Sotce - Tumblr Posts

routine lowk

mood

childhood skies

orange tainted finger tips from tangerine tickled table tops sticky palms pressed like plums to the window overlooking the lawn smeared fingerprints of a childhood long gone.

smushed faces resting against glass looking at the swallow birds swoop past, wondering how fast they could run against the sky to catch the sun outgrowing clothes to give to nieces and nephews of cousins who you've only met at family reunions.

and new shoes and watch how fast i can run and i wonder how long until we taste the sun. and it's been days but it feels like years we all scraped our knees because we couldn't see through our tears.

bless the daughters who sat carrying the trauma of mothers. who sat asking for more love and not getting any, carried themselves to light. bless the daughters who raised themselves.

just wanted to let you guys know ive finally reached my peak femcel potential by establishing the "jerk off then debrief by immediately listening to radiohead" routine. it's the perfect balance between raw pent up sexual aggression and delicious melancholy. before discovering this way of life, i was still marinating shame and self hatred after a good wanking, but not also empowering myself with a nice spoonful of thom yorke. this is an important self care ritual we should all be partaking in but not men because when they do it it's gay and desperate.

i’m right here. i always have been i always will be.

i see you always looking for something someone else that i'm not someone else that i've tried to be someone else i can't be

but don't you understand? i'm right here. it drives me crazy because i'm trying so hard

do you know what that's doing to me? to try so hard and still know it won't be enough? do you know how powerless i am to stop it?

the sad thing is that there's nowhere else for me. there's nowhere else i want to be. you're already written all over my heart. you've left me no space to write anymore.

but until you see that (if you ever do) and even if you don't i wish you could know that i'm here. i'm here

i'm right here

“in case you ever foolishly forget: i am never not thinking by of you.”

- virginia wolf

i’m sorry that i overthink i’m sorry i’m hard to love i’m just a scared of loosing you.

“pray for me, kneel with me. soak in the crystal stream. wash the sun from your back. cleanse my soul make me whole. dance in the morning glow. hold me we can’t go back.”

- sinner by the last dinner party

we should hold each other more while we are still alive, even if it hurts. people really die of loneliness, skin hunger the doctors call it. in a study on love, baby monkeys were given a choice between a wire mother with milk and a wool mother with none. like them, i would choose to starve and hold the soft body.

february shifts from one foot to the other, the deer paths trodden and soggy; winter's muddled canopy carved out by tomorrow's clear blade of sunlight, i grow tired of waiting, i grow tired of letting the line ring, (why can't i pick it up?)

crocuses hanging their heads at my feet, they feel an early spring; i look at their smallness, and hope it does not betray them, unlike myself, they have trust in the soil, trust in their roots— they do not wait, what would be the point in that?

i have grown tired of waiting; i look at their smallness and think perhaps it is time to unclench my own fists

and hold my life with open palms.

some brain pickers i’ve thought of:

you don't have to punish yourself for being selfish, you can just start giving

the contrast between what is and what could be often causes a certain sadness. it is often worth it.

there are many different ways to fall apart in each other's arms.

desire for love is universal, just like the struggle to accept it. let yourself believe that you deserve it.

Your day at a glance. you can't please everyone.

saying "i love you" is never redundant. you'll learn from this.

you don't have to be alone with your anxiety. there are people who understand it.

you're afraid of seeming needy, but your relationships will never suffer from admitting that you need emotional support. it's better to be honest than try to seem like you have it all together. the people who care about you will want to help you.

there is no ‘old you’ to return to.

you know it. you can tell yourself you didn’t need them but you know you know you need your father you know you needed your mother. you know it when your older friend pulls you into a hug and you know it when you tear up watching a father play with his daughter in the park you can tell yourself you don’t miss them and you’ll know it when your friends mum makes you breakfast when you stay over. and you can tell yourself you are nothing like them but you know you’ll know when you lay your hands on your daughter just like your father. you’ll know when you hit her over the smallest things just like your father. you know when you tell her everything is her fault just like your mother. and you’ll know when you tell her she’s worthless just like your mother. and you’ll pass on that chronic guilt and anger to her just like your mother just like your father

over sexualise yourself. wear tight clothes and flaunt your body, but cry at night because you feel like it's the only way you'll receive love.

over sexualise yourself. put yourself out there, but cry at night because there's no one to hold you to tell and make you feel like you're much more than your body.

over sexualise yourself. make decisions you're far too be young and sensitive for, but cry at night and try not to feel alone because that's not what you truly want with someone.

oversexualize yourself. feel it's all you're good for. wipe your own tears and repeat the cycle because at least you're not alone.

