cityvirgo - Tumblr blog

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Manzuoxi for Oui Management

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Re-edition mag

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Luo Yang, GIRLS 2017

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Kai Avent-deLeon for Racked (2015). Photographed by Shanita Sims.

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Home in Topanga, California. Interior Design by Tamar Barnoon.

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James Mishio, "Lost in Thought (Identity Series)", 2021.

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Beabadoobee for Marc Jacobs. Photographed by Williame Wright.

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Lluís Estopiñan, "Return to Sender 33 (From "Return to Sender") Series".

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Tiffany Alfonseca, "Malthelis Santana" (In Quarantine Series)", 2020.

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Photo by Dima Komarov.

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Alice Neel, Andy Warhol, 1970.

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From the exhibition "Life is Techno", art by Peter Puklus.

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May 26, 2024

Last night, at 3 a.m., I drank wine and cried by myself about feeling alone and wanting to die. Summers are difficult for me. Last summer, I was raped. It took me three months to tell my friends, and it took me five to tell my Mom. I just didn’t want her to be upset. For months after it happened, I saw his bedroom where he raped me every time I tried to touch myself and take control of my body again, like a bad dream haunting me. That was my first time having sex, and it was rape. The worst part about it isn’t the assault itself, it was the betrayal of trust. He made me feel like he was a safe person to be around. He let me talk to him about my previous sexual assault, and he acted like he wanted to protect me, when he was actually a predator, as well. He took the experience of losing my virginity from me, and I'll never have it back.

I try to write eloquently, as if someone someday will read any of this. I don’t know why I have this need to make something pretty out of pain. I get so angry with myself, that I can’t write about this is a beautiful way. How silly is that? I’m mad at myself, because I can’t put my feelings about being raped into words that make those feelings sound pretty? I know where it stems from. I feel like I have to express those feelings in a way that’s valuable, that’s beautiful, that’s worthy of someone listening to. I have to dress them up, so someone will read them and not only understand me, but want to hear more. It just comes from not being listened to time and time again, so I feel that I have to present my words a certain way so that someone will want to listen. It also comes from wanting to make that pain mean something. If I can’t dress it up, and make it somehow useful, and if nobody wants to listen…then what was the purpose of it all? Why is the pain there? Just to sit with me and weigh me down every night, and just exist? Pain without purpose is just pain, and I don’t know how to make mine not be that. 

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Marc Jacobs Documentary by Loïc Prigent

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egg tarts from my taiwan trip

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Apartment in Clementi Town, Singapore