this tender storm called life
-
the wild garden of love
“beneath every scar, love still grows—untamed, unbroken, a fire that refuses to fade.” love has never been a clean-lined story for me. it is a wild garden, blooming where it wants, thorned and radiant all at once. it is the quiet thrum that wakes me before dawn and the electric pulse that refuses to let…
-
the myth of an infallible human
i am a constellation of mistakes, stitched together with curiosity. i misstep, i forget, i ache—and still i rise. every day begins with the same quiet truth: i will not get everything right, and that is the heartbeat of being alive. being human is not a vow of perfection; it is the art of bending…
-
who can you trust…?
who can you trust when the world softens to a hush and every sound feels like it echoes inside your bones. is it the friend who shows up at the door without needing an invitation, who knows the shape of your silence and doesn’t ask you to break it. is it the one who notices…
-
the ache to be someone’s everything
there is a certain longing that hums beneath our skin, a pulse we carry whether we speak it or not: the desire to be the most important person to someone else. not just liked, not just noticed, not just occasionally thought of, but truly seen as irreplaceable. to be the one whose name softens their…
-
the mirror we don’t expect
there’s a peculiar ache that comes when you meet yourself in another. not the glossy reflection in a bathroom mirror, not the polished face you curate for the world, but the raw version of you—unfiltered, unflinching—embodied in someone else’s actions. it’s startling. humbling. sometimes even painful. you see the quickness of your temper mirrored in…
-
always, us.
love is not a line drawn straight, it is a circle, endless, widening, reaching further each time it beats. i love three. orange belongs to my girlfriend. she is wildfire, untamed and alive, her energy spilling into every space i let her touch. her laughter is the kind that lingers, echoing in the bones, the…
-
the weight of nightmares
there is a peculiar cruelty in the way nightmares grip us, how they arrive without invitation, pulling us into rooms built from shadow, turning familiar faces into strangers and safe places into cages. they are architects of unease, weaving memory with fear, longing with loss, truth with distortion, until we no longer know what is…
Whispered Words | thtgrlinbloom, 🌻 