#so glad I have therapy later

[lemoncake438]

How do u know if its love or mental illness?

[seaweedstarshine]

Eleventh Doctor Chronicles: Sins of the Flesh is really good. Really really good. Experience with certain attitudes can be so isolating, surrounded by people who won’t bother to understand the impact of growing up in that environment (because the world's so progressive now, right), and so — I'm so glad it exists. I also liked the discussion in the interview commentary about how being a monster and doing monstrous things are not mutually exclusive. Like most things, homophobia is pervasive because it is structural. Religious fervor is not inherently bad — “your god is love,” Valarie says to Lily — but as soon as hellfire is brandished around, it's used routinely to empower monstrous things, in a way that becomes unsafe to debate. Especially for young & dependent people who can't escape it.

Conditional love. Moral panics. Purity culture. Self-hate. Mob mentality. This audio. It's timely.

I appreciated what they said in the interviews about not only about the research, but the four rounds of sensitivity readings. I wish the TV show had that level of care sometimes…

[purityvalentine]

Random late morning spiral about my aphantasia and it's impact on my ability to remember faces

[xamaxenta]

Trying to remind myself its ok to survive day by day or that my goal is to not associate my worth with some kind of progress

[thebendsbyradiohead]

just spent close to an hour detangling my curls & immediately had a hysterical crying fit after because of the shedding after since i’m convinced i’m going bald due to a terminal illness lol!!!! love my brain!!!

[pepprs]

im actually fucked like for real. lol

[buckevantommy]

so i googled 'marker art landscape tutorial' and this video got me started. i like warm colours (and my marker collection is limited) so i chose this reference pic. 

[fingertipsmp3]

The amount of people who seem to enjoy spending time with a lot of people for a long period of time baffles the shit out of me man

[blewthecandleout]

I do think it's kinda funny that I did an entire master's degree in illustration and paid like what. 10 grand on being taught how to draw by some of the world's best illustrators only for me to be like... yeah not for me and just continue to do my taylor swift drawings but better.

[hiddenbysuccubi]

Y'know what we're not gonna feel bad about crying or about imagining making everyone feel obligated to cater to my crying, we're gonna focus on the fact that I rallied and that so many beautiful humans came over to console me and ask me to dance. That would never have happened at a school dance or club. (AKA I went to English Country Dancing and I fucked the fuck up on dance 3 or 4 and lost my partner and actually the entire group and got overwhelmed and cried) I'm not happy, I'm not proud. It was goddamn inconsiderate of me to my partner and to the others. To be fair, once I returned from getting water and collecting myself I watched nearly every single other experienced dancer also losing the steps and not getting it either, but in the end, I did rally and I went on to dance 3 more dances. I danced a good hour and 45 of the 3 hour shindig (after this the instructor let us know the last two dances would be advanced and hard for beginners so my HS best friend and I left for dinner ---- she also is diabetic and needed to eat) Anyway. They taught us bare minimum positions and concepts in the first 15 minutes (groupings, corners, 1st/2nd, partner, neighbor) but every dance introduced 2-4 new steps and such for each new dance. And didn't call the steps AS THE DANCE WENT (I don't know what I expected really) I did best on the easier dances (point A, obviously) and later when I said the steps out loud / called them as we went into them (point B) It was actually really fun and cool! I can see why they seem so romantic in period dramas and also why they are difficult! And I am so so so so very grateful to everyone who came to ask me to dance and took my hand and led me to the line up!!!! There wasn't a single dance I wasn't asked to! Most dances I was asked by more than one person (both men and women). And I watched experienced dancers fuck up left and right here and there so I'm not mad I fucked up, or even that I cried. I feel bad that I almost gave up and that I felt like giving up. But I didn't. And then my friend and I walked past a few places I haven't seen in forever and got good food and had a good chat (and for the first time all year I was able to pay for her instead of vice versa - though I only got away with it by her being in another room both times)

[snomg]

regarding the post i just reblogged:

i can vividly remember feeling so frustrated. clearly i was trying to be happy. why isn't it working?? and i guess i can see now - maladaptive behaviours be maladaptive, or something like that.

so its great that now i can notice these maladaptive behaviours (eh, i think i hate the term 'behaviours' lol wonder why) and have that be my flag to be like. oh! i can see that i'm trying right now. and i want to meet myself here and have us be trying at something that will actually give us anything. just any chance at all of a result.

