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we found basketfuls of apples ripped apart and left agape like open wounds

brown

and i knew no one else would want to sleep with me if i too were mealy and brown

still at times two fingers find themselves knuckles deep in a sea of seeds

with monstrous nails too long that scrape and sample

take with them a piece of lining and leave nothing but slime

i smell of metal and i rust

he laps it up

he thinks i’m tasty

later we knocked on the bark and the apple tree was hollow and the sound was beautiful and the tree fell

from it the warmth of a womb

enough rotten wood to build a replica of my carcass

at this i saw a friend her face a grimace disgusted

but in this orchard a smell like a land never visited

clouds always hover in a mess of strings

and i find comfort in the squeaks of field mice and being left alone

in every blade of grass between my toes i sense a sweet rumble

i think i must smell like sap

he goes for it

he will never drink again

— he who harvests (ymk, 2024).

[immakulates]

matthias stom, “the incredulity of st. thomas” (1649) // caravaggio, “the incredulity of saint thomas” (1603) // jenny holzer, “someone wants to cut a hole in you” (1981)  

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you and i we don’t know how to run the rocks in shoes sand in sandwiches type easier said than done than felt than touched type the will you be patient with me while i figure out why i don’t love you type but if i look for myself behind the curtains of your apartment i might just find it type you and i we tend to look away from the sea scared of the deep nervous to dive afraid to drown but we sure do like the beach you and i we only ever tell the truth to our mirrors only when perfectly reflected do our fingers dare point to our hearts you and i are so soft. no jagged edges and if i think to ask myself from your touch what is left a hole a sunburn shaped hole in the middle of my chest

— will you kiss me again / ymk (2023).

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this is a trap

i've asked my friends—i don't think my heart is supposed to slow there are eyes like lanterns in your walls that watch over me wash over me in thousands of currents and for more than a night's worth suddenly i can do without the sun. this, i know.

this is a trap and my leg is stuck between your teeth and i thank you there's a buzz like dying bees in the middle of your bed that rocks me washes over me in tens of thousands of currents so for a couple of days at least i won't for a second feel the need for slumber and this, most certainly, i know.

this is a trap and i’m bleeding out and i’ve been told to let go and yet still i stand by there it is that smell of rot coming from the inside of your chest like a fish left out in the sun that charms me washes over me in hundreds of thousands of currents and for much of the time to come i’ll be entirely forgetting to eat this, beyond all reasonable doubt, i do know.

i'm just not so sure my heart is supposed to stop

— wave machine / ymk (2023).

[immakulates]

Leila Chatti, Night Lament in Hergla 

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do you think you’ll be home by sundown?

there’s a crackle in the fire that sounds like our laugh from a long time ago and tonight i wish i could hear them both. you’ll watch me wash the dishes from your rocking chair and the creaking of its soft wood as you swing back and forth will hold me and so i’ll take my time letting this old apron fall to the floor. it’s been ruined by moths in the time i’ve been waiting to hear you walk in but you like it this way and you don’t promise to buy me a new one. still i pray you’ll be home before the moon. there’s a sweet piece of lamb awaiting and some drops of sauce laced with blood by the backdoor that i won’t clean and only hope you won’t notice. i try to be tender but it’s not in my nature it’s not in yours either and i recognize it in all the tiniest of sounds this weight that you carry even when you give me every ounce of soil and sun and wind you’ve got. you are home long after the dark settles in the place where the taut skin of my neck meets the thinnest of my hairs and you try to be quiet but anyone’s who ever built a house will tell you. most walls have a way with words and two sets of soles on hardwood floors don’t ever really sound the same.

— a slaughterhouse is not a home / ymk (2023).

[immakulates]

Two Women Embracing by Egon Schiele // “Silver Springs” by Fleetwood Mac

requested by anonymous

(available to buy here and here)

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— Robin Coste Lewis, from To the Realization of Perfect Helplessness

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the word beloved is like top 5 words in the english language

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Aase Berg, Transfer Fat, trans. Johannes Göransson

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Phantom Thread (2017) script, written by Paul Thomas Anderson / Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being

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I feel certain I am going mad again.

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"i realize now that accepting that some things are unforgettable and will never stop floating in the great space above my life helps me get over them more than trying to quickly erase them from my memory.

i hope, and i have a feeling, that i will soon find a place alongside someone else and that it will give me the impression of it having been made for me. for too long now i have lived in discomfort."

— translated journal entry from feb 27 2022.

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“I am a stranger learning to worship the strangers around me whoever you are whoever I may become.”

— These Poems, June Jordan

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“God is indeed a jealous God — He cannot bear to see That we had rather not with Him But with each other play.”

— Emily Dickinson, “God is indeed a jealous God (1719)”

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like the knife clings to the wound

Speeches for Doctor Frankenstein, Margaret Atwood | Unknown | Essay on What Is & Isn't, Cameron Awkward-Rich

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i have only become intentionally t4t in the past year or so but as i reflect on my past relationships i realize that even before accepting the trans identity as being one of my own, i have in fact only ever dated other trans people, and i can’t help but marvel at the magnet in my chest that tugs and tugs and tugs at my heartstrings with so much more fortitude when i cross paths with those i just know will understand.