there’s something so disgusting and feral and perverted about getting off to the smell of someone
getting handed your sweater or a blanket and it’s supposed to be for comfort when we can’t see each other but instead i’m fucking my toy and shoving my face into it because fuck. you just smell so good i couldn’t help it
it’s not my fault your smell throws me into a fucking heat, i’m just doing what dumb mutts are supposed to >_<
mom said it’s my turn to be ached for, to have someone feel a stab of hunger for me, to feel nourishment at the sight of me. give it now
Michael Cunningham, "The Hours" // Anne Sexton, "The Touch" // Charles M. Schulz, Peanuts and Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me—The Smiths // F. Scott Fitzgerald, Tender Is the Night // Kelsey Landsgaard, A Soft Wrongness // J. D. McClatchy, "THE DIALOGUE OF DESIRE AND GUILT" // Marina Tsvetaeva, from notes // Yves Olade, Belovéd
All my life, I have been living for other people. Most of the decisions I have made were because someone else wanted me to make them. It's time to start living for myself, but I have no interest in life at all. Killing myself will be the most selfish thing that I will ever do, but at least it will be my own decision.
trying not to get attached
BPD culture is "I'm not jealous but what do you mean you have other friends??? You're my only friend, that's not fair."
.
☀️