sugardoll12

[sugardoll12]

🕯 Ask Box Boundaries

📜 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞. 𝐂𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐚 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐥 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐦𝐢𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫𝐬.

⸻

You may speak as a ghost.

You may speak as yourself.

⸻

🩸 Boundaries

• 🕯 Aɴᴏɴʏᴍᴏᴜs ᴀsᴋs ᴀʀᴇ ᴡᴇʟᴄᴏᴍᴇ — but not if you come to wound.

• 🕯 ᴛʀʏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴜʀɴ ᴍᴇ ɪɴᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴅɪᴀʀʏ.

→ If you’re bleeding out, warn me first. I don’t owe my stitches.

• 🕯 Nᴏ ʀᴏʟᴇᴘʟᴀʏ

• 🕯 Nᴏ ᴘᴇᴛ ɴᴀᴍᴇs ᴜɴʟᴇss ɢɪᴠᴇɴ.

→ Only the chosen may call the doll sweet.

• 🕯 Nᴏ ᴄᴏʀʀᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴs ᴏʀ ᴍᴏʀᴀʟ ᴘᴏʟɪᴄɪɴɢ.

→ I speak in thorns and poetry, not debate.

• 🕯 Nᴏ ɢᴜɪʟᴛ ᴛʀɪᴘs ɪꜰ ⵊ ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ ʀᴇᴘʟʏ.

→ This isn’t a hotline. This is a mirror. Speak or don’t.

• 🕯 Nᴏ ᴘʀᴇᴛᴇɴᴅɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴍᴇ.

→ You don’t. You just stepped into the dark.

🕯 what’s welcome in the void 🕯

♡ anonymous whispers

♡ soft confessions & quiet ache

♡ poetry, vents, diary entries

♡ forbidden thoughts & daydreams

♡ kink-coded longings (respectful only)

♡ little questions about me or the void

♡ sweet compliments, even the unhinged kind

♡ dreams, omens, ghost sightings

♡ messy honesty. sacred girlhood. haunted softness.

༺✧༻

speak sweetly. bleed gently.

your ghosts are welcome here

if they come dressed in lace.

I answer when the spirits move me.

Speak carefully, or not at all.

༺🕯️༻

— Sugardoll. bleeding gently.

༺✧༻

[sugardoll12]

[sugardoll12]

Something has been calling me,

not with screams

but with soft, bone-deep lullabies.

A velvet invitation

to press my fingertips against the veil

and wonder how it would feel

to disappear gently.

Not to die,

not exactly

but to dissolve.

To become fog.

To be missed in a room

only once I’ve gone quiet.

It started small.

I stopped charging my phone at night.

Stopped wearing seatbelts.

Small rebellions stitched in silence.

No declarations

just a slow surrender to not being seen.

There was once a voice I hung my ribs upon,

a phantom who whispered with devotion

until it soured into distance.

Four-hour phone calls,

3 a.m. confessions,

the illusion of being chosen.

But I was never the altar.

Only the resting place between prayers.

He is in love

but not with me.

And the ache of that truth

burned cleaner than any blade.

My thighs have been wet for nearly a year.

Not from ecstasy

from ache.

From want left to rot inside me.

Climax is a myth now.

Only the soaking,

the pulsing,

the ache of a door that no one opens.

My room is a ruin of devotion.

Ashes curl in the corners.

Clothes decay in soft piles.

Offerings scattered like bones.

It smells of forgotten altars

and unlit candles.

I took everything down from my socials.

Scraped away my reflection.

Buried my voice in silence

so no one would hear it break.

There is no shrine for the girl I was.

Only the echo.

Now I eat like I’m surviving famine.

Journal like I’m decoding ghosts.

Read books like they might whisper back.

Scroll Pinterest like I’m building

a version of myself that might one day

wake up and stay.

I walk sometimes.

To buy pop.

To smoke the ache quiet.

To remind my limbs they still exist.

But truthfully

I feel like a house that’s already been mourned.

Curtains drawn.

Lights off.

Still standing, but unlived in.

And lately,

I’ve been dreaming in blades again.

Imagining sacred mosaics of scar

across the canvas of my skin.

Not for pain

for proof.

Proof I existed.

Proof I burned.

Proof I needed more than silence.

Not to die.

But to etch the ache into the world.

To make art out of absence.

To say,

“I was here. I ached. I was holy.”

༺🕯️༻

— Sugardoll. bleeding gently.

༺✧༻

[sugardoll12]

credit: @/erossore__ on ig

[sugardoll12]

An Elegy for the Unseen

None know the show that silences my thoughts,

nor the lines I mouth like prayer at midnight.

No soul has asked the name of the book

that taught me how to survive my own ruin.

No one sings the songs I cherish

they find them too sorrowful,

and trade my requiems for noise.

On my birthday, the halls stay hollow.

Holidays fall like dust in abandoned pews.

I light my own candles.

I sing to the shadows.

I gift myself the remembrance

no living thing thought to offer.

