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they should invent a medicine that makes the aching jagged wound in your soul close

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reminder that digital libraries aren’t owned, also why pirating digital content is a necessity

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“I don’t know what my goals are, no. Thanks for asking.”

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This is the lucky clover cat. reblog this in 30 seconds & he will bring u good luck and fortune.

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This is the lucky clover cat. reblog this in 30 seconds & he will bring u good luck and fortune.

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MBTI Color Palettes

Just color palettes I associate with each type. Just for fun.

INTJ

ENTJ

INTP

ENTP

INFJ

ENFJ

INFP

ENFP

ISTJ

ESTJ

ISFJ

ESFJ

ISTP

ESTP

ISFP

ESFP

___

MBTI notes

[mercurymagiic]

Theoretically, it would have worked.

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Too angry to try 🥹🥺

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Penetration is a gender-neutral act. Topping is gender-neutral. Bottoming is gender-neutral. You are not more or less of a man or a woman depending on how you fuck. You are not “fake trans” for having sex a certain way. You are not any less masculine for bottoming or any less feminine for topping.

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Devotional Desire

Sometimes, the poems get stuck inside my throat. Sometimes, the words run through my mind so fast that I can only see their spectre, mere foam. In vain, I try to catch them, but they laugh; nymphs of an enchanted forest, hiding behind flowers and trees, dancing in the wind. And there I am, under the light, exposed to their mystery, unable of discerning, lost in their realm – the realm of meanings and seamless feelings that are simultaneously universal and unique, just another glimpse of eternity to me.

Sometimes, I hum a melody for you and then put some words around it. I remember thinking about writing them down so a friend could sing with me, but your sweetest voice told me no, don't do it. Those small songs were supposed to be our eternal secret. Only I sang, only you listened. The angels leaned forward, but no notes were taken. It is stored in another dimension, far away from prying eyes, far away from bad intentions. No one can touch our secret or corrupt the levels of descent in my devotion. What is the praise of men compared to the whisper of heaven in your shoulders? Worms in a plate of bones.

Now it's another season. I sing a lot less while I try to listen. I'm not very good at it, I confess, I insist—help me discern your voice in this, at times, abyssal experience. You lift me up with a kiss! I'm yours, I'm yours, my eyelids are half open, and my face is covered in tears. Obliterated from the inside out, fully naked it is. So I recite the spectre of these words I gather in the forests of my wild mind and offer you a poem. In the silent night, ceiling-staring all the time, trying to see past the firmament, piercing the skies, I pray in poetry; my verses shakily whispered. I feel you, hypnotic and soothing as fire. You smile; our secret is safe in my childlike, devotional desire.

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“I don’t know what my goals are, no. Thanks for asking.”