Oh It Would Truly Destroy Lauren If Kieran Is The One Neyra Says Is Dead (in The Cave). If It Is Kieran,

How long does someone have to be dead before it’s considered archeology instead of grave robbing?

Just overheard two teenaged boys at the front door of their friend’s house. One was on the phone and gently said, “Oh, did you just wake up?” And the other one yelled “OPEN UP, FUCKNUGGET!” while slamming his hand on the door. I gotta say I love the friendship dynamic

Painting Silco in process

My fatal flaw? I can't name genres of music.

How can people hear a bunch of funky tunes and think "Ah yes, this is Indie Folk Rock with Punk influences" like what???

Sophie. ⭐️

. . . bsky / cara / instagram / threads / twitter

au where everything is the same except they come back with astral plane white hair

Realizing that your childhood wasn’t gentle, wasn’t safe, wasn’t what it should have been is not just painful, it’s disorienting. You grow up and suddenly the things that felt normal start to rot in your memory. The silence at dinner. The sharpness in your mother’s voice. The way your father existed more like a shadow than a person, and now you’re old enough to understand it. The generational ache. The damage passed down like a family recipe, spoon-fed until it tasted like home.

But where does that leave you?

Because now you’re the one with shaking hands and soft words, trying not to be bitter, trying to be kind to people who never learned how to be kind to you,trying to heal while still making excuses for the people who cracked you open and maybe they didn’t mean to hurt you, maybe they were hurt too. But it still hurts.

And no one warns you about the guilt. How you’ll feel selfish for wanting to be angry, how you’ll sit with your grief like it’s something you stole, how you’ll wonder if you’re allowed to say “that wasn’t fair” without sounding ungrateful for the love they tried to give.

I'm tired of being the bigger person, tired of swallowing the screams just because they loved me in their own way.

Because sometimes love, if it’s careless, can still leave bruises. and I’m still tracing mine like a map, trying to find my way out of this mess they never cleaned up.

Thirty love letters? That’s...wow. Whoever they’re for must’ve lit up something rare in you. Kinda makes me wonder what it’d be like to be written about like that

I didn’t write them because I was full of love. I wrote them because I was starving for it. Because I kept trying to turn pain into poetry and it still tasted like blood in the end.

Each letter is a small funeral, a small place to bury a dream that never got to live. I wrote to hands that never reached back. To eyes that never looked at me like I mattered, to ghosts that haunt the shape of love but never stay long enough to be real.

I wrote them because no one told me how quiet heartbreak could be, how it doesn’t always scream, how sometimes it just sits next to you like a tired friend and watches you rot from the inside out. They were just things I needed to say before they drowned me.

Things like:

I miss you even though there was never a you.

I love you even though no one ever stayed long enough to be loved.

Don’t go even though they already did.

I wrote thirty love letters and someday, someone will find them and pretend they were about them but I’ll know the truth.

They were for the hollowness, for the version of me that begged for someone to stay and learned that no one does.