C H E E S E C A K E

what a good day to remember that butch lesbians (ESPECIALLY trans, poc, and/or fat butch lesbians) aren’t fucking predatory 

Fun fact: There is an ancient Greek goddess of friendship. Her name is Philotes.

Double fun fact: She's a daughter of Nyx. Her siblings include Thanatos (god of death), Nemesis (goddess of retribution/revenge), Momus (god of mockery), Apate (goddess of deceit), and Oizys (goddess of depression and misery).

Wwyd if you woke up to this

girl in a horror movie: vomits up black liquid or blood, screams at the top of her lungs and tries to hurt anyone that goes near her

me: it be like that sometimes

REBLOG: go to your blog and click the egg to see what hatches

how does being punched in the face feel like

Daily Reminder To:

Take your medications that you need to!

Get up, stretch, walk around a bit!

Get some food and water if you haven’t in a while!

Plug in your device!

Feed any pets!

If it’s between 10 pm and 7 am and you have no reason to be awake besides being up on your phone, go to sleep or at least get comfortable and start trying to sleep!

Check around you and stack any dishes and bring them to the kitchen! Including plates, cups, bowls, and utensils!

Do a quick look around and pick up any trash and put it in the bin!

Message anyone to check in on them and yourself! Respond to any messages you may have gotten, answer some asks if need be, let your family know that you’re safe, whatever you need to do!

If you need to and are able to, go take a shower! Or clean your face! Get changed at the very least, put your clothes in the dirty hamper, and feel better about it!

That’s all for now! Good job, I’m proud of you for doing that!

might fuck around and read a 500 page physical published book in one sitting like it’s 2006 and I’m being bullied in middle school so I take refuge in the library and inhale books at a frightening speed that I have not been able to replicate since

being poor is traumatic. even if you’re not homeless or starving. never being able to get anything nice for yourself, never being able to go out to eat without feeling guilty, never being able to do anything fun that isn’t free, making you housebound in bad weather because you can’t afford to go to a cafe or a movie. it takes a toll. being poor under capitalism makes your life a waking nightmare. this post must be reblogged by everyone.

On a rainy night sometime in October, Martin had a nightmare about killing his husband. Something about the top of a tower Martin didn't recognize, and a dead body on the floor, and a crumbling building. Jon was saying a lot of things he didn't understand, and Martin was shouting a little. They both were crying. Jon handed him the knife, closed his hands around it and guided it towards his chest. 

Martin thought he wouldn't do it, at first. He thought he wouldn't do it. He tried not to do it, his arms stiffening with the motion. And then, as he pushed the knife into Jon's chest, he started begging desperately, silently, to wake up. 

He didn't. He felt every inch of that knife as it pushed into Jon's chest, felt the weight of Jon's punched-out gasp, felt the weight of Jon crumpling in his arms. Felt the tears sliding down his face as he didn't wake up. 

And then he was awake, and he was crying, like it had been real instead of just a horrible dream, intrusive thoughts at their finest making a home in his head. It wasn't real; he knew that. But that didn't stop him from sliding across the mattress, from leaning towards Jon and pressing his face against Jon's shoulder, biting his lip so Jon wouldn't hear him sob. 

Jon woke up. Of course he did. He stirred slowly, shifting against Martin and groping back for his hand until Martin tangled their fingers together, Jon's ring cool between his fingers. "M'rtin?" Jon mumbled sleepily, turning towards him. "What… what's wrong? Are you crying?"

Martin swallowed hard, wiped his eyes with his free hand and said, "Bad… bad dream."

"Oh." Jon pulled his hand up and kissed the back of it, his eyes still mostly closed. "It… it was just a dream, Martin. It's okay."

It's not, Martin wanted to say, but the words wouldn't come. It felt silly to say. It was just a dream. He'd never seen that place in his life; he'd looked different in the dream, and so had Jon, unfamiliar versions of themselves somehow. 

He pressed a free hand over Jon's chest, the place where the scar would've been, if the dream had been real. He said instead, "I hurt you," in a faltering voice, the words almost too awful to say. He kept feeling it, the phantom motion of stabbing Jon. He couldn't get the picture out of his head. The tears welled up again; Martin held his breath to try and hold back a sob.

"Martin," Jon mumbled, sleepily, his eyes still mostly closed. He reached up for Martin, put his arm around Martin's shoulders and pulled him down into his chest. Pressed a lingering kiss to his forehead. "You would never hurt me."

Martin pressed his wet face into Jon's neck and tried with everything in him to believe that, tried to banish the images from his mind. He mumbled I love you, and Jon said it back, and they fell back asleep tangled up on Jon's side of the bed. 

When Martin woke back up in the morning, there was an unfamiliar sound echoing in his mind—something like the whir of a tape recorder.