee-high grass, but then-