{Hannah Green, From "Are You Still Hungry, Mother?"/ Unknown/Sam Gordon, "A Mother's Hate"/ Ella Wilson/

Let's talk bnha cannon for a second and how it makes bullying out to be something harmless. There is nothing harmless about bullying. But there is especially nothing harmless about name-calling and labeling. A boy like Izuku… Well. There’s just so much to unpack here but I’m going to focus on the one thing that bothered me the most. A cute, pretty girl says the name Deku is cute and he immediately gets over it? No way. This boy definitely went home and had a panic attack about giving someone actual permission to call him that. Uraraka cannonly does not call him anything else. Not Midoriya. Not Izuku. Nothing else besides the name he’s been tormented with since he was 4. And yeah, that probably helped him get over it enough to officially choose it as his hero name after the sports festival. But there is no way it didn’t hurt at all in the beginning. That’s not how trauma works.

i know we’re both just messing around pretending to be whole but look at me. if the train was coming would you move. if the ground was falling from under your feet would you even notice or would it just be another tuesday for you. if somebody stabbed you could it hurt worse than you already do. what i’m saying is that i love you but i think we both drive over the speed limit when it’s raining. what i’m saying is that i want to hold your hand and i understand about how you sometimes have to sit down in the shower. what i’m saying is that i’m here for you and if the train comes please move.

I keep forgetting what I’m doing in the middle of doing it. Keep walking into a room only to go in circles confused. Boxes are half-packed. An old sweater is evidence in a case I can’t close. Smells like spring sweat and laundry detergent and nights I didn’t cry. Smells like someone else’s life. I fold it, I unfold it. Sit on the floor and let the carpet burn into my skin until I remember who I am. I made a home here. Multiplying myself by one; I'm the exact same number but a process has occurred. 

Moving in for the summer. To the house with the hole in the door and the woman with the tongue of a snake. The walls listen. Time has passed and new people love me. 

I want to be a lighthouse. A warning and a welcome. I know my existence is temporary. And so is yours. The fact that we eventually gave parts of ourselves to people who may only be passing through our life is even more absurd than the fact that I can still recall a stranger’s favorite movie from years ago. It’s true what they say; a place is only as good as the people in it. I miss you. 

I quit smoking two weeks ago. But the craving still curls in my throat like something half-alive. My lungs taste like promises I don’t want to make, I can't keep. A ritual, in lullaby. Warning signs I keep ignoring. A ghosted friend, it’s waiting for you to come back home. Maybe healing isn’t healing, maybe you just learn to carry your rot more quietly. You are not who you were last november. You’re safe; it’s only change. 

You walk through the world reading patterns like omens. Separate harm from hurt, sickness from survival. Studying monsters or trying to understand your parents. I’m both the predator and the prey, I’ll catch myself then eat myself whole.

I’m nineteen. Which means I know everything and nothing at the same time; an apology, an excuse. The universe is an ongoing explosion. That’s where you live. In an explosion. We absolutely don’t know what living is. Sometimes atoms just get very haunted. That’s us. When an explosion explodes hard enough, dust wakes up and thinks about itself. And writes about it too, apparently.

Sometimes I lie to my therapist because I don’t want her to think it’s getting bad again. Sometimes I cry while doing the dishes because the clinks means someone is throwing them. My ribs are setting wrong in my body. How did that sweet little girl turn into this horrid creature? everything is better when it’s private.

In the middle of becoming. I keep dreaming about the idea of home. blankets and fairy lights and spotify rain playlists and the soft. There’s something soft in me that refuses to die. It is almost time that I change shape again. It’s out of my control.

I don’t mind the walk.

It’s summer and I’m getting better. hopefully. Dandelions are starting to swell at my feet, seas going over hills. I've missed the yellow. The wishes of childhood. where had it been all this time?

Richard Siken, Boot Theory // Frank Bidart, The War of Vaslav Nijinsky // astralcorbozo on TikTok // Mary Herbert, A Long Time in the Desert // Dan Deacon, When I Was Done Dying

[CH. 01] "MIDORIYA IZUKU: ORIGIN"

VS

[CH. 285] "BAKUGO KATSUKI: RISING"

omg....... this is..........amazing......yes, just yes

I like metaphors.

on the way to a house not a home

Your lips my lips, apocalypse 💫

- cigarettes after sex

Art credit: @viklooud

Does anyone know that unexplainable sickish feeling where you're not really sick and you don't really have a headache but you just feel wrong and you can't get comfortable or find something that you're really into but you kinda feel too ill to sleep or eat it's like your body is saying "I don't know what I want you to do but this isn't it"