#humanity <3

[iamyouknow-yours]

There is something about the way people hold hands at clubs so they don't lose each other in the crowd that is so soft and lovely and human to me.

It is one of the things that makes my hope in humanity go up.

Please put the things that do that for you in the notes if you so desire, I would love to hear them!

[sorrowfulrosebud]

Making myself violently ill thinking about second hand books that have messages written inside as a birthday gift for their child. Mugs that have “world’s best grandma/grandpa”, paintings with dedications for lovers long since passed, antique toys that were once full of love and life.

[literary-corvid]

I am a patchwork quilt of everyone I've ever loved

I’ve always been drawn to flowers. I could never remember why, even when I named myself after one. (My first ever friend was called Rosie. I was always envious - how full of life she seemed to be!)

I feel a faint sense of dread when I go to clasp a necklace. Only sometimes does my conscious mind drift to her, and it is only then that I wonder if she ever took hers off. I never consider that she was lying. If it wasn’t the glue around that clasp, it was something else that stayed like a noose around her neck.

I wear my watch on my right wrist. I am not left-handed, but the sister who put her watch on my hand when I was three was. It was blue and plastic and cheap but it became mine. She beamed at me: now I’ll always be able to tell you the time! I didn’t bother to learn how to read its analog face for the longest time. I had a reason to keep asking her that way.

I stumble on a word I haven’t memorized, or I teach a younger student how to pronounce that letter combination, and suddenly I am in primary, sitting on a white rug as my second sister gently sounds out the words in front of us. My parents beam at me that night as I say a new word right, and I proudly tell them how my sister taught me. It was all her, I would say. Look how Good I must be for her to love me.

A scar graces my left knee. It looks old and worn, like nothing, but sometimes I see her fingerprint there, as if the gloves she wore when mopping up my blood had vanished. She told me later, when she poured the disinfectant on two instead of three, that it would fade, that someday I would forget. I’m glad she was wrong. I sent her a message a few years ago, and never heard back. But I see her profile sometimes, and how she sees my stories. We grew apart. I’m trying to learn that that’s okay, but I still wonder if she ever misses me. I see her out of the corner of my eye when my knee throbs with a dull, faint pain. I miss her, but at least her fingerprint remains.

On my thirteenth birthday, and for many birthdays after, an alarm on my phone would go off, reminding me to go train dolphins with a sister. I deleted it years ago. I regret it every time it never rings.

I’ve always remembered when Earth Day is. My schools have always made a day of it. But now, on April 22nd, I think not of the earth, but of my twin flame. On that day, I give my thanks to the earth, for I was born of her, but I spend my life loving her. For a year, I was coaxed with sickly sweet words away from her; away from everyone. When I was back, there was no question of if she would welcome me, even through my guilt. She is the one who stayed by me, helped me up, loved me. Who keeps loving me, as I keep loving her.

I prick my finger as I sew, and each time I remember how she would chastise me, reminding me to wear a thimble. And each time, I smile and say I’m fine. I understand better, though, when she cuts herself on the tape dispenser and I carefully tear tape for her the rest of the year.

When I sew on the machine, though, I never feel quite sure of myself. It goes to fast, faster than I can think, with more strength than I am sure of. So when I inevitably fuck up, I smile, remembering her laugh as she pretends to groan at how long it will take to undo, thank god I know better than to start with a backstitch. I know that she is reminding me that it can be undone, no matter how tedious. Stitch by stitch, I fix what I’ve ruined.

I tell people I love them so easily. Anyone who changes my life, even in the smallest of ways, I cannot bear the thought of them not knowing. They say to live each day like it's your last, but they're wrong, it's not you that matters: live each day like it's their last. Loving in secret is a special torment when the guilt feels crushing. I never told him. I never can. I hope he knew, I’m sure he knew how much he was loved. Right? He knew? Tell me he knew. Please.

I go shopping, and absentmindedly look for the good apples - the ones that crunch, that tear sharply, that are just perfectly sweet or bitter. Sometimes I don’t realize until I get home and have apples I probably won’t eat. I offer them to my friends instead, because my partner is states away. They laugh when I send them the pictures, though, and tell me to eat one in their honor. I do.

