radical-h03

[radical-h03]

Hey girl, dm me, I'm 14 hands tall also I'm a horse naay

Just my type bb 😘 hmu🥰 @arch-pop

[radical-h03]

Hey there 🌍💙

I hope you're doing well. Today, I’m reaching out with a heartfelt request. My family is going through an incredibly difficult time, and I need your help to make our story heard.

🔄 A simple reblog of my pinned post can spread awareness.

💖 A small $5 donation could bring hope where it’s desperately needed.

@nasr-daher

Even the smallest act of kindness can create ripples of change. Your support means the world—thank you for standing with us! 🙏✨

💖

[radical-h03]

Hello,

I hope you’re all doing well. 🌿

I need your help to share my family's story and raise awareness about our struggle. Every voice counts, and your support means the world. 🙏

💬 Please reblog my pinned post or, if you're able, consider donating just $5—it could be life-changing for those facing unimaginable hardship.

Your kindness and solidarity make a real difference. Thank you from the bottom of my heart! 🤍✨

@aboodfmly

💖

[radical-h03]

Hi there,

I’m reaching out with a quiet hope in my heart. These days are heavy, and my family is living through a reality filled with uncertainty—but I’m still here, doing my best to hold on and keep going.

If you have a moment, please check out my pinned post.

A simple share could help it reach someone who might be able to make a difference.

If you’re able to give, even the smallest kindness can bring light into the darkest places.

Your time, your voice, your compassion — it all matters more than you know.

With deep gratitude,

@nadinfamily

💖

[radical-h03]

My name is Abed.

I’m a survivor from Gaza, holding on to hope in a world that has fallen apart around me. 💔

The life I once knew — my home, my family, my sense of safety — has been shattered by war. Today, I live among the ruins, trying to find a path forward through the rubble and heartbreak. 🏚

Every moment is a battle against fear and uncertainty. What was once ordinary — a safe place to sleep, a future to dream of — now feels like a distant memory. 🕊️

I share my story not to seek pity, but to keep hope alive — to believe that even in the darkest places, kindness can still find a way. 🤍

If my story touches your heart, please consider sharing it or offering support. Every voice, every act of care, brings me one step closer to safety. ✨

Thank you for taking the time to listen. 🙏

Post Link

💖

[radical-h03]

Hey 💌 I’m Saja — a mother trying to hold onto hope through days that feel impossibly heavy.

I know you probably see a lot online, but if you could take just a moment… I’d be so grateful.

💫 A reblog of my pinned post could help our story reach someone who cares.

🌿 And if you’re in a place to give, even a small donation could bring comfort to my daughter and help us feel safe again.

@sajagz, thank you for listening.

Even gentle support creates strength.

From one heart to another — thank you 🤍

🫶🏻

[radical-h03]

Hi there 🌱 I hope you are doing well. My name is Naser, and I’m from Gaza. I don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable, but I wanted to share a piece of my story — because right now, it’s the only way I know to try and survive.

This war has changed everything. I lost my mother and my sister. Our home is gone. What used to be a normal life — school, family meals, laughter — has been replaced by fear, rubble, and silence.

Now, I’m displaced with my three younger brothers. I’ve become their protector, their parent, their hope. We sleep side by side and I try to make them feel safe, even when I’m scared too.

We are trying to raise funds to rebuild our lives — to find a safe place, to go back to school, to have something to believe in again. I dream of going to university. My brothers have their own dreams too — of being a doctor, an engineer, just being kids again.

If you’re able to support us by donating 💌 or even just sharing our campaign 🔁, it would truly mean the world. Every small act of kindness brings us a little closer to hope.

Visit my post

Thank you for taking the time to read this 🙏 And if you'd rather not receive messages like this, please just let me know and I won’t reach out again.

With love and resilience

🫶🏻

[radical-h03]

Hi, my name is Mosab , I’m from Gaza, and like many here, I’ve lost more than I ever thought I could bear — my family, my home, my sense of safety, and the simple moments that once gave life meaning. 💔

I’m not writing this to ask too much of anyone. I’m sharing a piece of my story — not because I want sympathy, but because I still believe someone, somewhere, might care enough to listen.

If this message finds you at the wrong time, I understand.

I’m truly sorry if it feels like an interruption.

➡️ Please feel free to DM me if you'd rather not receive asks from me — I'll make sure not to contact you again. 🤍

✨ If you do feel moved to help — even by sharing — it means more than words can say.