'cuz ive noticed that these holes i get lost in where i'm scrolling or browsing or shopping is like - there *is* no return! i'm just scratching at the proverbial door like 'why is this not making me feel better? i want a chance. i don't want today to be the one where i fall into depression.'

and i think im ruminating so let's get to the good part (omg i can't believe there's a good part. i'm so glad.)

i can just play with my dolls!! instead of trying to find something new and fascinating to ignite a spark its like. i already have things. i've bought plenty over the years. things i want to do, things it's like i never have time to do. except the time is being eaten by those ruts. the substitute is so simple!!

it really is a 2 targets with 1 arrow thing. i hate the ruts!!! i want to actually spend time doing things i love!!! holy shit, there we go.

[eldrichthingy]

.

[inkskinned]

i love my therapist but i hate being in therapy. 10 minutes before my appointment, i'm in a meeting with my boss - we discuss my artistic choices; my boss recommends i artistically choose less. 10 minutes after therapy, i wash my hair and think about everything that was said, and then i have to switch it off, like a lamp, and go back to work again.

i was on a walk the other day and someone had the perfect combination of his cologne and whatever-else. it was almost exactly his scent. i fucking hate that. after all these years, i remember that? i tell my therapist - i feel like a fucking wolf. try telling a middle-aged blonde lady. oh i scented him on the air. i'm 30, and i'm having a panic attack over something that would be a plotline in the omegaverse.

what they don't tell you about mental illness is that if you are lucky enough to survive it into adulthood; it becomes a weird slice of your life. because you do, eventually, have to build a life. i realized in a panic somewhere around 22 - oh. i don't know what i'm fucking doing, because i always assumed i'd just go ahead and die. i didn't die, and i'm grateful for that, and i'm very happy about that choice. but it does mean that i am an adult in an apartment, living with my conditions side-by-side like. oh, that's my roommate, adhd. ignore the glass, bytheway, that's ocd.

so you pick your stupid life up by the scruff of the neck and you're, like glad for it (so much laughter and light and friends you would have never thought possible, when you were in the worst of it). but it feels so strange to be dancing around these odd little microcosms, these patchwork moments of your symptoms. if you have a panic attack at night, you still need to wake up and walk the dog in the morning. if your depression is making everything boring, well, you don't have any sick days left, and a job's not really supposed to be that exciting anyway. your ocd tears out each individual leg hair, and then, an hour later, you sigh, patch up the bloody bits, and go get dinner with friends. and the life is kitten-quiet, mewling and pathetic, but it's also like - it's yours, so you're fond of it.

and it's like - you're real. so you still enjoy pushing the shopping cart really fast and then riding on the back of it down an empty aisle. and you're not, like, so sick anymore that when you accidentally drop a mug you burst into tears (except for the days you do that. which are bad). and no, you're not allowed around certain items anymore. oops! but you've learned to be good about brushing your teeth most days of the week. and yeah sometimes in the middle of the day you have a little freak-out about how fucking unfair it all is, how fucking hard, how other people can just do this without having to fucking hurt the whole time. and then you sigh and force yourself to sit down and fucking journal about it so you can tell the nice middle-aged blonde woman yeah i had a hard day but i practiced grounding. you still sometimes want to burst out of your own skin, but you force yourself to eat kind-of healthy and to take your vitamins. you let yourself chop off all your hair in the sink in a dramatic poetry of control and relief - and you also have developed good hobbies that help you move your body more frequently. you feel helplessly behind, lost in the shuffle - but you also practice gratitude, taking stock of what you have garnered. because you're trying. even if you're never gonna be normal, you have something... close enough.

and the little kitten of your life, this mangy, starlit tigercub, this thing you expected to rot so young: in your arms, it turns itself over, belly-up. exposing this new soft part, all the organs and guts. like it's saying i trust you now. you won't give me up.

[boonasaurusrex]

I feel like the fucking Patrick meme

"Your Specific Acronym is defined by wild swings from extreme highs to very low lows"

"Yes."

"You were diagnosed because you exhibit these behaviors."

"Yep."

"The medication you've been prescribed helps to level those swings"

"Absolutely."

"The medication has been having less of an effect recently."

"Yeah, I made an appointment to get them readjusted"

"That means the old behaviors are coming back."

