୭̥ * ₊ 🪞 ･ ° ꧁ Why U ̶o̶̶b̶̶s̶̶e̶̶s̶̶s̶̶e̶̶d̶ With Me ೀ 🦢

Aww so cute

“My language crawls on the edge of an abyss”

— Adonis, Selected Poems, tr. by Khaled Mattawa

youtube videos to help you with your glow up (pt. 1)

14 psychotic genius ways i use chatgpt to 1000x my life by simonesquared

46 beauty habits your future self will thank you for by simonesquared

how to glow up like a victoria’s secret model by girlworld

rebrand your identity in 2025 by krizia official

when the law of attraction doesn’t work, cheat by leo skepi

disappear and transform: a full 90 day guide by vickita trivedi

how to become confident and unbothered when you are insane by amber akilla

my 2025 master plan for success by tam kaur

how to change your life with chatgpt by nika erculj

daily wellness routine by fernanda ramirez

10 healthy habits that will change your life by sophia diloreto

let’s get motivated by rebecca jay

how to rebrand your life in 2025 by alessya farrugia

24 life changing hot girl habits by adete dahiya

the ultimate guide to confidence by alessya farrugia

the night routine that changed my life by alessya farrugia

the morning routine that changed my life by alessya farrugia

how to quickly get out of a rut by alessya farrugia

how to actually glow up by alessya farrugia

#art

Art by Djamila Knopf

wow, she remembered about Inktober……… I'm a little late with posting, but oh well day 1. Dream

#books

Why, yes, I did order this.

I’m sure everyone will be as excited as I am once I get my hands on it.

#books

Clarice Lispector, tr. by Ronald W. Sousa, The Passion According to G.H.

#drawing

Art by Hamboggy Art

#photos

the house plants. 08/26. S.R.

napowrimo day 26 using @mercuriian's prompts (x): a poem about a plant

transcript under the cut:-

The house plants

I collect them like seashells. A few of them are seeds hiding between the muddy soil which find a home in my nails when I bring them in. I hope to mould myself the way I did to the soil in the pots, some which escaped from a lover's quarrel thrown onto the streets. The leaves lie down on my porch like the ladies from a renaissance painting, their eyes on me and their right hands supporting their heads. I begin to mould myself like a plant. When I forget to water myself, my plants dry, I forget to tend to my roots and they wail. I am buried and I feel at home. Winds blow in and my frozen carcass is found at their feet. I bloom every year, as someone new over and over again. Burying is an eternal cycle. They thrive at the farthest corner of the house with a light in it. I think I'll give them enough love to make them survive.

— S.R.