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Showing most liked content since 09/16/18 in all areas

  1. 4 points
    you leave suddenly like a brick pulling out from beneath me didn't realize how this would feel i followed my life like i follow stories until i snapped back to reality at the very end of it and it's harder when pain hits all at once. i have grown used to you building me up, making me laugh when i couldn't breathe, you made that feeling better texts coming in a couple times a day even if i don't have the time to make my responses do much more than suck, usually didn't know how to fathom the way you would vanish i wobble as my world tilts like a jenga tower with one brick pulled out i did not realize how it would feel to be left reaching for something beyond your emptiness you made me feel tall beautiful, happy, loved and seen. did you intend to do that? should not have called this happiness mine because you gave it to me all of this never could have happened if you hadn't built me up i wish i could have thanked you said something found true, constant words for what you mean before i felt the void of your shape stable and aching unfillable by anything but what is past out the window wish something could take me back to memories that some days i just want to bury myself in rather than face a shaky present before we the part was final barely holding i became highly acquainted with memory i think love is not just noticing when something is there but feeling all the moments when it is gone because you meant something something i stood upon. This is for a lot of people, but part of this is about Cicada closing down. I know I haven't been posting long, but thank you Cicada for giving me a place to post my writing where people I don't even know can see it. I've sort of grown used to how wacky and creative this place is, and normal, physical life is orderly and rule-following and nothing like that. Before now, the only people who read my work was basically my mum. And the occasional interested relative or teacher. I know I'm not that important here, but it still feels good to read through the view numbers on my poems, and feel like someone has read my work. I was afraid to start posting when I signed up in February, but I wish I could have started posting sooner. @bluebird , @The Invincible Troodon, @WanderingMonster, thank you for liking my work (and if there's anyone I'm forgetting, thank you too). All the people who showed up as views and didn't like: thank you for reading it. Even if you didn't like it--even in spirit, rather than in digital reaction, the fact that you took the time to read it means something to me. I don't know if any of you care, but in case you do, I'm going to keep posting on the Cicada 3.0 website after I can't post here any longer (cicadamagarchive.home.blog) by the same username.
  2. 4 points
    today is brought to you by the physical act of remembering. & remembering is a swandive from a cliff: you choose when to jump, or youre shoved, or the ground decides it's time & crumbles. but freefall is the shortest purgatory a living thing can experience & you might tell yourself this was a mistake, that hurtling into the expansive, apathetic blue of the sea would render you something ended. something breathless & floating. the headfirst weightlessness & regret & solid hope & wishing hard for what was always leaves a hole in your chest when nostalgia bites. then comes the water. the cold crashes into you like a freight train & you are something mournful. something wanting. grieve the past & things that were. honor them. important things will stick. you can make homes like you can make apples: from seed to sapling & maybe in a few years youve earned fruit, or a kind of belonging. a home is never more than a house plus memories. & this home may succumb to worms, or wood rot, or real estate, & you might package up remembering & leave it in your attic, but attics are made to be forgotten & rediscovered. this is its magic. learning how to remember is a little spellbinding thing & the first time you spiral: you loop & spin & widen & suddenly that attic is the most important thing you have ever tasted. remembering is roses, or at least tinted pink. never mind the worms. never mind the rot. this home lives in recollection, & souls, & the attics of new homes. important things will stick.
  3. 3 points
    This is my last update before the slam dies for good. I had a great time on here and I'll be thinking of y'all forever.
  4. 2 points
    im definitely going to miss the hell out of this site. i dont know if it's closing midnight on the 14th or midnight the 15th, but either way im getting my goodbyes to the site in now. jess, sonder, archea, queenie, and i are trying to make a new cicada so we can have a new home for our poetry, but this definitely holds a special place in my heart. i came out as trans here first, and was accepted as i was wholeheartedly. getting to know everyone in the discord has honestly been the highlight of my summer and i have no idea what id do without everyone. being published a few times in the cicada issues was something to be proud of, and im glad i got to share that with everyone here. cicada is where i found my poetic voice. im so, so sad that this has to end. ive written quite a few goodbye posts in my time, but ive gotten attached to the community here. all the users and the admins and autumn and all the artists made this publication feel welcoming. in all honesty, i dont know if i would have survived my early teenage years if i hadnt found poetry and art. thank you so much to everyone for sharing their writing with me, too. thank you for the rp threads, and the feedback on my work, and thank you for putting yourselves out there too. thank you to the admins at cicada for giving us a new site and a chance to connect with each other. thank you for giving us 20 years of an amazing literary magazine, and thank you for listening and interacting with us. we owe it to you guys for maintaining this community. to everyone: thank you and goodbye.