And yet

I know them.

I hold the memory of their favorite hues,

their coffee, their sorrows, their songs.

I hold it all like a rosary

quietly, painfully, reverently.

I call.

The silence returns like a faithful hound.

And when the line is finally answered,

it is I who asks, Are you well?

It is I who listens,

while no one dares to ask the shape of my ache.

I am a library no one reads.

A chapel with no worshippers.

A ghost attending a feast I was never invited to.

And still

they call me friend.

As if that word does not bleed on their tongue.

As if I do not hear the hollow in it.

Perhaps I am odd.

A relic from another century.

Too stitched with softness,

too bound in honesty,

too much like a psalm rewritten in blood.

But if odd is what I am,

then let me be odd.

Let me be cathedral-dark and candle-warmed.

Let me be velvet sorrow and moonlit ruin.

They may never see me.

But I remain.

I am the girl who remembers.

The girl who stays.

The girl who bleeds gently.

༺🕯️༻

— Sugardoll. Bleeding gently.

༺✧༻

[sugardoll12]

DID symptoms that people don't talk enough about

The cycle of forgetting and then re-remembering trauma memories

Constant depersonalization and derealization

Feeling as if you're stuck living someone else's life

Failure to plan for the future because nothing feels real + losing time

Thinking a flashback is over when you've actually just dissociated away from it, and having it resume as soon as you stop dissociating

Dissociative stupor/trance

Alexithymia

Identity issues outside of alters

Inability to connect with other people

Being unable to tell if you've healed from a past problem/trauma or if you've just dissociated away from it

Not learning from past mistakes because of amnesia and dissociation

Feeling nothing psychologically despite physical shaking, racing heart, nausea, crying, etc

The extreme disorientation + identity confusion that comes with co-consciousness and co-fronting

Somatic flashbacks

Being triggered by your own DID symptoms because you know the only reason you're experiencing any of this is because of what they did to you

[sugardoll12]

i set up my Tumblr settings to see the filth i crave.

i built my own bed. The tightened every screw with trembling hands.

i stood there, soaked, furious. not just because i’m alone…

but because i’m starving.

sexually frustrated isn’t even the word.

i’m burning.

no dom. no voice to say “good girl.”

no one to kneel for.

no one to tell me i can stop pretending i’m not this soft, ruined thing that needs to be handled.

i want to scream.

i want to sob.

i want to obey.

and i’m ashamed.

ashamed that my body is soaked just from thoughts.

i’m not playing.

i’m begging.

and i hate that i had to build the bed i want to be destroyed in.

༺🕯️༻

— Sugardoll. bleeding gently.

༺✧༻

[sugardoll12]

😝

[sugardoll12]

[sugardoll12]

August 3rd, 2025

Vape in hand. My lungs ache a little, but it’s a familiar burn.

Yesterday’s eyeliner is smeared like regret under my eyes. Mascara flakes down my cheeks like soot from some long-forgotten fire. I haven’t showered yet. just pulled myself into motion. Laundry piles stare at me like ghosts waiting to be named.

I’m dismantling the old bed. The frame that’s held versions of me I’ve long outgrown, fthe crying one, the dissociating one, the manic one, the one who gave too much. She slept here. She bled here. She screamed here.

Now I’m putting up a new one. The wood creaks like it knows something I don’t. Music plays loud enough to drown out memory, soft enough to still feel like mine. Smoke from incense coils around the corners of the room like a whispered spell. Lavender and dragon’s blood. Something sacred, something sharp.

It’s not peace, but it’s movement. And sometimes that’s the closest I get.

༺🕯️༻

— Sugardoll. bleeding gently.

༺✧༻

[sugardoll12]

last night, i let the devil in

with trembling hands and parted lips.

i drank from the chalice of forgetting

and it tasted like guilt.

my sobriety cracked like old porcelain.

not shattered,

just spider-webbed

in a way only i can see.

this morning, i awoke in the ruins

of a promise i made to myself.

blood on my sheets.

smoke on my tongue.

shame curled in my chest like a sleeping beast.

i do not weep.

i rot.

quietly.

softly.

but even in decay,

something sacred stirs.

day one again

not a clean slate,

but a bloodstained altar.

not purity,

but persistence.

i light a candle.

i whisper my own name like a spell.

i touch the cold floor and say:

i am still here.

i am still mine.

༺🕯️༻

— Sugardoll. bleeding gently.

༺✧༻

[sugardoll12]

[sugardoll12]

[sugardoll12]

Today 🎃

[sugardoll12]

all I do is daydream

[sugardoll12]

☆ It's okay though cause I'm cute and funny ☆

[sugardoll12]

eyeliner smudged like i’ve been crying

lipstick crooked. fishnets torn.

still the hottest thing in the room.

i don’t wanna be perfect.

i wanna be haunting.

wanna be the reason you lock the door

but still leave the light on.

༺🕯️༻

— Sugardoll. bleeding gently

༺✧༻