"Yep, on it"

"You've been riding a strong high for the past several days"

"Uh huh"

"Which means a low is coming and is simply a symtom of The Illness"

"No actually I'm just physically repulsive and incapable of love and all of my coworkers (not friends because I can't make friends) hate me and are mocking me at every turn and I'll never make a human connection again in my life because I'm so repulsive and weird and isolated. These are intrinsic truths that have nothing to do with current events :)))))))))"

[quantum1mmortality]

Im so glad you're writing for Curly bc I'm so obsessed with him rn!! May I suggest (if you haven't done them already) some soft/fluffy post burn hcs? Like finally seing him again after a long drive to the hospital, mentally preparing yourself for what he might look like. Curly being so afraid about how you'd react, and just breaking down when you let out an "oh, Curly :(" and softly place a hand on his cheek, so worried that you might hurt him by accident that it's hardly even a touch at all. Curly leaning his cheek into your palm, having been so scared to see you and now so desperate for your touch.

Life returning to a new normal after a while, prosthetics and PT, skin grafts, so on. Lying in bed with him and being so relived and happy when he gets a spark of mischief like he used to and tries to tickle or play wrestle with you. Him quietly asking questions when the laughter dies down. if you missed his lips, or the blond hair you loved so much that now hardly grew at all. Reassuring him that it didn't matter what he looked like, or what he could and could not do anymore. He's still your curly.

Sorry this turned out so long 😭 I can't get him out of my head!

I LOVE what you wrote 🙏🙏 I'll be going off of these, taking bits and pieces of your hcs and then putting them in here. Overall just gonna be fluffy post crash Curly hcs :)

Of topic, but the way some people in this fandom treat post crash curly makes me nauseous. Finding out that some of you wouldn't treat him like I would makes me wanna cry. Maybe I'm too empathetic or maybe I'm a baby back bitch, either way, I'd care for this man so much. Y'all don't understand how much I love him.

Tw/cw; none!! One curse word but that's literally it (I think)

Not proofread

Extremely sensitive to touch for the first few weeks. I feel as though curly would be in incredible pain, but would try his best to keep your hands touching his cheeks, face, body in general. He'd even go as far as to whimper at how bad it hurt, yet still enduring it because he needed to know you still loved him.

He'd be so happy to see you anytime you were around. Just like pre crash, but it was more special. It got to the point where you would take off work for weeks at a time just to be with him, just so you could see him happy.

After the first two months of agonizing pain, you'd start touching him more. Not sexual, obviously, but just getting more physically affectionate. You'd be able to hug and kiss him goodbye, and hold on to his arm as you talked with him.

Speaking of talking, he wouldn't be able to, so you would talk for him. Basically telling him something, then answering any questions he may or may not have. You've known him long enough, you know how he'd react and question things, so it was practically a no brainer for you.

Now that he doesn't feel as much pain as he used to from your touches, you'd begin sleeping with him. NOT SEXUAL!!! Just cuddling up next to him in the hospital bed, laying your head on his shoulders and kissing him goodnight. Just like how you used to.

Eventually he'd start getting prosthetics, and aside from the physical therapy he's usually getting, you'd bring board games and playing cards so he could learn to use his new hands while still spending time with you.

Curly used to kick your ass in uno and honestly he still does. The trembling in his hands would slowly go away over time, and you were helping him with that much more than his physical therapist was; because at least he wanted to actually be around you.

After months and months, he'd finally be ready to take home. New prosthetics and a bunch of skin graft surgeries later, he's in good condition again. Not perfect in his eyes, but it is in yours.

He wouldn't be able to work, but Pony Express sends him checks as if he was. He gets enough from them, you could quit your job, but you don't want to be dependent on them. So you keep working.

Getting home from work is your favorite part of the day, having Curly be so happy to see you makes everything so worth it.

Your home life goes back to normal with a few exceptions, but nothing too drastic. Curly being in a wheelchair and still not being able to speak, but it's nothing you can't handle. You love him, you're willing to make sacrifices. He'd do the same for you, and you know that.

Bonus content; if you guys were married before the crash, once he got his prosthetic hands, he'd have you help him make a little beaded necklace for his ring to go on; that way he could still wear it :) he'd never take the necklace off once it's done

A/N; I've been pretty busy recently so sorry for the delay on requests; I have a lot of ideas for them though so hopefully they'll be out soon

[peachesofteal]

Dead Disco / Chapter Fifteen Dead Disco masterlist

AO3 Warnings: Angst. The storm.

