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#forageforpassion
junehouse · 8 months
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palomo spain spring 2024
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junehouse · 8 months
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palomo spain spring 2024
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junehouse · 8 months
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junehouse · 8 months
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illustration in Les Fleurs du Mal by Charles Baudelaire
(tried to find the artist but couldn’t find a name! lmk if you know who so i can give proper credits!!)
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junehouse · 8 months
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the gashlycrumb tinies by edward gorey
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junehouse · 9 months
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i am frightening,
i find myself frightening.
in the blanket of the night, i find it hard to even touch my own self,
in the harsh afternoon, i look in the mirror with the same expression one has upon finding a wasp’s nest. why would i ever want someone to truly discover how frightening i am?
why would i want to bare myself to someone?
in many instances where a friend’s perception of me clashes with my own, i wonder if i truly know myself; and thus if i’m justified in believing i am frightening.
i should say knowing; believing and knowing are not the same.
but anyhow, their perceptions must be wrong.
who knows me better than myself? nobody. nobody but me.
i project myself onto the world and so, the world frightens me.
turned stomach, haggard breaths & tears in the eyes whenever i leave my house. but i deal with it better when my senses are distracted, when i’m listening to music with eyes downcast.
do i need a similar buffer when dealing with myself? maybe that’s my problem.
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junehouse · 10 months
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i love to share
i think it’s the eldest sister in me.
i share my worries and my thoughts,
i struggle to keep things to myself.
and as giving is a given, taking surely follows.
i shoulder others’ worries and joy, cry from a simple story,
maybe it’s the eldest sister in me.
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junehouse · 1 year
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like scars that fade and disappear due to familiarity, sometimes i forget it’s even there. but other times i become aware of it, stare at the useless bright red eyesore in the mirror and i remember;
that it was real.
that i did that, they did that, it happened to me, it happened, whatever right language to use.
i don’t know if i want to experience anything to do with it again, even if it’s good.
i don’t know if i could bear it without crying,
i just know i’ll cry no matter how it is.
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junehouse · 1 year
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i haven’t absorbed it yet.
the news was presented to me on a platter, and i kept it on my bedside table to rot.
i don’t think about it, don’t look at it.
i placed a kitchen napkin on top of it.
whenever i got the guts to remember, i peeked behind the napkin and felt the overwhelming urge to cry;
so i covered it with the napkin again.
it has been two months.
the news has started to fester,
so i moved it to the fridge.
it’s much better, i don’t have to bump into it when i’m trying to sleep anymore.
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