Nicky Amaryllis 🏳️⚧️ΘΔ
@nikkyjules.bsky.social
380 followers
290 following
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22|she/her/it/its|Pan?|Puppygirl|ΘΔ|
INFJ-T
Dm's are open. I speak 🇩🇰🇬🇧🇩🇪
Stream: https://www.twitch.tv/nikkyjules
Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/@NikkyJules
@sonyachnik.bsky.social💍🩷
HRT - 2nd October 2024
My mom - @nyxthenephalem.bsky.social
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Reposted by Nicky Amaryllis 🏳️⚧️ΘΔ
Hey everyone, I don't do this often but I would like to do a little advertising.
I'm part of the Rosanian Empire (@empire-of-rosania.bsky.social), and the head of the Department of Documentation and Law.
We are an Empire that furthers trans rights, mental illness awareness and a great community
I'm part of the Rosanian Empire (@empire-of-rosania.bsky.social), and the head of the Department of Documentation and Law.
We are an Empire that furthers trans rights, mental illness awareness and a great community
Reposted by Nicky Amaryllis 🏳️⚧️ΘΔ
Been sick for a few days now, most likely a throat infection of some kind. Just been very bleh with headaches, throat pain, tiredness, feeling weak and so on
Reposted by Nicky Amaryllis 🏳️⚧️ΘΔ
Reposted by Nicky Amaryllis 🏳️⚧️ΘΔ
![[Art on Page] A detailed graphite drawing of a wolf’s eyes. One, the left is more formed than the right — indicating a near but not complete transition. The fur around them is dense and wispy, rendered in fine pencil lines that suggest softness and depth. The eyes are highly realistic and expressive, staring directly outward with intense, soulful focus. They seem alert but ancient—wide with instinct, watching as if waiting for something to begin. The drawing fades at the edges into blank white space, giving the eyes a floating, disembodied presence.
Look into my eyes one last time
Look into my eyes. Hold them close until you can see the last scrap of me — the part that counts thoughts in lists, that weighs choices against rules, that folds shame into tidy, human-shaped pockets. Watch it loosen. Watch the corners of doubt unhook themselves like small animals from a net and dart away. There is no melodrama here, no violent yanking; it slips. The human mind peels like old bark, and underneath, the thing that always was settles warm and terrible and simple.
They give me the last injection in a room that smells faintly of cedar and lemon. No needles, no cold clinical lecture — only the careful hands of doctors, veterinarians and nurses who know which bones to cradle and which stories to leave untold. I breathe. I lost the ability to count days back. I let the bracing liquid be a gate, not an instruction manual. I do not want to name it; names are the thin net that caught me for years.
The burn is a rumour. It goes through me sideways — a quiet rearrangement, like a convent bell that signals not death but a calling. My limbs answer first. They stop thinking of movement and begin to remember it: how to fold, to coil, to push.](https://cdn.bsky.app/img/feed_thumbnail/plain/did:plc:6hpcvbf2bhtwyfh5cfmx6clw/bafkreievifoujnv75rp5xqfgciv32ujns4h34ljset745atwuduopqikei@jpeg)