Every repost, every bit of care, helps keep hope alive in a place that has seen too much darkness.

🙏 Thank you for taking the time to read.

📌 Post Link

Wishing you peace, healing, and comfort — wherever you are.

With deep appreciation

🫶🏻

[radical-h03]

Hello,

I hope you’re all doing well. 🌿

I need your help to share my family's story and raise awareness about our struggle. Every voice counts, and your support means the world. 🙏

💬 Please reblog my pinned post or, if you're able, consider donating just $5—it could be life-changing for those facing unimaginable hardship.

Your kindness and solidarity make a real difference. Thank you from the bottom of my heart! 🤍✨

@aboodfmly

🫶🏻

[radical-h03]

Love is a Gun/An Homage to Edgar Allen Poe

I never could put my finger on the exact moment I fell in love with her, but once it had been realized, it never left me. 

I loved her—god, I loved her. And I still do—and she I. Our parents didn’t know or realize for too long. We moved in together, into a one bedroom apartment, with one bed, on the first floor of a renovated brownstone in Greenpoint. No one asked about our living or sleeping situation when they came over. Things are expensive—it’s quite difficult to live without a dual income these days, especially in Brooklyn. The media will say we were roommates.

But still, it was not inconspicuous when our parents spoke of the sin of women sleeping with women, about how queer people must be mentally ill or possessed. We knew. We knew they knew.

They never questioned our living situation, and they never questioned the bruises, either. The black eyes. The perfect fingerprints around my wrists or throat. Perhaps they thought I deserved it, and others would never suspect that Charlie—my beautiful, sweet Charlotte—was capable of raising a fist. Neither would I ever imagine that beyond the spoils lay a wrath so omnipotent it would pull my heart out through my ribcage. 

She loved to bring me to gallery openings, art shows, and slam poetry readings as a prize, dressed and done up by none other than she. It was the only place she would ever dare admit our true relationship: the bohemian art scene, full of pretentious hipsters and other sapphics who all thought they were the Diane di Prima of our generation—every one of them. She wanted others to flirt with me, man or woman or something else, she wanted to know she had what others wanted. 

Inevitably, we’d get home at night, buzzed on screwdrivers and coke, and, inevitably, I was a traitor—did I even realize the way I’d looked at the man she’d been so giddy had been leering at me? How dare I talk to the drummer of the band? How could I have tipped the pretty bartender? I was hers—belonged to her—and that would only ever change over her dead body—or mine. 

Inevitably, after she had made a point of proving she would make sure I’d never speak again if I ever conversed with anyone else, she would nurse my wounds. She’d clean the gashes on my head with alcohol swabs and wrap my twisted wrist with guaze. She’d feed me more drugs, shower me, and bring me to bed or to the couch so she could brush my hair tenderly, gently untangling the knots with L’oreal kids Tangle Tamer, the way my mom used to.

This was our routine. This was comfortable. 

On one particularly destructive evening, she had me sat on the fluffy rug on the floor in front of our shared bed, the TV glowing in the dark as she sat behind me. I could almost feel her purringwith pleasure at a good night’s work. She brushed my hair, planting soft kisses on the top of my head, avoiding the new and the healing lacerations on my scalp. 

She leaned in to whisper to me—“Your heart will always be mine.”

I leaned back to melt into her, into the plush cocoon of our love, our fragile little world—and as I did, I felt a warmth cascade down the width of my chest, as enveloping as my passion for her. The beat of my calmed heart quickened instantly and I could hardly hear anything else over the deafening rhythm. I tried to get up quickly, as I knew the wrath that awaited me if I got blood on the carpet, but fell backward instead. 

She was standing over me, one of her lavender Wüsthof kitchen knives dripping warmth onto my cheek. I tried to speak, but only a repulsive gurgle was released, and I realized that it was my throat that she had cut. I had no idea where she’d pulled the knife from. 

She smiled down at me, a smile of a twisted love, calm, and triumph—as if she had accomplished something she had spent her entire life dreaming of and working toward. She knelt down as she looked at me, her knees at the top of my head, so we were looking at each other upside down. Maybe she thought she would have more physical leverage in that position, with less body between her and her target. She spoke again, delicately: 

“Sshhh. It’s okay. Your heart will be safe with me forever.” She took her Wüsthoff and submerged it into my right breast, hard, and I felt it hit bone. 

