#poetic stuff

[meghschinukulu]

just found out that in every glass of water we drink, 8 of those drops were formed within the first three minutes of the birth of the universe. isnt that ABSOLUTELY INSANE. we are all in fact celestial beings. i love existence.

[manilovedinosaurs]

im sorry but love declarations/confessions involving the moon the sun the sky STARS the water the wind the earth and all that shit are one of the greatest things the human race has ever invented

like im a sucker for 'i love the moon but the moon doesn't know about it just yet' NO MATTER HOW MUCH OF A CLICHE IT IS LIKE WOW WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE YOU GOT ME THERE

[whotookmybread]

i like how i turn up on tumblr only when it's bedtime

ps: this is only because my college has not yet started after vacay

[peaceishim]

[skecherss]

you know when little kids get spooked and they just start clamberin

[heartandsoul-fragments]

[pilferingapples]

some say the goat will end in fire some say in ice from what I've read on the Wikipedia page of past Goat-destroying efforts, I'm pretty sure none of us were reckoning on absolute swarms of hungry birds but birds are also great and will suffice

[bassboostedfeelings]

cool kitty kiwi compilation 🥝

🧷- for savety

cats are healer, want more?

[poetic-stuff]

I have your chain which you wore for my sister's wedding matching with a black turtleneck t shirt and a black blazer parted, and I know you have my bangle which I wore for my pink saree open hair just like you wanted.

that day we saw eachother in the eye for more than 15 minutes straight, yearning for your voice learning your eyes which has ocean weight.

I can't say anything about you from my mouth, if you can read my eyes read it, cuz I keep you like an oath.

I noticed all the stares when we were dancing 'round the empty hall, angels blessing us to stay the same and dance together in more ball.

that was the day when you said I am like a vintage camera and a hot coffee with snow around, and you'd love to gift me a sweater that we'll probably give to our daughter on her birthday, crowned.

You showed me one of my anklet which I lost several years ago, and said "you didn't lost it, I had it the whole time" letting your contagious smile show.

"and what else do you have that belongs to me?" "not much till I steal your heart.." singing love story sitting on your knee.

poetic-stuff

[a-little-less-than-okay]

[just-being-all-bi-myself]

I finally understand what writers mean when they say that their characters have taken over the story. Like I am trying so hard for an enemies to lovers arc, but apparently my characters don't want to hate each other, cuz they just 'don't like the vibes' and want to become good friends so that it's awkward as fuck when they start having romantic feelings for each other.

Guess I have to just go with it now...

[vaguely-concerned]

the strength it must have taken for illario to not immediately go full 'lmao since when have you even had a kiss hello lucanis' sibling violence mode during the café talk. inspirational. rook and lucanis really were doing all that right in front of his salad huh

[kalavathiraj]

I am enough. I am OK. I will just stay. Here. By Myself.

Kalavathi Raj, QUOTUS

[writer-psalmie]

How writers feel when they are forced to kill their favourite character so the plot can move on:

😫🤧

[malusokay]

Stop Flirting With Me Just Because I’m Breathing

On how everything a pretty girl does is seen as flirtation. (from my substack <3)

I look up and blink too slowly, and they think I’m in love. I say “interesting” in a flat voice, and it becomes a riddle to be solved, a clue in some invented puzzle about my affection. I once said “oh?” and was asked if I meant it flirtatiously. I leave a message on read for three days, and suddenly I’m orchestrating a psychological thriller. I wear a black chunky knit because it’s cold and I don’t want to be perceived, so they decide I must be hiding poetry in my bra, and unspoken devotion in the sleeves.

I’m told I look like I’d ruin someone’s life, which is meant as a compliment when all I’ve done is exist politely in a public space. I nod in a lecture, and it becomes longing. I cross my legs, and it becomes a metaphor. Everything becomes a metaphor.

There is no such thing as neutrality when you’re a pretty girl. You become a canvas for other people’s projections, their longing, their delusions, and their need to be chosen. 

Every silence is suggestive. Every quiet moment is a seduction scene they’ve rewritten in their heads by the time you’ve finished your tea. Every disinterest is taken as a puzzle to solve, a performance of restraint. They don’t believe you when you’re bored. They think you’re playing bored. Every boundary is a dare.

