“...a winter I’ve always dreamed of, the kind where the fairy queen arrives, pirouetting amongst the snowfall...”
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I am in the middle of that road where you discover that no matter if we love/like/admire/adore a person, it gives them no right or license to put us down. We should never let anybody feed onto our insecurities, even if that means loosing that anybody. Because people gone leave a space that can be filled later on. But once that love for oneself leaves, it leaves not a void, but an abyss.
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excerpts from my diary
7.28.22 an abundance of strawberries
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I feel like there’s more to say about it. I feel like I should be able to explain, for pages, with certainty, but I can’t. I come from a place of doubt.
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excerpts from my diary: I have to die pretty, by rian b (my ko-fi)
I have to die pretty I think. I am Mitski singing how if I gave up on being pretty I wouldn’t know how to be alive. I choose the best mascara to run down my cheeks as I cry. The prettiest words to write on my diary. The best “Kendall Roy Breakdown” playlist as I spiral. I curate scenes in films and shows and see their breakdown and spiral and catharsis and say “I want that”. What am I if my breakdown is not readily televised and serenaded to an indie band fronted by a nepo baby and millions of teenagers watching saying “he’s just like me”. I live in bite-sized formats readily consumed and picked apart and thrown away for a newer, younger, bouncier cool girl.
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Totoo ba, minahal mo rin daw ako?
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fragment (after Easter)
you found a little fox in the candy aisle
just the size of the palm of my hand.
you brought him home to me.
“he was a stray,” you said
and fished him out of the Easter basket.
“but I know you love stray hearts.”
and if a stuffed fox ever loved
this one did.
he still hasn’t got a name
but he’s an excellent listener
and I sit here in the dark
and hold the fox
like I hold your hand
when the train gives me a panic attack
like I hold my rosary
until the beads squeak together
like I hold my heart out
quivering.
I made him a hat.
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I was unaware of the depth of the scars my first love left until I almost fell in love again and of the depth of its roots until I am searching for him in everyone I meet.
~ Vodka
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“…mid-november comes, and I’m odette again, throwing up feathers and moonstruck water from the water-lilied lake...”
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excerpts from my diary
7.20.22 the late diagnosed autistic experience
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