“Why isn’t my agony soft?” — that line lives with me now. The tension between grief and beauty, between fire and garden, between pickled hearts and empty fingers… you’ve spun suffering into something feral and sacred.
There’s a richness here that makes pain feel textured — not romanticized, but rooted. Like the orchard lungs. Like rusted treasure. Like a kingdom built in the gut, not the sky.
Thank you for making room for this kind of ache. It’s strangely comforting to find my own bruises echoed back in someone else’s myth.
Although I'd never wish for someone to understand the agony I Weave into sad pieces, if there is agony to be felt, I'm glad I could make you feel comforted ❤️🩹
"Feral and sacred" is how I'm going to describe me style from now and omg thank you 😭🫶🥹
This cracked me open.
“Why isn’t my agony soft?” — that line lives with me now. The tension between grief and beauty, between fire and garden, between pickled hearts and empty fingers… you’ve spun suffering into something feral and sacred.
There’s a richness here that makes pain feel textured — not romanticized, but rooted. Like the orchard lungs. Like rusted treasure. Like a kingdom built in the gut, not the sky.
Thank you for making room for this kind of ache. It’s strangely comforting to find my own bruises echoed back in someone else’s myth.
Although I'd never wish for someone to understand the agony I Weave into sad pieces, if there is agony to be felt, I'm glad I could make you feel comforted ❤️🩹
"Feral and sacred" is how I'm going to describe me style from now and omg thank you 😭🫶🥹