“I’m sorry—I have to get through the bone for this to work.” 

She pulled it out, moved to my left side, and, still on her knees, began to push her free hand down onto my torso, searching. When she had found what she was looking for, she again pressed the knife into my body. With the blade diagonally to the hilt between the top two of my ribs, tip toward my vociferously beating heart, she used her weight to press the handle down toward my body. I felt the two adjacent ribs crack, the lower from the downward force of her weight on the hilt and the upper from the contrasting force of the blade. 

The force of the crack! was enough to wake the neighbors—but, louder still, was the ferocious pounding of my heart. 

She continued in her methodical way, making a lengthwise incision, snapping rib after rib, two at a time, until she had managed to make a dotted line drawn of rib fractures, matching her first incision. Once she had access, she reached into my chest and—almost immediately—I felt the despair of heartbreak as she pulled the organ from my chest cavity. It continued to beat violently, even after she had managed to separate it from the rest of my body. 

She held my heart in her hands for a moment, still kneeling, and watched it beat relentlessly. Finally she stood up, clumsily, as she didn’t have her arms to help her—her hands were full. She walked into our kitchen and opened a cabinet, pulling out a large mason jar. She paused, and I knew she was trying to figure out what to do with it—did it need water? Would it dry out on its own with no fluid to suspend it? Contact solution, for the saline, maybe? She decided on water, at least for now, and gently placed my heart at the bottom of the mason jar. It was still beating and, with each pulse, some parts pressed closer to the sides of the jar, creating that odd flat effect that happens when you press something against glass. She turned on the tap to fill the jar with water and I knew she was watching the rhythm of my heart pressing against the glass. 

She carried the mason jar, filled with water, into our bedroom and placed it on the dresser. 

“See?” She looked at me, as if reassuring me that everything was alright. “I told you, your heart will be safe with me forever.”

And, still hearing the beat of my heart in my ears, I believed her. 

I believed her as she dragged me by the arms into the crawl space and left me there.

I believed her as I lay there, listening to the beat of my own heart. 

I believed her all the way until the next morning when she re-entered the crawl space, looking crazed. I knew that she had not slept. 

She knelt beside me. She softly ran her hand over my hair. 

“Please stop.” She was crying, and I felt the stark contrast of a warm, salty tear hit my cold cheek. 

“Please stop. I love you,” she pleaded, and I knew she heard it too. 

Suddenly, there was a loud banging on the front door—a knock so loud that it could only be the police. 

“NYPD!”

I felt my heart beat faster and faster, louder and louder, until it was deafening both of us and I knew they had to have heard. She looked at my eyes, and, for the last time, whispered, “I’m sorry. I love you,” before pulling her hand to her chest. I hardly had time to process the presence of the pistol I had not seen her carrying before there was a crack as loud as my breaking ribs, and she collapsed next to me. 

The beating of my heart slowed as my lingering despair melted and a calm reassurance made its way through my body. Slower, and slower, and quieter, until I could barely hear it. 

Finally, our eternity together had arrived.

[radical-h03]

[radical-h03]

[radical-h03]

6’2 here! dm me hottie! If you are in money, I can help you with that as well lol

lol I’m 4’10 not sure why you’re telling me your height 😂

[radical-h03]

URGENT HELP SAVE THE LIFE OF MY CHILD.

Dear humanity,

Please Help Me – My Son May Die at Any Moment.

I'm Amal, a mother of three children, living under the weight of the genocide taking place in Gaza. 🍉

Here’s my story, and I’m reaching out with a hopeful heart 💔✨, hoping someone will feel what my family and I are going through.

My son is suffering from a severe and life-threatening injury after being shot by Israeli drones. He urgently needs medical treatment outside Gaza.

Time is running out, and we are facing a critical situation. I am asking for your generosity to help us save him either through a donation or by sharing this urgent plea with others

I beg you, i kiss your feet, to help my son. My son may die at any moment.

I lost most of my family. I'm afraid to lose my son too 🥺

Mohammed deserves to live a happy and healthy life, just like every other child on this earth.

So I humbly ask you to donate even a little or at least reblog this appeal.

Please Donate now:👇

https://gofund.me/d272a0d1

Ddonate Via Paypal 👇

https://www.paypal.com/donate

[radical-h03]

[radical-h03]

[radical-h03]