ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐
(And other tales about religious trauma)
I dream of living in a small one bedroom apartment with my husband, with a huge white couch that isn't really practical, with baby blue and yellow accents everywhere,and a balcony I rarely use becuse it hangs over the train line, which is fine becuse I use it to grab groceries from the farmers market and we cook our favourite food together and invite friends over for themed movie and game nights
darkened silver jhumkas, worn out kajal, a delicate bindi royally seated between unruly eyebrows, cotton kurtas and georgette dupattas, my middle class desi girl, you invented fashion
You are so young, all still lies ahead of you, and I should like to ask you, as best I can, dear Sir, to be patient towards all that is unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves like locked rooms, like books written in a foreign tongue. Do not now strive to uncover answers: they cannot be given you because you have not been able to live them. And what matters is to live everything. Live the questions for now.
—Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet
i am not my mother and i am not my father but a third worse thing
me and the bad bitches i pulled by having matching brain parasites that psychically draw our thoughts together
Vintage pink glass perfume bottle
Wounds of the Earth
— by xis.lanyx
a girl of fear, a woman of anger— look how we've grown
she/her ▪︎ my mind; little organization
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