problematicgemineye

[problematicgemineye]

Newlyweds Kiss in Heart Shaped Tub at the Poconos Palace. Photographed by George Silk, 1971.

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Wild googles

Images by kody

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a kiss is the beginning of cannibalism

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literally me ꨄ

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@venetianviolet mj ai violet glazed organza

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ever since i was a little girl i wanted to live somebody elses life

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Listening to this almost 6 months after losing my dad. My dad died in hospice at home after a short battle with cancer, his diagnosis blindsiding me. I knew he was dead the moment they told us there was a tumor in his head. I was the last to know. Always last to fucking know. Mom told me not to look at the prognosis. I looked it up anyways and every worst fear I’d ever had was confirmed. A little girl preoccupied with death, obsessed with trying to keep her family safe. Somewhere deep inside me she still lives, a fearful little girl, waiting for boats to sink. I sobbed that whole night. And maybe that’s why he died. I never was an optimist. And I never liked to listen. Don’t look at the prognosis, mom said. I’ve always had a morbid curiosity.

I can imagine my dad asking me to come help him die. He always accepted his fate. So frustratingly accepted his fate. Now he’s dead and I’m left here empty. The night he died I was also last to fucking know. I think I was the first one to notice he was dead though, one final and a half breath. The hospice nurses say he wasn’t in pain but I know they’re full of shit. His misery took weeks and I fear I’ll pay for watching him suffer. I would seek an injection before enduring his end.

I’m ashamed to admit I don’t cry often. I didn’t sob at his funeral. I haven’t touched his ashes, turned into stones. I avoid them like the plague. I don’t know what kind of person that makes me. I hardly cry even now. And when I want to, I move instead. Walk and walk and walk until my heel is shooting in pain, legs feeble. Punch the heavy bag in the garage until my knuckles bruise. I can speak about him in a level voice when people bring him up. My voice doesn’t shake. I don’t tear up, I detach myself. My dad, the myth, dead and gone and that is all there is and there is nothing to do about it and crying is pointless.

Come make me cry. Come makes me think of my dad unlike any other song. I had to type these feelings out because they’ve been weighing on my heart so heavy since I heard this song. Come is my dad speaking to me as he dies, even though he was so far gone already. I was there dad, I helped you die.

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I’ll see you around.

i hope so.

i hope so too.

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narrator who's terrible at social cues & describes every facial expression as "unreadable"

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just died my one thousdanth death and i feel awsome !!!