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Some people will only love the version of you that doesn’t speak up.
The version that stays quiet,
keeps forgiving,
never asks for more.
But that’s not love—
that’s control dressed in affection.
You were not made to be convenient.
You were made to be heard, felt, and seen
fully.
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My default setting is assuming people don’t want to talk to me
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Write me secret codes, and notes, and pages.
In letters, and ramblings and doodles.
On a gold foiled card, or brown paper cardboard.
On a ketchup stained napkin, or rain soaked newspaper.
On a pamphlet corner, a calendar square, or an old shred of giftwrap.
On a receipt for onions, an invoice for tires, or a greasy burger king bag.
Write me anything.
And I will love every sentence, word, sylable and coma.
I will love them, because they are yours.
And because by your hand, all of it, becomes ours.
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"I know them by name—
for I once called them friends.
I don’t fear them—
for I’ve broken bread with them.
They don’t surprise me—
for I’ve shed skin beside them.
I see the fangs behind the smiles,
for I wore that grin once, too."
—geriatricsenseofself
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We all wear light like armor. But love—the real kind—asks for what’s underneath.
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I have never seen something so absolutely us.
Im cackling
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We met lifetimes ago, I think—
in the hush between stars,
where threads are spun by unseen hands.
Yours wound around mine
soft as breath, sure as gravity.
No matter how far we fall,
we fall toward each other.
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Me rn @geriatricsenseofself

Niagara Falls...




What a phenomenal waterfall!! So much power and motion!! It's just lovely, isn't it? 😁😍
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the way i have 0 self control around sweets😭
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I love non-sexual signs of submission as much I love sexual ones.
Kneel for me, moan for me, beg to cum. After all, you look gorgeous on your knees pleading.
But also lay your head on my lap while we watch something, wear my clothes out, perform little acts of service just to show me how much you care.
After all, my claim over you isn’t just in the bedroom, so why should your services to me end there?
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