estudentetser

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honey feels quite at home in green tea,

not so much in earl grey.

some things are best enjoyed

alone in their bitterness.

another day, another metaphor.

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— Nipuna Mehta (via @nipsyyy)

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“Isn't it strange that we talk least about the things we think about most?”

― Charles Lindbergh

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You’ve dreamt about it since you were a kid: a secret, a funeral, a spreading cough, and then it starts—the end. The whole, terrible end. For years, you’ve kept one eye on the shadows swilling above the door, waiting for the arrival of the God of Doom. What to do now that he’s here, sipping coffee in our kitchen? We sneak glares from the sink, mutter apologies when we bump in the hall. He’s an awful guest, of course—tracks blood everywhere, cries when we feed him, screams if we don’t. So we keep the freezer stocked with dumplings, black fruit, beans to last a month. We take turns hefting his bulk, keep him placated with a soundtrack of pickaxes, songs about death camps and microplastics, circular fretting, it’s only a matter of time. When it storms, he yanks open the windows; he polishes our worst parts; steals, constantly. At night, he raps at the wall behind our heads, just as he did for ten thousand nights before he showed up, just as he’ll do for ten thousand nights after. Meanwhile—well, you know. Meanwhile. All our kin is dying at a distance. The coast’s been burning for weeks. Filling the kettle, you catch me humming, The dream that you dream will come true, and we laugh, though nothing’s funny but this: We knew the end was coming here. We knew it, and like idiots—like perfect idiots—we stayed.

Franny Choi, The World Keeps Ending, and the World Goes On: Doom

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The loudest of voices are the ones heard, but what of the smallest one, strengthening? What of the orchid in the window, getting just enough light?

Chelsea Hedson

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He wasn’t really breaking up with me because we weren’t ever really together. We’d just been two people who helped each other when we needed it and got our hearts fused together along the way.

— Colleen Hoover, It Ends With Us

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not to sound traumatized, but it feels unreal that someone can just miss you and want you around so often. I feel like every worry within me keeps repeating, “until when? until when?” and the people I love and that love me confirm, “as long as you’d like.”

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the overwhelming feeling of sadness sometimes when someone treats me with kindness

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Kim Addonizio, “The Singing”, Tell Me

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I am good. I am loved.

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too sad for the internet. too quiet for the bar. too uninspired for a blank canvas. too restless for the couch. too confused for the trails. too timid for a phone call.

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I hope they ask about me & I hope you tell them you fucked up.