“You’re here.”

“I’m here.” Your heart breaks on it, on two little words. Breaks apart again at him standing in your door. The silence between the two of you is a scream, and though your tears have dried, there’s still an ache stretching infinitely before you. You peek over his shoulder, hoping Johnny is here too. Wanting to fix the mess you just made, but he’s not.

Simon is alone.

He pulls it wide. His face is twisted. His eyes are red. He’s been crying. The realization nearly brings you to your knees. “Can I come in?”

You didn’t clean the kitchen up, and neither did Johnny. He stood there for too long, kissing you over and over on your cheek, your forehead, your mouth and profusely apologizing, tugging his jeans up over his hips. Frozen afterwards, the two of you, fire and fuel once burning in your veins now ice cold, slithering under your skin like a disease.

That’s what you are. Who you are, who you were. An illness. A plague.

A slowly healing thing.

You always thought they made you better.

“I’ll stay, I should-“ 

“He’ll wonder.” You stared at the floor. “And he’ll worry, you know he will. He’ll be scared something happened to you.” 

“Darling, I dinnae want to leave ye right now-“ 

“I’m fine. Go.” 

Simon doesn’t try to touch you. He takes inventory of the mess, the caramel puddle of coffee spilled over the edge of the counter to the floor, the knocked over stagnant water and paintbrushes.

You become starkly aware, too aware of the state you’re in. The state of your apartment. The state of your brain.

You wish Johnny was with him. You want it to feel like before.

You can see his face so perfectly in your mind, the slope of his nose, the plush of his lips. Anxiety twists your stomach, worry about how he’s doing, what he’s doing weighing you down.

Still. Simon is steadfast. He’s the ship in a storm and you’re the sailor, clinging to a mast, praying to god you’ll survive.

“Are you-“

“I’m sorry I was so emotional on the phone.” You rush out, cutting him off. His brows knit together, prodigious sympathy in his eyes, golden brown refracting.

“I’m sorry for calling.”

“I’m… I’m glad you did.” He steps closer, and then away, opting to stand to the side, still taking stock of the kitchen, studying the orange pill bottles on the counter. “New meds?”

“Yeah.” The conversation is stilted, a dam preventing a flood.

“Are they working out?” You shrug.

“The one makes me really forgetful, but it’s not so bad.”

“That’s good.” You’re nodding and can’t stop. There’s a part of you wanting so badly, so desperately, to go to him, to bury your face in his chest and let it all go.

And there’s another part that doesn’t know what to do. Doesn’t know how to reconcile any of this.

“Will you tell me how you’re feeling?”

“Confused. Sad.”

“That’s okay.”

“Is it?”

“Yes, darling. Whatever you’re feeling is okay.” Your stomach rumbles at the exact same time, and his lips quirk to the side. “Are you hungry?”

“A little.”

“Have you eaten today?” You can’t force your mouth to give the answer, the obvious no, so you shake your head. “Do you have groceries?”

“Some.”

“Can I make you something to eat?” You suck in a sharp breath. Can he? Will you let him? Will the two of you revert to these roles, like no time has passed? Have you not made progress, have you not grown? 

You pack the shame of it away, burying it deep. You’ll try to unpack it later, on the couch, in front of the doctor. You’ll talk through every second, pick it apart and try to put it back together again. You’ll rip yourself open, expose your soft spots, the ones that bleed more than any other.

She’ll tell you it’s okay.

She’ll ask you how you feel about the decision.

You’ll say you don’t know, as you always do, and she’ll say that’s okay too. You don’t have to know right now. She’ll tell you there is nothing wrong with the way you feel, just like Simon does.

There’s been intensive therapy, to get you to this place. To drag you across the finish line. Sessions after sessions, four days a week.

It was a bargain. She promised not to have you sent involuntarily, and you promised to be in her office every other day.

Still, she doesn’t know Johnny, doesn’t know Simon. She doesn’t see how they love, how they exist.

You take a deep breath. “Yes.”

You watch him from the couch. Curled over the armrest, your chin on your elbow. His shoulders, chest, flex under his t shirt, opening cabinets, searching for things in an unfamiliar place.

You’ve never felt more loved by him than you do in this moment.

A man willing to push everything away to take care of you, to disregard himself in favor of you, to put himself aside every time he steps through the door to focus on you.