  5. 1 point
    i am walking through the carcass of a whale there are great bones around me, massive ribcage— they are towers, or bars, or the walls of a home. is there marrow within them? or poetry? i thought the whale would fade after beaching but it did not— when it did i thought it would wither. perhaps it did, but the carcass remains; i am walking through the carcass of a whale and wondering how long before the wind carves the bones to dust. farewell to the orange sky. farewell to the cicada call in the summer evenings. food is still good past its expiration date and sometimes daylight clings beyond the setting sun but when the midnight comes, will it bring waves to cleanse the beach? when i return come morning, will the whale be gone? i whisper poetry to the inside of a whale carcass and wonder how long i have left. ~~~~~~~ ((AN: there's a weird, half-life atmosphere to the slam now. it's like all the rats abandoned ship but the ship hasn't sunk yet. the slam was supposed to go down but it's still here and it's like walking through purgatory. it's like it's here but it isn't and i'm hurting to see how long it will last.))
  6. 1 point
    do not go gently into that good night. rage, rage against the dying of the light.
  7. 1 point
    . iam hiding leather over soft flesh in sweet origami smiles laughs and neat outfits closet doubtful misfitting artistic scientist scientific artist closet seer of things i know you don’t think are fit for my eyes closet dirty mouth (and too fucking bad) closet confused everything-at-once person trying to find herself logically honestly, i am many other things i just highlighted in blue and backspaced maybe i should be braver than this— closets are where you can close the door and no one will come looking for you inside those doors i am angry and bitter crabapple don’t always believe in hope and prosperity pain maybe you understand that it’s hard to grasp you might like this person this way i’m not good at being detached from people like that. trapped in kindness i give out smiles and noncommittal answers (i’m either an amazing actress or a terrible one) sometimes, when you see me under the normal halfway-light it just feels wrong and i don’t know how to fix that. but something is lost when my parts are segregated one dark and one illuminated it only simmers worse as i linger screaming silently god knows what i want god knows who i am invisible; laughable i explode on the people i trust to hold it inevitably. i think i have to be seen by someone. maybe this poem needs a happier ending explaining personal growth in a creative conformity but— i’m not here or there i’m just on and off, still thinking trying, somewhere. i think i want to be seen by someone as what i really am, before lost in these lines i lose sight of it.
  8. 1 point
    if you’re me you know how to milk praise easily you know that love comes in two paths easy and hard easy praise is the kind with no risk pretty; nice boots; mature and professional you’ll do well for the rest of high school i look so destined for a job in actuarial sciences or information technology (sounds like misery in good payment, although before i knew myself it appealed to me) i know how to find safety in 98.3% instruction-following certainty excellence was a command not a decision for panic attacks, tears and boredom i receive good grades (they’re not the same thing when i disagree) but even when i try to make them into solid glowing matter they are still forwarded to the inbox of a phantom representing who someone else wishes i could be the phantom is now dead except on the outside with the encouragement it grows the truth fades for a moment and then comes back in fury but there’s another kind of praise that comes with rejection but also being seen the hard compliments make my heart skip a beat the world dissolves into vibrations they’re not dependable or perfect but they feel, for now like matter belonging to me.
  9. 1 point
    the floor doesn’t vanish; i can still feel it below me it just feels like i’m not pulled down to it anymore like i can’t reclaim my gravity i become a blank sheet of paper buzzing static silence i don’t trust the brain i once called my homeland it’s vanished, too, in the pounding seemingly (in retrospect, it fasincates me how one part can be looking in on the world, the other on its outside looking in, but in the moment i can sense that division and it scares me) manic but not happy the vague opposite of happy my brain has switched frequency spinning too quickly running too fast tapping doing without thinking so it doesn’t mean anything heart punches the beggining of my neck dragging me away from myself into a montrous stranger scribbles with no order insanity i am floating for one awful moment i don’t know how to restore my gravity
  10. 1 point
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