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hayfevered

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hayfevered last won the day on July 19

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About hayfevered

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  1. ode to lancaster county

    lancaster county, familial birthplace, your thunderstorms lend me the peace of mind to continue. when i was younger, and wishing to be undone, i blamed myself for not loving god enough. i said i was rotten, and didnt know why. my eyes only knew how to glare because i was scared of smiling, or of not deserving to, or of letting go of that hurt, or of losing my identity if i did. im still scared of dying. that didnt change. and one day, after letting myself stop pretending to be godly, after letting myself love being rotten, just a little, you became a monument to learning the word hate. where would i be without your shame and your conditional love? i had no idea what passive aggression meant until you had a reason to teach me. you remind me how to glare, and how to be undeserving, and thats a kind of rotten too. you carry churches on your back like god is my fault, and sometimes i believe you. it is as if you have come from the past and youre upset the world is leaving you behind, and thats my fault too. you are not a kind county, a home, or gentle despite the rolling fields, neither a place for outsiders nor one to give up a warm body without a fight. you are as lonely as a postapocalyptic movie's deserts, and your cities beg to be left empty and standing and dirty just so theyd fit so perfectly at the end of the world. these cities are paved with bricks and paint and god. you arrive bearing washed out, low-contrast hues of green and undersaturated brown and every photo ive taken looks overexposed. i have marveled at your night sounds, at the tar lines clacking under the tires on the highway, and yet youve never been beautiful. the closest thing to beautiful is the full moon, orange with pollution, rising over the lakes dug out of the prairie and filled then with rocks and fish and water. youre the stadium that becomes a city every weekend, youre lincoln, or youre the storms in the night that put hail the size of my fist through the windows. you are a 754-block coping exercise. just as i let myself love being a christian's rotten shame, just a little, you are as oppressively godly as a rural town with 192 churches on a sunday. you are not made of tomorrows, or of opportunity, but you are definitely just green enough to think so. how frightening you are too, where i am scared of being gay but losing myself in the closet, and afraid of that too. oh, old cheney road, you are the apothecary's witness and a false sense of safety. it could only be the echinaceae, but laying in the ditch on the side of the road is halfway beautiful. without you i would have grown up more slowly, and learned to love myself a little quicker. with you i am nothing but homesick. this is why, lancaster county, you are made of towns of empty architecture and lonely streets, where only the animals and the crooked trees are content this is why you refuse to progress, why you cling to old, tired bigotry hastily rebranded as belief like an beloved, frayed blanket clutched protectively in a fussy toddler's hands. i have praised many things, but for me you are more unloveable than you told me i was. to my eyes, you are a thing waiting to die.
  2. yo hey i forgot about cicada oops but anyways im in nebraska until August >:[ look @ this art i did on my new comp tho hfjfjsksk radish is lookin SNAZZY

    IMG_20180704_130507_558.jpg

  3. Weekly Poll: What's your dream travel destination?

    ...this poll feels targeted hrhfjdjsk
  4. u ever feel like u Should Not vent because it doesnt help anything nd it just gets people worried when itd be better to just Chill Out and bury everythign in the front yard while rbing everything u can find from positivity blogs bc thats the Current Mood, babes

    1. thepensword

      thepensword

      hello i make my unhappiness everyone else's business and in venting i make it not be In My Brain anymore so venting is in fact helpful and you should go ahead and do it and not feel like a burden because You Are Not and I Love You

  5. Here's your chance to become a non player character

    @Fullmetal Sorcerer can i self insert into this campaign. i want to run the antique shop hi im logan i eat eggs with soy sauce/hot sauce/butter on them all at once and i dotn fucking wear shoes. im a fucking dumbass elf of undisclosed class and my wardrobe is exclusively comprised of short shorts, thigh highs, and shirts with english text poorly translated from Fantasy Japan or something (a favorite: neon pink with yellow lettering that says "seven days away. i think i Thought i heard you say"). i know which plants are what and i WILL make this known. u bet ur ass i have the full latin genus and specific epithet READY TO GO. oh u think u know things about the native flora? do u? move im gay and i can whip out plant lore as well. plant history. ethnobotany, bitch. ill munch a raw stalk of rhubarb in front of you to assert dominance. dont try me ill whack you with the antique youre trying to steal. speaking of antiques theres a section in the store thats specifically for street signs. there are a lot of them. somehow Elm St. is on at least 8 different street signs in the stacks. yes you may look at the swords here but none of them are for sale. theyre fucking mine. ill sell you matches from Fantasy WWII and a glock if you want it but yaint touching my swords. also theres a sign outside my shop that says "no pants or heterosexuals allowed". capri pants are ok but youre on thin fucking ice
  6. giving myself up

