today my cat was able to find the space between the sofa and the wall. he sat there. looking small, looking lonely, looking week. that’s his best ability
c
He cracks open slowly and then all at once. And it makes her think of a coconut, hard enough to crack skulls, but finally crack it and then the inside is softer than jello and the milk all drains into the thirsty earth and then he is just an empty husk expecting to be stepped on and used to polish the floor and you realize why the outside is so hard.
Adriana.K.Maxwell
His wore his vulnerability on his shoulder. It would seem to be invisible to him, but it was like he was wearing a placard on his chest, saying I know you want to hit me.
Chanpheng
laid bare
laid to waste
waiting to
be
for-
sak-
en
while the
world
passes
me
by
Em
Observe a single quill, ink-laden, upon a crisp parchment. It trembles, hesitant, baring its essence in each stroke. The pen’s plight, dear reader, echoes our own—a dance with exposure, an open letter to existence.
Jaz
The Mojave Desert, vast and barren, bares its soul to the sky. Here, in its stark nakedness, we learn the beauty of exposure. As the desert scorns shelter, so too must we face the light.
human_esque
At our core, aren’t we just a pile of uncertainties and half-finished sentences? Look at Natasha, so perfect in her imperfect rhythm, all unguarded laughter and stammered truths. How she shines in her cracked wholeness.
SLYSLY
He was a tough man, skin hardened by wars and winters. Yet, under the old oak, he wept. For all his strength, he knew the raw potency of a tear—an unarmored truth.
mellowtonin
Consider a newborn star in the black void. A violent, radiant spectacle, birthing itself into existence. Isn’t that us too, dear reader? Birthing our own stories, blazing amid the cosmic comedy.
today my cat was able to find the space between the sofa and the wall. he sat there. looking small, looking lonely, looking week. that’s his best ability
He cracks open slowly and then all at once. And it makes her think of a coconut, hard enough to crack skulls, but finally crack it and then the inside is softer than jello and the milk all drains into the thirsty earth and then he is just an empty husk expecting to be stepped on and used to polish the floor and you realize why the outside is so hard.
His wore his vulnerability on his shoulder. It would seem to be invisible to him, but it was like he was wearing a placard on his chest, saying I know you want to hit me.
laid bare
laid to waste
waiting to
be
for-
sak-
en
while the
world
passes
me
by
Observe a single quill, ink-laden, upon a crisp parchment. It trembles, hesitant, baring its essence in each stroke. The pen’s plight, dear reader, echoes our own—a dance with exposure, an open letter to existence.
The Mojave Desert, vast and barren, bares its soul to the sky. Here, in its stark nakedness, we learn the beauty of exposure. As the desert scorns shelter, so too must we face the light.
At our core, aren’t we just a pile of uncertainties and half-finished sentences? Look at Natasha, so perfect in her imperfect rhythm, all unguarded laughter and stammered truths. How she shines in her cracked wholeness.
He was a tough man, skin hardened by wars and winters. Yet, under the old oak, he wept. For all his strength, he knew the raw potency of a tear—an unarmored truth.
Consider a newborn star in the black void. A violent, radiant spectacle, birthing itself into existence. Isn’t that us too, dear reader? Birthing our own stories, blazing amid the cosmic comedy.