jason-the-himbo

[jason-the-himbo]

come on, baby, draw on my scars.

come on, baby, draw on my scars. 

take my forearm in your sweet hands and grip my skin, pull it taught. the canvas is still a little rough though. 

come on, baby, draw on my scars. 

take that pen in your hand and graze the ink against my arm. it tingles a little. 

come on, baby, draw on my scars.

these scars are old and healed, and your ink touch is new and tender. you are my beginning.

come on baby, draw on my scars. 

show me that fantastical world of trees and flowers and cogs and gears in a neat little border. 

come on, baby, draw on my scars. 

i can’t bear to look at your fingers, working away, for the fear i may fall in love with you all over again. 

come on, baby, draw on my scars. 

teach my wrist what a loving stroke is. 

[jason-the-himbo]

posting a rant about a girl on my own blog

[confession, since she revealed her feelings about him]

i’m not jealous. i just wish i had you.

ellie 

ellie, eleanor, elbow, 

a girl of many names 

ellie, eleanor, elbow, my love, my life, my friend.

consider this my confession. 

ellie c, i’m in love with you.

and i know that you know that i love you as a friend, through cute instagram reels and miles long birthday cards but you don’t know how i yearn for you. 

every night in my head, we lie together. two souls, connected by a single silvery thread of that pulsating feeling i get when i think of you. it’s nothing dirty or sexual, it’s a pure feeling of want. want for your love. want for you. you’ll reach out to me and caress the side of my cheek, and i lean into the warmth of your palm. 

i know what your palms feel like. they’re rough, and calloused, the hands of a rower. i’ve taken your palm in mine many a time. i like to count your blisters. i remember the highest i ever got was 21 in total. i wanted then so badly to bring your sweet hand up to my lips and press a soft kiss on the bright red patch of new skin. alas, i didn’t. because you like him. not me. 

but in my dream, he doesn’t even exist. he isn’t there for you to hang out with, or laugh with, or fall asleep on. it’s just you and i. no silly boys to worry about. a paradise with the two of us. 

and in my paradise as we lay next to each other, your hand tenderly cupping my face, i groggily try to blink the sleep away from my eyes and i say those three special words. 

i speak, “I love you”. 

and this is not an ‘i love you’ which is tossed about by extended family members, or day old friends, rather an ‘i love you’ where every single word weighs how much my heart weighs. 

‘i’:

me. rae. your friend. your lover. your admirer. the one who watches you, kisses you with her eyes. 

‘love’: 

am filled with great attachment. i’m not sure if there’s a word to describe this ‘love i feel’. it is an emotion rather than a systematically boxed definitive adjective. for me, it is the silvery thread. the thread that tingles inside me, pulsates and burns with desire. desire to have you, for you to have me, to be utterly and solely in your arms and your arms only.

‘you’:

you. ellie. my friend. my love. my muse. my laughter. my smile. my sunshine. my music. my beauty. the one whom i need in order to feel complete. 

i love you. 

or rather, i have a silvery thread with you. 

but i guess you have a silvery thread with him. 

[jason-the-himbo]

relatively new to tumblr

hii i’m looking for friends!!!

hobbies: playing sax/piano, singing, writing, reading, sleeping, snacking, crying, making playlists, washing my hair, going on walks, clothes, greek mythology

music - chopin/rachmaninoff, ptv/mcr/p!atd/fob/trying to get into sws, chappell roan!!

fandoms/bandoms: pierce the veil, panic!, my chem, fall out boy, riordanverse, trying to get into marauders, harry potter, literally anything by madeline miller if that counts, Avatar the Last Airbender, She Ra, voltron but lowkey only the first three seasons

i don’t like the big orange man.

bmf???? :)

-rae, she/her

[jason-the-himbo]

an old rant about my dad

i wish i loved him 

why it is so hard for me to love him? 

