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Sometimes I’m afraid to reach out. I’m afraid of being ignored, judged, or feeling like a burden. But right now, I don’t have the luxury of staying silent.

Last week I was diagnosed with a severe H. pylori infection, and without health insurance, the medical bills have become overwhelming. On top of that, rent is due, and I’m struggling to afford medication, groceries, and other basic necessities.

If you’ve ever considered helping me, this is one of those moments where it could truly make a difference. Even the smallest donation or simply sharing my request could help me get through this difficult time.

Thank you for seeing me, for caring, and for reminding me that asking for help isn’t something to be ashamed of. ❤️

E-transfer: plushraspberry@gmail.com
Memo: berry
Goal: $2,500

Please share if you can’t donate. Every share gives this a chance to reach someone who can.
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doves pole dancing with a lance of hatred, beloved masters friday nights lady death cleavage sin. poor pigeons raise imaginary sons, when a syllable dies another answers via resemblance; or, mon aeroglisseur est plein d’anguilles. during periods of lucidity, i imagine the spoon i feed myself with being the barrel of a gun. a balkan pork beater struck down like gold cow statues, washed eggs kill all birds. the more that you consume, the less you’ll ever know. face swathed in dusty prayers, chauvinistic horseblowers are gasps from heaven but only look up to sneeze. the silver lining’s the chicken bass squealing at the crack of dawn (no difference is the inch and half). sun blasts through wounds in the wall. my head pokes into your dreams and plagiarizes trivialities. none lord over thee, bumbling leglessly for dorothy. gaic of a suicidal photograph, blue tape wrapped around my stomach, speaking anothers words. photograph a pomegranate and two angels splattered on the pavement. jettatore - mon panache. a baby held up by an embalmers stillborn socks. the world ends when you go to bed. the subject does not belong to the world: rather, it is a limit of the world. the sky cracks open. your face reflected at the bottom of this mug of night old coffee mouthing soggy moans, medicine licking teeth clean in cocaine whites [wisconsin calling]. naraka drone > le fay trumpets. talk box lute car crash. gargling stomachs excommunicate all lovers not listening, neither sprach witty. dionysian, censor buildings, a bullet through the moon. we mean aggravated assault yet the unopening box contains truth. fuck this goddamn washing machine cycle. this manufactured youth, that white ceiling. my bloody bookmark like the void conducts stallions.  arms stapled over my head : pixar clicks the final smile into the mass of not to be, with a heavy heart: I RAISE MY TWO HOPELESS HANDS IN THE AIR.. 

IN ┴HƎ N∀WƎ OℲ H∀ɹW∀N˙˙˙

UN JOUR JE SERAI DE RETOUR PRÈS DE TOI.
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