“and i would say i love you, but saying it out loud is hard, So i won't say it at all”

futile devices (doveman remix) by sufjan stevens

a lake with deep twisted shadows dancing in the shallows that resemble my silhouette, just a little bit more in shambles.

crystal clear ice covers the surface and you can't break through.

you can't claim to know my deliberate depths when you've only observed from stones on the shore.

if you picked a god and prayed hard enough then maybe you could sink down to my mud.

and i've talked to the sun but only at confession time when she has the cover of the clouds.

to keep you on the stoney bay.

i am a firsthand witness to my father's anger. i am his only child so engaged in following his footsteps. the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, they say, but i am not an apple and he is not a tree. though his face is oaky and strong and mine is red and blistering, so different yet so alike, what differentiates us from one another will always walk a thin line of existence and delusion. i am still the embodiment of his worst qualities. i still harbor the nature that scared me as a child. though he was understanding and kind, though his eyes were gentle and blue, they could still grow cold. the weathered hands that once cradled me as a child were still capable of bleeding. the comfort in his voice could teeter over the thick bridge of careful consolation and could harden like ice, cold and unloved. i am a firsthand witness to my father's anger. i am the only one so imbued in becoming just like him.

i wish to be a lover. i wish for my hands to be careful and soft. i wish to cradle the fists that have beaten me and wash the feet of those who have kicked me to the ground. i wish to love in any way that is not pathetic or desperate. i wish to be able to express myself without rage. i wish to be without rage. i wish to be without. i wish.

i am the precursor to my mother's misery. my very being is her burden. they tell me that this is what she had signed up for. that this was her duty as a mother. i tell them she should not have given herself up simply to cater to her children. i tell them she should not have given up. there was a time where she was free. where she could dance and sing and laugh without worry. where she could pursue her career and go home to an empty house with a big dog named after a flower. where she could cry and smile and spin around in circles with her arms in the air. where she could run down the streets of the city in the rain with nothing but the clothes on her back and the warmth of her best friend's hand holding hers. i am the precursor to my mother's misery. my existence has only caused her plague.

i wonder about the woman she would have been had I not been born. i wonder how much love she could have felt before she met my father. i wonder if she would have often thought about someone who has not yet existed. i wonder if she would have missed me. i wonder if she misses me. i wonder if she misses. i wonder.

i am a testament to my sister's loneliness. i am the final piece of evidence that everyone will leave her. we had grown close when we were younger. two peas in a pod, is what they had called us. opposite sides of the same coin. best friends on two ends of the same earth. different, yet so, so alike. so similar it makes me want to rot. we grew distant with age and time, as all siblings do, but have never reached that breaking point where we cave in and come back to one another. i wonder if i should have stayed. if i should have reached out one bleary night where the moon was drunk and the stars were slow dancing in the sky. if i could have done anything to make her feel less hollow. if i could remember that i am not her keeper, that her suffering did not have to bleed into mine. i am the testament to my sister's loneliness. i am a monster for not feeling guilty for it.

i crave guilt. i crave to let it consume me and turn me into nothing. i crave to feel something that makes me just a bit more human. i crave to hate leaving her, to regret it for just one moment. i crave to hate her. i crave to hate. i crave

but what if i’m eighty-five and still thinking about this? what if i am still remembering the pleats under your eyes? the fine slopes of hair on the nape of your neck— wringing me to ashes. what then? what do i do with the knowing? ask this, as if it is not my confession: i will know you until i cannot know anything else. what a silly thing, to confess indirectly. whispering, in the margins: are you understanding me? i am saying i love you. i am saying i loved you then and love you now. still, you.