9/10/24

i’m turning into my mother. i got stressed, now i have an actual sharp pain in my heart. it’s like he himself has put his fingers into it. he’s squeezing it as it pulsates and fights against his hand. but i don’t know why it fight back. 

i don’t know why i’m so selfish. and this isn’t the first time, i know this. out of spite?

i always think he deserves this, but what has he done? 

he’s abused me. physically, verbally. and my mother. “my music taste is a factor of her high blood pressure of 179.”

but he’s past that now. that was four years ago. nearly half a decade. he’s over it. 

but sometimes i feel he isn’t. he gets angry like he used to and i get scared like i used to. then he laughs at me, as we’re both used to. 

suicide threats - he doesn’t really give me any anymore. i wonder what this means. maybe he thinks that now i wouldn’t care even if he died or not. i wouldn’t be surprised. i’m not a good daughter. i’m selfish. 

i think i’m doing my mother a favour, but sometimes i think he’s right. i haven’t told anyone this before. 

one day i’ll come home and his feet won’t be on the ground anymore. and then i’ll gasp “what a waste of the money he’s spent on his shoes!” because i feel i have to pretend i don’t love him. i’ve eradicated the love for him, and he’s done it to me. but i don’t think i wanted it to leave, really. maybe i thought it would protect me. i knew that when i didn’t care i didn’t get hurt. maybe that’s why. 

but he would’ve called me beforehand. i know he would’ve. “sorry for my late reply” - memo. because i still for some reason am adamant on denying his fatherhood. 

i don’t really want to tell my friends. but i don’t want them to think im happy. because i’m not. i’m so conflicted because maybe he was right all along. his grip on my heart has loosened now. he’s cradling it. he was warning me. he was right. maybe. or maybe he did touch me that day and i didn’t imagine it. 

i just wish i just upload my thoughts to someone or to some form of media, because im not very good with my words. i just want someone to know what i know and feel what i feel. from my perspective? 

i might turn this into a song. if i do, id call it weekend song or something like that. because i only feel this way after i meet him. otherwise i like to forget about him because it makes things easier. 

i wish i could be a good daughter. i wish i could be someone worth telling his friends about. i don’t want him to feel embarrassed when he tells people i live so far away from him. i don’t want him to have to feel that sort of pity. because i know it’s my fault. i don’t know why i agreed to her. 

no, i do. because 949 life was hell. four hour arguments every single day. screaming. when i’d go to sleep id hear bits of their voices bouncing around my ears because i was so used to hearing it. 

“im angry because i could have said much better comebacks to him”. i remember i said this distinctly. as soon as it came out my mouth, i regretted it i was so small then. i think the separation was good. 

i just don’t think it was a solution. just one hand broken into two smaller, less frequently used ones. 

i know he’s going to die anyways. i sometimes wonder if he’d kill himself at my wedding. if i marry a woman. i think he would. he’d say it’s because that stupid fucking feminism. i hate that word now. your mothers feminism has made you a lesbian. he’d write that in his suicide note to me. and then my mum would kill herself. either because of financial stress or guilt or disappointment. because she isn’t strong like she says she is. she’s just a little girl. 

i think id like to feel how it would feel to miss him. or to miss anyone for that matter. i say it to my friends, but that’s because i want to see them again. it’s not the heart wrenching ache people describe it as. maybe i’ll feel it when he’s gone. maybe that’s the wrenching - the wrenching of my heart. he will die with his fingers firmly latched onto it. “your mother latches like a blood sucking leach. she’ll suck the life out of you”. and he’ll pull it right out of me. it’ll convulse and contract in his hand and try to escape his bloody crimson hands but he won’t let me fend for myself, he says. it stains the carpets and his clothes and my lovely little brown piano and oh no i can’t do music anymore! and i feel bad. finally, i feel bad! i finally feel some emotion towards him that isn’t disgust or anger or sadness. his hand is so small now. 

so i stay. i’ll clean up the mess in the morning.