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mouse

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mouse last won the day on December 7 2017

mouse had the most liked content!

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About mouse

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    Imago
  1. mare crisium (tw s h)

    this is so helpful!! thank you so much, definitely editing with these points. x
  2. that time he called me his bear

    omg you're so so sweet, thank you for this!!!!! love u x
  3. mare crisium (tw s h)

    thank you so much!!! and i agree, it's a bit much; the italics are just bc it's a michelangelo quote with the pronouns changes, so i wanted it to kind of signal the quote... but ye you right.
  4. Hell Has Occurred But Whatever

    "Hell Has Occurred But Whatever" big mood if you used evernote, get premium for a minute to recover them... otherwise... dude... i am soooooooooooo sorry. i know that sinking pit. try to not think about it :((((((( also, once i get something that i like, i've started copying them into a nice notebook and/or printing them, just so i have multiple points of access.... again, my condolences, this sucks :/
  5. Report From the Outer Layer

    i love this.... i love the title... i love hte confusion that comes through, the image warps in the readers mind, much like gender... yeah.
  6. mare crisium (tw s h)

    she asks if i want to hurt myself that i can tell her anything so i shake my head. because i’m not hurting my self or my body, i’m just a modern michelangelo. removing every part of me that isn’t. i just saw the angel in the marble and carved until i set us free. critiques welcome! i have another drafts that has "part of me that isn't / me" but i like this much better, if it makes sense? pls critique, i'm trying to get better and publish my crap someday lmao as if hashtag instagram poetry idk what 2 say thanks 4 reading i only have ghostly scars by now but im feeling like a ghost so be safe, kiddos
  7. General housekeeping by Slammers

    tags show up on forum home pages for me? and YES. TW are important.
  8. pen names!

    yall! so! when/if ya straight up publish work, what do you use, your real name or a pen name? so i've been published in cicada under like three names. smh @ me. I've used a stage name (mouse, as i am here). one time an anthology rejected my pen name, used my real name, but misspelled my last name. but i think i have finally settled on "jo rather." thought?? idk man. jo referencing jo march and also joe willard, two writing fictional cuties. rather, my mom actually thought of after seeing the poster i made of levi the poet's lyrics: "i'd rather have you than all of my answers." so anyway, yeah, i'm just curious. if you use a pen name, how did you choose? why?
  9. Hows the Weather?

    idek what to say. like yesterday? 20 fucking degrees. today? 60. dude i dont know what tf is happening. welcome to kansas.
  10. ok so the following is a compilation of 2 am text messages between me and this guy. i'm leaving my words normal, his in italics. it's very prosey??? i didn't write very poetically? idk, i'm not sharing this bc i think it's successful, but i think it's a TINY bit cute, and i'm writing a chapbook about peter SOOO) upon seeing jesus on the shore, peter leapt into the sea. maybe he hoped the water would carry his feet. i think, he needed a moment to breathe. or not. float. swim alone, with every fish given to him by the one who forgave his fear. who would soon ask if he loved Him thrice. underwater none of his tears would matter. for just a moment, he turned his world all dark blue. I got lost in that shade. The one between cerulean and sadness. And Jesus could see me shimmying out the curve of my doubt between the swallow of my skin below the tide, and my bouncing eyes from side to side. One piece wish he’d let me walk, another wished I could sink to the wailing wash. To crush myself to the light and let the rest rise with the sun. three breathes, a heartbeat, lungs raspy as the sand clinging static to that alive man’s feet. he trudged up, slowly, arms full, fish 153. jesus laughed. broke bread. ocean eyed and messy hair, curling into a tiny midnight ocean. held his palms up to the sky and dropped crumbs through the holes, shooting stars tight against the sun. “nice party trick, eh?” jesus asked, nudging his dripping body. all water soaked. heart all yeshua soaked. too big for peter’s tight tomb of a chest. a sea sponge too precious to squeeze. “my son, do you love me?” he asked, “the kind of love with its mouth and arms open agape.” (the son of god demonstrated arms open wide) peter, a rock in his own hand, against his own skull, and the gaping hole in his own chest, a joke of empty hands, “you,” he whispered,
  11. that time he called me his bear

    this might be really dumb but what is tMG? educate me ^.^ and THANK YOU. x thank you so much!! x
  12. i had to do a poetry reading last night, for my capstone. a girl cried. people laughed. an editor asked to publish work. so much love for all these people who have welcomed and helped me these past two years. i’ll miss them so. 

    1. queenie_flower

      queenie_flower

      I'm so happy for you!

  13. that time he called me his bear

    that wednesday afternoon he took my heart into his palms: flick of a wrist breaking it into two, a fortune cookie snap. he extracts the futures from the blood stained caves of my insides, he reads all that fear written into all that paper. tucks back my hair. brushes his knuckles over my own. i strike his cheeks with all of the ways my eyes can’t land on his own; every fruit tree withers without its butterfly. “bear, you aren’t used to this. you aren’t used to all this love, little moth,” he smiles. he wraps his arms around me and my stowed away moth wings. this is the last time i see him; he is unraveling his arms from my body. he is walking away. he hardly waits to wipe his hands free of the crumbs, newly sweetened, for all the birds to peck up swallow. i pick peaches off the ground now. misplaced the fortunes in some suitcase heart of hope-sent boy. only gray bubble text message like cloud on a white snow sky: “we’ll stay together, tomorrow. i promise.” peaches bruise on the soil from which they grew. tomorrow never arrives. live the cliche: it’s always today. spit the peach pits. lick your lips. pat them into hard december soil gray. do not wash your knees. grow all these trees. put every broken bone of your body back into the bag of your skin. in the evening, lit by man-lit gaslight pray it’ll fit together. pray all the fear away. but first, plant the trees. always plant the trees with both knees knelt, dirty.
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