A man who knows what's coming. Who's always been able to see inside you, and yet, still makes you dinner. Still cares for you in the way he knows how. 

All you ever wanted, was to feel loved by them. Separately and together.

Now you feel it more than ever.

You tried to force a circle into a square. 

You think about Johnny again. About how he’s at home, penitent, destroyed. You think about how he must feel, knowing Simon is here, and he’s there. You ache for him. Wish you were settled between them in bed, his body against yours, the steadfast pace of his breathing evening your own out. You want him to hold you. 

You wish he was here.

You ache without your pieces.

But you know it’s not supposed to be this way.

“Darling?” The cadence of your moniker pulls you away from yourself, and you look up.

He’s crouched in front of the couch, nearly eye level with you. “You’re crying.” You tap your face, surprised. You are, the realization abrupt, the onset of them too acute.

“’m sorry.” You choke, and he murmurs softly.

“It’s alright. You’re okay.” His thumb finds your cheek, carefully sweeping them away.

“I’m not.” The truth is agony. You’re not okay. You weren’t okay when you fucked Johnny, and you’re not okay now. You haven’t ever been okay, and it hurts so badly. It stings deep down in your heart, your belly.

Your tears rush out of you, and Simon moves, comes around the side of the couch.

He pulls you into his arms, and you bury your face in his chest.

Hiding. Relying. Letting him carry you through. 

“Simon…” You sob, and he rocks you, arms tight, resolute in their hold.

“Shhh, I know. I know, it’s okay.”

“I d-didn’t mean for this to happen.” You’re talking about Johnny, but you’re talking about everything. The struggle, the agony. Everything.

“I know you didn’t. I don’t want you to worry about that.” The feeling inside you is more than pain, it’s death, it’s excruciating. There’s a piece of you dying, crumbling, turning to ash. You’re trying so hard to hold onto it, to keep it inside, but it comes out with these wretched sobs, the ones that split your ribs open and bleed you dry.

He holds you through it. Holds you tight enough the pressure eventually calms you, and there’s nothing left except the soaked circle on his t shirt and your tired, wet eyes.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper.

“You have nothing to be sorry about.” He takes a deep breath, still clinging. “Let me feed you.”

“Okay.”

He sits next to you at the little table where you usually try to eat alone. Where you drink your coffee, alone. Where you pick at your food, where you swallow a handful of pastel-colored pills with a glass of juice every morning like clockwork. Like a robot.

You manage more than a few bites. Breakfast for dinner, one of your favorites. You know he picked it because you love it, and he wants to make you happy.

It only makes you lachrymose. “I’m sorry about Johnny.”

“It’s not your fault, darling.”

“Don’t be mad at him.”

“Let me worry about that.”

“It wasn’t… he didn’t do anything wrong. I’m the one who put him in that position. I kissed him and-“

“He knew better. I don’t want you to dwell on… that.”

“I love him.” Your voice cracks.

“I know.”

“I love you.”

“I know you do, darling. I know.” You’re going to cry again; you can feel it. The acid starts up behind your eyes, and though you’re not sure you have anything left, they pool along your lower lids. “None of that.” He soothes. “C’mon. stay here, stay with me.” You shake your head.

“I l-love you both, so much. It hurts.” He blinks furiously, and then through your own blurry vision, you see his tears. The ones that slip reluctantly through his lashes, down his cheeks.

“We never wanted to hurt you.”

“I know, and you d-didn’t. It… it hurts Simon. It hurts and I don’t know why.” He tugs you from your chair and into his lap, hauling you up onto his thighs. “P-please-“

“Just… let me- let me hold you, darling. I don’t want- I want to feel you.” He cheek rests on the top of your head, and you cling to him, a child lost, a sailor scared in a storm.

He knows.

You know he knows. You feel it in the rapid pace of his heart, the shudder of his shoulders.

He knows. He knows it better than you do.

And maybe he always has.

“You were right.” After a while, he whispers in your hair. “And so was I, even though I didn’t want to see it. It was never fair.”

“We wanted it… too much.” That much is more than true. You wanted it so desperately, and so did they, you know it. You don’t doubt their love for you, though the scales have always been imbalanced. Imperfect puzzles, trying and failing to click together.

“I’m sorry, I… we, were so selfish.”

“I wanted you to be.”

“It still wasn’t right.”

