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Showing most liked content since 09/18/18 in Posts

  1. 2 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.
  2. 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.))
  3. 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.