There are some things I can’t see without itching to gift. Penguins and owls and squirrels and bird and those godforsaken minions and coffee and turtles and irises and this one shade of blue– I’ve left with glass hummingbirds in my pocket before realizing I have no one to give it to.

I’m not in tears over my homework, but I would be if I were alone. Instead, it hits 10:00pm - 22:00, just for them - and it’s done. It’s over and I can’t go back and they're asking for my three favorite candies and I’m thrown because I want to sob - with relief or stress, I’m not sure - but they say they’re going to get me some. Because they’re proud of me. Like it’s obvious. And when they learn I’ve never had any chocolate candy, they come back with a handful. I split the KitKat and hand them half and they watch me, some mix of delight and horror in their eyes, as they halve the Twix and Milky Way and York for us to share. I’m laughing at an irony they don’t see; it blends into every other joy here. So this is it, I think. This is what it’s like.

I keep thinking about the things I do and the parts of me that aren't as much me as they are them or us. I love carrying those people with me, mostly. There's things from friends who've died, and it hurts sometimes. I hope it stays with me, though - the grief, the pain. I don't want it to get easier because I don't want to forget them. I don't think I've actually dealt with anything that happened in the last six years, give or take? And it's all been hitting at once for the past year-ish. So, this is for the friends who are gone or lost to me, and to those who still let me love them.

I've had no less than three interactions that prompted me to actually post this within the last 24 hours, so thanks to @firefliesandfuckery and @judas-redeemed and @vanilla-cigarillos and everyone else for that!

[libraryfag]

i love humans because we're all messy and weird

[soleadita]

someone in my neighborhood keeps the top of this stop sign stocked with tiny little bouquets i have no idea who they are but i’m in love with them on principle

[chemicaljacketslut]

i love objectively awful fanfiction with cringey plot and just abysmal grammar and unrealistic characterization bc everyone starts somewhere and yk what? these people are out here writing and creating instead of doubting their abilities too much to make anything and never improving bc they never started. and they’re doing it straight from the heart. honestly doesn’t get purer than a middle schooler’s first fic

[hekuuu]

a little self-indulgent comic :>

[catmask]

when u go to write a mentally ill person in ur story you are presented two options. the first option is to write your mental illness realistically as you actually experience it with all the ups and downs and people who are like you will resonate with it and feel seen. except every person who reads instagram infographics on mental health that uses the phrase narcicisst for anyone who does anything that crosses them and unironically call themself a dark empath will call you scary and tell you that youre demonizing mentally ill people

the second option is to lie and write inspiration porn for those people to get hard to

[redscrawl]

no i will not make separate blogs for my fandoms, everyone who follows me must experience ALL my insanity

[karvviie]

my three weed smoking girlfriends (non-human version)

[pickled-flowers]

Sex positivity is also about not calling Ace people prude and using virgin as an insult 👍 hope that helps

[arggghhhsstuff]

forever obsessed with percy being weird. off-putting. strange even. a cryptid maybe. an urban legend if I may. my boy is the son of one of the oldest, most powerful gods, has been in FBI's records since the age of twelve, fought and won two wars against immortal beings, went to hell and back. I think he's allowed to be a little odd.

[sangled]

don't let it sink in

[literary-corvid]

Hello!

About me:

I’m Corvid (amongst other names), they/he type beat. I’m an adult. I consider myself to be a subpar amateur poet - not as self depreciation, just an acknowledgment that this is purely a hobby for me.

I don’t entirely know what this blog is, but generally it’s words that I find to be pretty and moving.

Common tags (will be updated):

#corvid waxes poetic: my own writing

#corvid rambles: my posts, or posts I add to, but it's just chat

#web weaving: what it says on the tin

#art #comic: art tags. The comic tag will also include the art tag

#poetry: again, what it sounds like

#humanity <3: things about People that bring me joy

#the rec list: posts, usually reblogged, of things to check out later

[libraryfag]

everytime there's an option to go see a concert I'm always like well why would i do that when i could just listen to music at home but then i go and im like. this is the reason we exist the world is infinitely beautiful and i will never be the same again

[fuckyeahgoodomens]

I am soft 🥺 ❤ (x)