I say “I don’t date,” and he hears “try harder.” 

I say “I’m not looking for anything,” and he hears “ but I might be with you.” 

I say “I have to go,” and he hears “ convince me to stay.” 

I say nothing, and he hears everything. 

I leave the room, and it becomes a narrative arc. 

I stay silent, and it becomes flirtation. 

I look at a painting, and it becomes a metaphor for his feelings.

A man at a gallery once told me I had “mysterious energy.” I was just tired. I was just hungry. I was just not looking at him.

But they fall in love with the refusal. The lack. The half-second glance that wasn’t meant for them. They romanticise the unreturned gaze, the closed door, the girl who leaves early. They write poems about women who never replied. They crave the untouched part of you that has nothing to do with them, especially that. That’s the part they try to claim. That’s the part they call fate.

I once sent a man a list of corrections to his love letter. Marked it up in red like a school essay. Split infinitives, misused semicolons, a dangling modifier in the third paragraph. He called it “enigmatic.” Said I was “hard to read.” Said he’d “never met a girl like me.” You mistake disinterest for depth and correction for flirtation. You think anything that doesn’t kneel is mysterious. You call it high standards. You call it a challenge. You call it feminine mystique. I call it punctuation.

The problem with being charming is that people forget it’s often done out of boredom. It’s a reflex, not a promise. A trick you learned at dinner tables, in waiting rooms, on the phone with men twice your age who couldn’t take silence. It doesn’t mean you like them. It means you like control. Or maybe you just didn’t want to be rude.

The problem with being beautiful is that people think it means you owe them something warm. That you’re a hostess of some private emotion, and every glance should be dipped in honey. You smile once, and they remember it forever. You don’t smile, and they call you cold. You hold the door, and it’s taken as encouragement. You cross your legs, and it’s an invitation. You speak plainly, and it’s condescension. You retreat, and it’s foreplay. They want you glowing and grateful. Soft, but not cold. Sexy, but not complicated. They want the kind of beauty that never asks to be left alone.

And when I say no, they always think I’m flirting. As if I’m playing coy. As if “no” is the beginning of a story, not the end of one. I say it flatly, with the softness stripped out, and they still tilt their heads and grin like they’ve uncovered a secret. Like I’m hiding a yes somewhere in my tone, waiting to be coaxed out.

A few days ago, I rejected someone I had known for a while. Kindly, clearly. Two days later, he came back asking if I wanted to hook up. He only left me alone (for now) after I told him I had a boyfriend. I don’t. But apparently, a man’s existence is the only boundary they respect.

Sometimes, I just smile because why wouldn’t I? Because it’s polite. Because I was raised to be gentle in rooms full of noise. Because I don’t see the harm in kindness. But they always think it means something. They take good manners for invitation. A thank you becomes a breadcrumb. A glance becomes bait. Politeness, in their minds, is the opening act of seduction, never just softness for its own sake.

You learn quickly that innocence gets devoured just as fast as intention. That even your unthinking gestures get rewritten in someone else’s script. And then they call you manipulative. Say you “led them on.” As if their inability to read the room is your strategy. As if their projections are your responsibility. You smiled. You were nice. You said, “thank you.” And now you’re the villain in their heartbreak story. 

They fall in love with an idea, and when you don’t return it, they act like you stole something. Like affection was a contract you broke by breathing near them. Like your politeness was a promise you forgot to keep.

my insta: malusokay

[silasplaskett]

lets get back to melshi following cassian on an unsanctioned insanely dangerous retrieval mission no questions asked. actually. hes sees a plan brewing in cassians eyes and hes like guys i think we should all follow him actually. his first trip to The Big City and their contact is dead and this scary woman is yelling at cass bc she thinks this is a briefing and not an extraction and tbh he doesnt even know her name but hes also like. can u please let us save u. and everyones trying to shoot him. and hes gotta carry this woman and clean her head wound and keep her concussed ass awake on this floor. and everyones trying to shoot him. Again. when they get back home. and him and kay get ARRESTED. and hes so fucking casual about all of it actually. i love u crazy bitch