(an obsessive fusion of halves)
Nona the Ninth by Tamsyn Muir
Warm Bodies by Isaac Marion
Hug by Marijana Rakićević
Mabel, Episode 28: Matryoshka
Oxygen by Mary Oliver
ratsandlilies.art on Instagram
Albert Camus to Maria Casarès, September 9, 1949
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normal people by ratsandlilies.art
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cr:@ratsandlilies.art on ig
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wolf OR-7 from post-colonial love poems by natalie diaz // splitter, linnea paskow // phantom pain by caitlin conlon // the night belongs to lovers, ilaria @ratsandlilies.art // blood by hozier // love and pain (vampire), edvard munch
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This was not done by me, but I wish it was! Artist is ratsandlilies.art on Instagram (I tried to find them on here but I couldn’t.)
I just watched all of fleabag in a day and now I’m an emotional wreck and I wish I could watch it for the first time again. I am in love with Andrew Scott and Phoebe Waller-bridge
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loved to ruination
All good things come to an end. This will come to an end.
I look over at him, I want to reach out hold his hand, and warm it. Yet, an unspoken distance stretches between our fingertips, a gap we can no longer bridge. He’s not looking at me, not anymore, not like he used to. His eyes are focused somewhere beyond, somewhere I cannot reach. It wasn’t like this, I’m not sure how it got here. We were the great love story, our energy explosive, our romance eternal. It was psychopathic at the start, obsessive, violent, it was perfect. I wanted him everywhere, wanted to cling to his arm and let him drag me around. It was just him and me, him and me, him and me. Our love story. Everything and everyone else seemed to slip away and I didn’t notice. It didn’t matter if I lost one, two, three friends, I only needed him.
He doesn’t need me. At least I don’t think he does. Isn’t that why his gaze is falling everywhere but on me? We were supposed to be the great love story. My heart sinks deeper with every passing moment of silence. Our relationship unravelling slowly but surely. I want to say something. Not sure what. He looks over as if he hears my agony in the silence. He’s looking at me now. He’s looking at me but the reflection I seek is absent. In his eyes, once alive with emotion, I find a stark reflection of our dying relationship. In those eyes, those once-familiar depths now reflected the cost of all I had sacrificed. I chose him. Traded pieces of myself for this, a love that was now slipping, withering away.
writing almost after 3 years isn’t easy, i don’t particularly love what I’ve written but it’s a start at least. a way to get me back into writing. it’s not completely all me, i did get chat gpt to help me word out a sentence or two. i hope i continue to write from now on. inspiration is really hard to come by. — zarya
header artwork by ratsandlilies.art
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- I love you.
- It'll pass.
Fleabag
by @ratsandlilies.art
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It will never pass.
ig: @ratsandlilies.art
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