You sit there for hours, curled up on his lap, listening to him breath, memorizing his heartbeat.

You think of Johnny for the hundredth time. You want him to be here. You want him to hold you too. You close your eyes and try to remember how he feels, your love for him overflowing into a mountain of more and more agony. For both of them. 

“I should go.” Simon finally says, shattering the moment, and you nod.

It’s a death march to the door.

“Will you come by, to see us? I mean… to… talk to us. Together.”

“Yeah, I… I will.” The guillotine waits in the wings, a final chorus cut off by a symphony.

“Tomorrow?”

“Okay.” He leans in, presses his lips to your forehead.

“I love you, darling. We always will.” You nod, but say nothing, cheeks wet again.

He turns away, rolling his shoulders, heading down the hall.

There’s something building in your heart, an explosion, fear compounding.

“Simon! Wait.” He stops. You close the gap, tugging him down until your lips crash together, warm and salt soaked and full of torment, suffering. “I love you.”

This time, he says nothing. Only kisses you again, long and slow, before taking you by the shoulders and intentionally stepping away.

“I know.”

You stand in front of their door for too long.

You wish there was something you could take, something you could do, to release you from this. To build a barrier around your heart so you don’t have to feel it. Any of it.

There’s not, and you know that.

You know you must succumb to the water, dip your head below and hope you come up for air on the other side.

There’s nothing left to do except this.

You lift your fist to knock.

“This is my fault.” Johnny cries, and you squeeze his hand.

“It’s not. It’s… it’s all of us. We did it together.” Simon kisses his temple, rubs his back, and he leans into him, face buried in his shoulder. The guilt eats you alive, knowing that the last time you truly spent with him was when he was inside of you. You wish you talked to him more, made him feel loved, told him how much you cared.

But you were selfish.

And so was he.

“It’s not your fault, sweet boy. I promise.” Simon tries to soothe him, but  Johnny slams a fist into his knee, so hard you wince, and Simon grabs it, fingers firm around his wrist. “Stop. Stop now.” He strokes a hand through his mohawk. You struggle to breathe. 

“I love you so much. That’s… that’s never going to change.” Johnny shakes his head as Simon closes his eyes, nose dipping down into his hair.

“Ye cannae leave us, darling. We need- I need ye. I love ye… p-please.” The three of you are crying, sliced open, surgically diced into cross sections for an autopsy.

The death of a relationship.

The death of three parts to a whole.

“Johnny.” You say his name, over and over, until he pulls away from Simon and tugs you close. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, breathing him in, committing his scent to memory.

Simon wraps his arms around you both.

You feel whole. A puzzle complete. A sunrise after a storm.

And that’s why. 

“I love you.” You kiss the shell of his ear, soaking him with your tears. They’re everywhere, dripping down your face, your neck, your shirt. You can barely keep your breathing steady, despair restricting your lungs. “I’ll always love you, Johnny. Always.”

“Please.” He sobs, shakes, holding onto you so tight. “Dinnae leave me. Please.” Your heart is shredding to pieces. Ribbons of blood and muscle trying to contain too much, unable to cling together. His pleas are enough to make you second guess yourself, to make you nausea enough to nearly throw up.

It’s beginning to become overwhelming, and in the throes of your building panic, you glance wildly at Simon.

He stares back. Nods. Wraps his hands around Johnny’s shoulders and tucks him back into his chest. “No!” Johnny hisses, but Simon holds him steady.

“I’ve got him.” He says, voice broken.

You sit frozen like a deer in headlights.

“I love you.” You cry, and hope they know it’s meant for both of them.

It’s always meant for both of them.

Simon takes one last long look at you and closes his eyes. “I’m proud of you.” He whispers, hoarsely, and the final piece of your heart breaks. “Go.”

Can you? 

Do you have the strength? 

The sun is bright on your face.

It’s warm, and beautiful, the promise of something new, something different. You stand on the sidewalk, devastated but-

Unafraid. Imperfect pieces, slowly stitching together to make you whole, all on your own.

Without Simon. Without Johnny.

Just yourself.

It’s terrifying. Heartbreaking. And it’s only you now.

You, figuring out how to exist in a world too harsh for your heart. You, without the protection and promise of your other pieces, the ones who came home to you every time, the ones who put you back together. You, learning how to take care of yourself, to truly do it, for the first time.

You, who is not broken.

You, who is stepping forward without darling.

You who is just… you.