    GUYS. GUYS THERE ARE TEARS IN MY EYES I DIDNT SEE THIS UNTIL NOW AND IM CRYING I LOVE YALL AND IM JUST. IM THINKING ABOUT DUETING THE OTHER DAY AND I FUCKING. I LOVE U GUYS SO MUCH LIKE I JUST. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
  7. tripping rough into wet sand

    i. huginn. muninn. from their throats comes a draconic hungry purr, clicking as if the noise catches and sticks before clattering to the ground like a car that doesn't want to start they spiral. you spiral. these aren't so different here though yours is a metaphorical thing less of feathers and updrafts and more like pencil sharpeners and pocketknives you are running low on peroxide. ii. memory. thought. you apologize to your past self your future self: for not being kind or good or happy or the type of person you needed when you were younger steak knife. pocketknife. these things, these blades, are the kind that flash in the sun and show you the meaning of the phrase 'eyes are the windows to the soul'. you suck the rambutan stone and you are, by default, at peace. iii. golden film reel. more sepia, really. colder. emptier the color of yesteryear's forecast when you picked up the habit of holding your sleeves by the hem when they might slip two nights. 977 nights. these things are different only by their edges by their endings and by their titles your past self is angry and ashamed and your present self is sick to disappoint him you are your own ticking. iv. you break patterns. they lend themselves to you, laid out and easy like a spread of block print like sandcastles you step square and firm right in the middle to feel the crumble or the hard, fast way completeness can end and then all you have is a sandcastle with a footprint in it. there are things that cannot be hidden. this block print brandishes old scars and tall socks. v. longevity is the mistress of anxiety. vi. when the sun sets, you dig through the sky searching for diamonds but you find pea gravel flung far past the string of buoys that tell you you've gone too far and to turn back lest your lungs burn up in a flare of oxygen the rope holds the buoys down like scars hold down your skin. you are something gossamer. vii. last night you stood freezing outside at two AM with your head back and eyes flung wide to embrace the stars in your irises. flashlight in one hand, pocketknife in the other the shadows cast threaded a coil of fear in your gut and your knuckles stretched white. you are made of this, of tendons and veins and smallness under the sky, the kind of smallness that fills your chest with helium and lead viii. you look hard for good endings but always stumble into begging for forgiveness instead
  8. i had a poem in my head

    past present future odin's ravens memory and thought clean who am i to say staring out a window slicing into rambutan slingshot and two nights (blade) forgive me please
  9. Weekly Poll: Are you thinkin' what I'm thinkin'?

    @Apollo's Lover@Short_comedian@thepensword@queenie_flower@conradbirdie oh you know
  10. the heart function dont work on old posts but im saving this
  11. im so fucking close to winning two whole ass months yal

  12. greek iris

    here, in these heavy, yellow-bellied clouds swelled with the storm, pleased by the weight unraveled & mouthy comes thunder where spindle-weak fences pin down the hills & the hills let them, & the winds scream praises, & the barbed wires rename themselves please small suns dot the gaps between lightning fingers & the sky sobs yellow-green, like the stomach of a frog here, under these dripping prayers, sweetgrass laid limp over itself and dew-shining, i ride my bike to the end of the sidewalk & that, where the rain peels itself up from the concrete humid for the sunlight, greek iris in prosper & that, where i stop propped on one foot that is what love tastes like
  13. a galaxy rings your throat

  14. oh lore?

    "Bitch," was the first thing out of Rad's mouth as their focus shrank into their palm. "Ain't you familiar with common courtesy at ALL? If you's'a been slurped into my dimension, y'ain't've lasted five seconds." To fucking hell with it, they figured, and twirling their tiny focus around clawed fingers was admittedly a little easier while they undid Mop's glamour halfway to a gaudy walking stick size, bronze suddenly dripping off it in cascades of what appeared to be beads. Oh, perfect. The drama deity had a shiny-ass parasol to go with their flair for theatrics. "An' that's how it's done," they all but sneered, tapping their glamoured staff onto the ground with finality, spinning it by the handle to accentuate the bullshit aesthetics they'd worked into it. And because this was, of course, some kind of pissing contest, Radish spent more magic on upping their physical glamour; while they apparently refused to vanish their horns, the red desaturated from them while they molded their appearance to something more human. "Bitch" was repeated at Mop with a much more self-satisfied air of confidence. @thepensword@conradbirdie@queenie_flower (im crying i need to draw radish theyre so extra)
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