I Know He Loves Me Because He's Breathing The Same Air As Me, If He Didn't Love Me, He Wouldn't Be Breathing.

so hold me on the way down,

and do me no harm,

i cause myself enough injury

from day to day, love

I am not a girl,

but rather a boy in the way

that I am burdened a daughter.

disappointingly so.

The sunset tonight.

We're going to be adapting Carmilla!

Stay tuned to hear the trailer on the Re: Dracula feed in a week, or join our patreon and listen right now! Since we're funding the miniseries via patreon, there will be lots of perks and early access audio for supporters. Production will take place in 2024, once we've fully wrapped Re: Dracula!

and I would rip myself apart for you,

crack open my ribcage and let you

take whatever you wanted.

but you have been teaching me

that you do not need me to,

that I do not need me to.

Communion

And when I place the body of Christ underneath my tongue, when He dissolves like fine sand, like sweet honey. and when I gasp, when my pupils dilate, as I glance at His heaven, 

Will you seethe? Will you lurch forward, claws digging into my shoulder blades, ripping out the muscle to lay flaccid on my back? Will you remember our nights, reach down to my Achilles tendon, and tear it? Will you force me on my knees, and not allow me to fly away? Will you grasp my two hands in your larger ones, crush my palms together, and will you beg for my forgiveness? And once you have forced me into loyalty, will the blood wash from our hands?

With @staff 's recent post saying 1/4 of this site is LGBTQ going around, I'd like to see what the actual demographic is

So!

Please reblog for bigger sample size!

fireflies honestly make me cry a little. out of gratitude and wonder. thank goodness we live in a world with bioluminescence. thank goodness we live in a world where it can fly.

“i’m sorry,” I whisper desperately.

i’m sorry for feeling too much.

I’m sorry that it spills out of me uncontrolled, violently.

i’m sorry I was never handled gently.

i’m sorry nobody ever taught me what love is.

Roses, Vincent Van Gogh, 1889