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Housecat

I told him someday he’ll find a nice woman, settle down; she’ll be happy to bear his children, she’ll cook for him, unthinkingly defer to him—and she’ll probably do it with a smile. He told me: I’m the only good influence you’ve ever had. I told him: you thought you wanted this exotic pet but what you really wanted was a housecat, something simple and soft to touch that would curl up beside you. He told me: all I want is just something that doesn’t walk around destroying things and shitting on the floor. I’ve been pacing back and forth in this cage for as long as I can remember—hungry—and despite my best efforts, I often snap at his fingers wiggling at me through the bars.

@taterhole

Feb 21, 2025

🐈

my cat taught me its ok to not be productive all the time

i’ve never had a cat before and decided to adopt one this year. it took a long time for him to trust me since he was living on the street for the entire 5 month of his life, but eventually he grew to trust me and would take naps on top of me as i binge watched movies. i’ve always believed that to add value to your life, you need to be productive. i mean that’s how it is living in a capitalist society right? if you’re not working, you’re wasting your time. if you’re not commodifying your hobbies, you’re wasting your time. but watching this kitten sleep all day changed my entire perspective on life somehow. i no longer feel bad about just relaxing and doing things i love (rotting in bed, watching movies while crocheting lol) anyways i know this also comes down to privilege, and im v grateful i have my basic needs met. but doing the things you love and taking the time to relax is also a form of resistance in a society that loves to work people to death. and ofc, here is a picture of the cat. his name is junji :D

@xxmichixx

Jan 21, 2025

🐈

a house cat

i was born to be aloof and lay down all day… if past lives are real i was definitely a cat in most of them

@0livia

Apr 3, 2024

Top Recs from @baileyxward

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DREAM

Last night, I dreamed—though I can’t tell you what of, not exactly. There were fragments. A lawn, half-mown, or cats—dozens of them, maybe. Their shapes flicker now at the edge of memory, insubstantial. That’s how it always goes. I dream every night, I know this, but each one slips through my fingers by morning, evaporating like steam before I can grasp it. It wasn’t always this way. As a child, I kept a dream journal. Religious about it. Woke up, wrote it down. And something about that changed me. Sharpened the recall, made dreams more solid. Realer. And then, over time, something turned. Now they vanish even faster. Like the act of remembering too hard wore out the muscle. I’ve thought about starting again. Journaling. Documenting. Not just the dreams, but the moments around them—the texture of waking, the taste of forgetting. Because vivid dreams begin with remembering, don’t they? But I hate recollection. The way it drags old feelings back up, stale and bitter. The way it stains the present with shadows of things that never happened. There’s something foul in remembering too much. Still. Maybe I’ll try.

@baileyxward

22h ago

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KNOW

I unblocked him today. Stupid, really. A gesture that meant nothing and everything at once—flick of a finger, avalanche of consequence. I don’t love him. I know this the way I know fire burns and poison kills. But there was a time I did. Or at least, I believed I did, which might be the same thing. And now, in the pit of night, he comes back. Not in memory, which I could handle. In dreams. Those cursed, wretched dreams where love feels like a trick played on me by some malevolent god. We are soft together, whole together. It feels real. Worse: it feels good. I wake up gagging on it. That intimacy, that false safety. My brain taunts me with what could have been, and I can’t even scream back. So I dissociate. That’s the clinical word for it. But really, I haunt myself. I float through the day like a ghost freshly exhumed, skin buzzing with sleep that clings to my body like mold. Am I still dreaming? Has waking up ever felt this fake? I ask myself: Do I still love him? Then a worse question: Did I ever? And the worst of all: Did I make it up, the whole damn thing? Because if I did—if I built it all out of nothing, like straw houses and paper people—then maybe I am what he always said I was. A liar. A little girl who makes up stories and calls it truth. My father’s daughter. And that’s the most disgusting thing of all.

@baileyxward

22h ago

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JACKET

I hang your jackets in my closet like trophies, or maybe like warnings. I don’t know which. I don’t wear them. It’s far too hot — sticky, oppressive heat that clings to the skin like regret — but I keep them there, row by row, like memory has a dress code. The scent is gone now. That clean, clove-sweet sharpness you always carried. Still, I walk past them every day. I make myself look. It’s supposed to mean something. All of this. I keep telling myself I’m meant for something bigger — to make a name for myself, they always say — but what name? The one I was given, or the one I’ll have to carve out with blood and trembling hands? Fifty-five years. Fifty-five steps to the top of the hill, up to that damn library where I’ve been meaning to go. Where I keep meaning to go. And yet. I don’t move. My legs work. I know they do. They carried me through worse things — war zones of the heart, ancestral curses, kitchens full of shattered plates. But I still can’t make them climb. I don’t know if that makes me weak or merciful. I don’t know if it’s sabotage or a mercy I don’t deserve. A dog that weeps after it kills is still a killer. A dog that weeps is still a dog. Your guilt won’t make you holy. Your regret won’t make you clean. So I ask: when you see a butterfly land on lavender — that momentary grace, delicate and impossible — do you still spell my name in your head, as if that might bring me back? As if I ever left?

@baileyxward

May 28, 2025