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Focus and pray 🙏🏼 your way through it.

🧶: @kissmedeadlydoll on IG

📸: @the-dirty-archangel

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Blue limbs.

🧶: @kissmedeadlydoll on IG

📸: @the-dirty-archangel

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Footprints in the sand,

caught between daring and safe—

who left all those clothes?

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the trees you grew up with have not forgotten you. their branches still whisper your name in the breeze and their roots remember the paths your feet once traced through their shade.

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Wanda in the cabin with the Darkhold lol

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Petals that curl and fibers that bind

Tied by Lilith.rope on Instagram

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Would love to know who the person in ropes is here!

Hajime Kinoko ֍ Black Label: Japanese Traditional Rope (No date)

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The rope presses into me, firm but unhurried, each knot an assertion of place—my place. Her hands move with a precision I’ve never felt from anyone else, fingers deftly working the fibers into something artful, something inevitable. There’s a quiet care in her movements, a patience that feels uniquely hers. She ties like she listens, with her whole body, her whole self, and I am laid bare under the weight of it.

It’s different with her. I’ve been tied by others—hands that rush, hands that show off, hands that don’t ask the questions they should. But she doesn’t tie to impress. She ties to know me, to pull at the edges of who I am and shape them into something tangible. Women, I think, are better at this. They know what it means to carry the weight of someone else, to hold and be held without flinching.

Her strength isn’t in how tight the rope bites or how elaborate the knots become, but in the way she reads my body, the way she anticipates the smallest shift before I even make it, just stares as I shift and struggle, inhale, exhale.

The rope doesn’t let me disappear; it insists that I stay. And she insists too, with the deliberate way she wraps me, pulls me, shapes me. Her hands don’t just tie; they tell a story. One where I am seen, where I am weightless and heavy, small and vast, surrendered but never powerless. In her hands, I am.

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Joy Sullivan, from Instructions for Traveling West: Poems; “All Day Long There Is a Bursting”

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I romanticized the darkest parts of my life, painted pain into shades of poetry, and turned heartache into something beautiful.

I made my suffering feel softer, more bearable, as if giving it meaning could take away the sting.

But some nights, no amount of pretty words can disguise the darkness.

- Daria Synn

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a poem from the poetry collection, 'Good Grief' by Brianna Pastor. Available here and wherever books are sold.

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Pov looking serene while thinking about being a little asshole probably

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bonus

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Here, I have no choice but to be present, out of my mind and into my body.