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she was becoming herself and daily casting aside that fictitious self which we assume like a garment with which to appear before the world.
" Nothing ever ends poetically. It ends and we turn it into poetry. All that blood was never once beautiful. It was just red. "

— Kait Rokowski (via girlchoking)

(Source: writingsforwinter, via agnosia)


an unfamiliar cat:
(approaches me)

me, internally:
this cat senses my inner worth