#Rotcore

[honeyrosepetals]

[r0ttdweller]

𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝖊𝖗𝖔𝖉𝖊𝖘.

[putrescentsorrow]

[bloodismymedium]

[yourlocalmissingtexture]

*pries open your casket, smirking* Decomposing down there all by yourself, gorgeous?

[ptsd-gf]

I am that I was as I no longer am for I am nothing

-rural germany, mine

[fehck]

[rotinmycore]

forgive us.

[unreliablenarrators-blog]

There is a haunting clarity in Laura Gilpin’s poem The Two-Headed Calf — the quiet, devastating realization that something beautiful and alive is already doomed. It is not the death that shocks us, but the tenderness of the moment before it: the calf, lying in the field under the moonlight, unaware of what tomorrow will take. In just a few lines, Gilpin captures the fragility of life, and the profound, aching gift of being alive just before the world turns.

When I was eleven, I had my own two-headed calf moment.

It came not in a field, but in a classroom, when the topic of puberty was introduced. The adults spoke clinically, with diagrams and terms — “hormones,” “change,” “growing up.” But beneath their words, I heard something else: that everything I knew was about to vanish. That I would no longer be a little girl. That my parents would grow older, that my friendships would scatter, that my childhood home — the world as I knew it — would begin to dissolve.

I remember crying in my father’s arms that night for almost half an hour. It wasn’t a tantrum. It was mourning — mourning something that hadn’t even left yet, but I already knew would. I couldn’t grasp how people carried on so normally, knowing that the things they loved were temporary. That they would wake up one day and everything would be different, and there’d be no going back.

My father didn’t lie to me. He didn’t offer comfort in the form of denial. Instead, he told me the truth: that time can’t be stopped, that I would turn thirteen, sixteen, twenty-five. That life would bend and break and push in ways I couldn’t yet imagine. But then he said something else, something that has stayed with me like a thread in my chest:

"Right now, you are still eleven. This moment is still yours."

That moment of stillness — the recognition of now — is where my experience and Gilpin’s poem intertwine. The two-headed calf does not know it is a “freak,” does not know it will be found, studied, and pitied. All it knows is the wind in the grass, the moon rising over the orchard, and the strange magic of seeing twice as many stars. Its tragedy is real — but so is its wonder. And the wonder does not cancel the sadness. Nor does the sadness erase the beauty.

To be eleven and realize the world will end — not through fire or disaster, but slowly, through ordinary growing — is a kind of awakening most people experience in private, and too early. It is the moment when you stop simply being, and begin to understand loss. And yet, that night, in my father’s arms, I was still held in the warmth of the present. I had not yet become what I feared. I was still the girl who looked at people’s eyes and sensed their sadness before they even spoke.

Like the calf, I had one perfect night before the museum — before the forgetting, the aging, the changing. That night was mine. It didn’t save me from growing up. But it taught me how to hold time gently before it slips away.

[elizabethmanslaughter]

[honeyrosepetals]

[r0ttdweller]

𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝒗͟𝒊͟𝒔͟𝒊͟𝒔͟𝒕͟𝒆͟𝒅 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗋.

[femcelblogs]

[maggotinfestedwound]

[bambiiis]

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅ ₊˚⊹ ʚɞ♡︎ ˚⋅. ₊˚⊹♡. ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖࣪. °ᡣ𐭩 . °♡︎ .

[rotpretty]

life in a small town is simple.