I love how everything is so 'aesthetically pleasing' about RM and how everything is so 'aesthetically picturesque' about V. And how these both could go hand in hand. How they both write songs about the things they feel immensely. How the pictures they click are about people or little things you take in notice on little-long walks by the road, or on your role as a traveller in search of stories. How their voices are soft against a deep tinch, which always sounds like a bliss when mixed with melodies. How they both are simply about love and mystery and tiny little things.
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Do you like the jokes I tell?
Thanks I make them just for you
A mix of practiced facial expressions stuck together with glue
Do like the questions I ask, do they make you feel understood?
I ask them not because I wanted to, but because I know you would
A collage of everyone I've met is all I'll ever be
The girl I once was is now forever a mystery
No jokes my own, no words unaltered, I'm all poked and prodded to fit your needs
The saddest jigsaw puzzle created with missing pieces is me
Always in character, I'm ready made for you
Eyebrows raise and smile appear, my jokes they're all reused
I'm a patchwork quilt of stolen personalities, each one
Extracted carefully from a book I've just begun
I wonder what would happen if I disappeared from line of sight
Alone with myself, with no fear of rejection I just might
Find myself once more in my original shape and warm
To the idea of myself in my unaltered form
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(Kötücül Aşk gönderdi)
Evet, bayım. Aldanmayın.
Dudaklarım öpüştüklerimin ruhunu da çaldı
Tuzda yol alan salyangoza döndüler,
Kıvranışlarını izledim ölene dek .
Sözcükleri sahte kimlikleri kördüğümdüler.
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Anxiety is weird.
Anxiety cannot be seen sometimes.
Anxiety can fuck your mind up.
The worst thing about being anxious is looking for an assurance in a clueless and hopeless fate.
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“Pensi che tutti abbiano il tuo stesso cuore, ed é questo che ti frega.”
@primaopoicirincontreremo
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Down
I washed myself today.
I used a loofa. I used a pumice stone. I even put soap on the loofa.
And I scrubbed. And I scrubbed. I pushed at all the brown and black smudge, every crevice I could think of, until it was gone.
Even though I didn’t want to.
I touched my body, even though I didn’t want to. I ran my fingers up and down myself. Over and around each piece. Nothing was smooth. Not one bit. I touched goosebumps, prickly hairs, ran a finger over each rib-bump, love handle, then one cut and another. Nothing was smooth.
I lathered and I soaped and I let it all wash down the drain. The water turned cold and my mind along with it, finally calming the goose flesh. I washed myself today. I scoured, I grated, I polished. And I stood there, pure, under the cold rain. I stood there and let the dirt wash off of me, down, down, down. And even though I didn’t want it to, without a word, I felt my soul wash down too.
- e.mae CR
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Thinking about all the books I have not yet read. About all the songs i couldn't give a listen to, even though my heart aches to hum that certain beat. About all the messages I couldn't send. About all the movies I couldn't watch. And all the things I couldn't just simply say, because my OCD tells me not to.
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After years of its disappearance
The rain was pouring down
This time with the megrims befall upon me
Amongst the whiff of petrichor I could scent something is amiss, the presence.
A♥
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