Sambucky Texposts Bc I Didn't Want To Do My Work :)

1$ flea market score. Tiny glass 1960s perfume bottles. I love them.

(everybody is okay)

good things will happen 🧿

things that are meant to be will fall into place 🧿

Typical void creature 🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛

"Do you yield?"

FUCKING BYE HAGDHHFDHFDJDBJBERUGJNF

I want to grab them by their scruffs and shake them around (affectionately). These two have gotten me to draw a background not once but TWICE!! I am legitimately so proud of how this turned out, I feel so fucking cool at the moment (excuseme for not being able to properly explain it's 2 AM 😭😭😭)

Inspired by Existential Crisis mode (chapter 31) written by @luciaintheskyainthi

"omg spideypool!" "aww spideytorch" "venom is literally a crazy ex gf"

"moonie"

Batman supports and protects working girls by the way. He's their friend.

Robert Pattinson:

"Bleed the Sky"

The sky bursts open,

not gently,

not softly,

but like a body breaking,

like something holding on for too long

finally letting go.

The first drop hits—

hot asphalt hisses,

dust rises like ghosts startled awake,

and the earth opens her mouth

like she’s starving.

There’s no beauty here.

No poetry.

Just the raw writhing of water finding cracks,

finding hunger,

finding every place that aches or crumbles or waits.

The rain doesn’t ask permission.

It doesn’t care where it falls—

forest, rooftop, desert, skin.

It pounds against leaves as if to punish them

for turning their faces away,

fills the throats of rivers

until they choke on their own rushing,

slides down windowpanes like tears

too heavy to hold back.

And it keeps going.

There is no tenderness in this.

This is not about grace.

This is about gravity and surrender,

the weight of billions of tiny impacts

stripping the world bare.

And something in you loosens—

against your will,

unraveling in the rhythm,

in the relentless pounding that reminds you of your own breaking,

of the times you couldn’t stop falling.

You stand there,

letting it hit you,

letting it drench everything you thought was safe.

Maybe this is what healing feels like:

not silent, not soft,

not clean.

But messy.

Wet hands in the dirt,

skin soaked,

blurry vision as everything spills.

The rain knows.

It always knows.

It comes to destroy,

and in the destruction

it leaves something you didn’t know you were—

raw, gasping,

and growing.