kkucore

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6.24.21

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didn’t mean to become overly obsessed with u like that my bad

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this is for the people who went through trauma and didn’t come out of it with thicker skin. but, instead, came back with sensitivity to the world and a deep sadness that won’t go away. some of us went through something and lost a piece of ourselves; our broken hearts never healed quite right afterwards. i see you and i feel you and i am you. it’s going to be okay.

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i love that you can gain a small following on this wwebsite just by being unrelentingly insane

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Sachiiro no one room

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sketchbook stuff

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This user is trying to stop being self destructive

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“that character is problematic” i am sick and twisted. next

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— on keeping a notebook, joan didion

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What they don’t understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you’re eleven, you’re also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three and two and one. And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you don’t. You open your eyes and everything’s just like yesterday, only it’s today. And you don’t feel eleven at all. You feel like you’re still ten. And you are—underneath the year that makes you eleven.

Like some days you might say something stupid, and that’s the part of you that’s still ten. Or maybe some days you might need to sit on your mama’s lap because you’re scared, and that’s the part of you that’s five. And maybe one day when you’re all grown up maybe you will need to cry like you’re three, and that’s okay. That’s what I tell Mama when she’s sad and needs to cry. Maybe she’s feeling three.

Because the way you grow old is kind of like an onion or like the rings inside a tree trunk or like my little wooden dolls that fit one inside the other, each year inside the next one. That’s how being eleven years old is.

I’m eleven today. I’m eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one, but I wish I was one hundred and two. I wish I was anything but eleven, because I want today to be far away already, far away like a runaway balloon, like a tiny o in the sky, so tiny-tiny you have to close your eyes to see.

sandra cisneros; eleven

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Rita Dove, “Primer for the Nuclear Age”, Collected Poems 1974-2004

[Text ID: “Any fear, any / memory will do; and if you’ve . got a heart at all, someday / it will kill you”]

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im useless