Rip Regulus Black, You Would Have Loved "reputation" And "midnights"

Did you go bad? Some things will never wash away. 

Celebrity Sightings In London - November 27, 2023

LONDON, ENGLAND - NOVEMBER 27: Timothee Chalamet arriving for a photocall at Tower Bridge for new movie 'Wonka' on November 27, 2023 in London, England.

soda stereo en el estadio obras, buenos aires, argentina (abril, 1986)

RED, WHITE & ROYAL BLUE | Alex & Henry + hands

Alex and Henry's relationship progression through their hand-touching/hand-holding.

i'll go down in a bitter glory

regulus arcturus black he/him. gay. survivor. black coffee. stargazing. never enough. always second. sarcastic little shit. depressed poet. angry petty boi. he can hold a grudge and it will be your demise. burnt out. attentive.

Devon Aoki by Juergen Teller for ALESSANDRO DELL'ACQUA, 1998

I am my mother's daughter when I clean because I'm depressed, and cry when over stimulated. I skip meals and tell everyone I "forgot". I feel my chest heavy with anxiety. I do not ask to be medicated. I am the strong one. The pillar. And I read a book that reminds me of her, but also of me. I hold no sympathy for her, only anger. I did not ask what made her react this why, only why that was her only reaction. I identify her trauma responses, but can't find the solution to my own. I understand her, but hate the traits she has given me. And intergenerational trauma is real, so if I was in my mother when she was in her mother, and my daughter was in my mother when I was in her, then what is a clean slait for any of us? when they say, we become more like our mothers the older we get, do we inherit their ability to bow, and bend, and break but never make a sound? But if I am my mother's trauma, do I scream uncontrollably because my life isn't in my palms? I swore to never be the woman that takes a man's fist, but my own fist is in my mouth as I look into the mirror and ache to shatter it. Am I my mother's trauma when I forgive a man for treating me like I am invaluable? Am I my mother's daughter when I half-jokingly prepare to give up on my dreams, just to be half-heartedly loved? And I pride myself in knowing that I can tell when someone is manipulating me, but then just as shamelessly ask to be manipulated; to be told that I am loved even if it is a lie. Where is the sense in being senseless in the name of love? Am I my mother's daughter when I overshare to a stranger because no one I love, loves me back enough to listen? And if I am a vessel of trauma, what will my daughter be? Am I my mother's trauma when I yearn to be with someone that does not even respect me? And if this is all my mother's, then am I my father's daughter when I look at my mother in detest over the destiny that she has handed over to me?

For My Mother, I love you but i do not like you.

For my mother, I love you but i do not like you. You created me, you made me into what i am. I am simply a mirror of you which is exactly the thing tried so hard not to be. I tried to erase every part of you from myself and yet I have still become you. My anger is yours, I hate my father for what he did to you. I hate myself for the words that spill to you when I am blinded by rage. My tears are yours, they belong to you. The tears I cry for what you’ve done are the same tears I use to mourn you, to mourn what you were and what you could’ve been. I mourn for your childhood that was ripped away when you were most definitely too young, all the while mourning myself for you doing the same to me. You tried your hardest not to, but in your own way you have imparted the very same curse your mother had put onto you. You ruined me and made me in the same brush stroke. I cry for the hatred you have instilled in me towards my own father. It was easy for you to make me hate him, because it was easy to see the wounds and scars he had given me. His hate for me came quick and rough, easily seen at the time, but the hate you showed me could not be seen in an instant. You did not cut me but poisoned me, fated me to die in a slow way, a way that i could not see until it was too late to fix, but i see it now. I both hate you and love you for all you’ve done at the same time. I cannot fix what has happened to you no matter how hard i try, i wish for you to heal from what you refuse to speak about. I realise the reason i am so forgiving towards you is because of all that you’ve been through, but now the scales have fallen from my eyes and i know now that these are not excuses but explanations. I pray that my daughter will not fall victim to the same curse that has run through the woman in our family for too many generations to count. I pray I will not turn her into what I have become. I mourn for you, I mourn for me, and I mourn for my future. I hope to one day truly forgive you for all the pain you’ve caused. I hope to one day be able to truly hold a conversation with you without being afraid you’ll say something you can’t take back. I hope one day we can say “I love you” to each other and truly mean it, but for now, I love you but I do not like you.

sisterhood

how terrifying it must be to be without a sister.

how do you get through life without someone linked to you in such a sacred sense?

how else can you be reminded of what you looked like only a few years ago?

how can you exist not being able to look into different eyes, made from the same womb, a perfect reflection but your complete opposite?

your other half, twin flame, someone you're linked to with love and laughter always.

how scary it must be to live without her.

-liv

“Some moment when the moon was blood / Then surely I was born;”

— G.K. Chesterton, from “The Donkey,” written c. September 1910