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If you are to find someone else, you must find someone who cherishes you inside and out. Absolutely unconditionally. Completely and without a doubt. You must find someone who loves you not only on the outside, but from your very core. Not only for the shape or your body or the touch of your skin, but for the magnificent beauty that exists within you. You deserve to be treasured, for there is far more to you than what lies on the surface. -Dr. Nicole Addison

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we don’t have the heart to tell him, rachel hall // the infinite blacktop, sara gran // a ghost story, dir. david lowery (2017) // life after death, damien echols // untitled, valentin gallet // metaphor & memory, cynthia ozick // untitled, jim carroll.

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let me say it plain: i loved someone and i failed at it. let me say it

another way: i like to call myself wound but i will answer to knife

Underbelly by Nicole Homer

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No little German-descended non-boy, don’t go on Tumblr after having half a shot of whiskey!

*sobbing* oh mein Gott zis Websitten ist full of Sadposten

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Hi sorry not to be a Kristoph Gavin stan on main but like. Any other older siblings out there also get that GUT PUNCH from “you aren’t needed anymore”???? Like. No I’m supposed to be there for you!! I want to help you! I don’t want you to leave me!!!!! Ik Kristoph canonically gaslights his brother n shit but I’m SORRY being so summarily rejected by someone who you love and care for is a terrifying experience. I’m sad now and I always will be <3

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when your guardian angel quits 💧

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thoughts on love in december - E.C. - 2021

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Clarice Lispector ― The Hour of the Star

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"I USED TO DINE WITH THE GODS. UPON OLYMPUS. ABOVE THE HEAVENS. I STILL REMEMBER THE TASTE OF THEIR FEASTS ACROSS THE BACK OF MY THROAT. IT IS WHY THIS PUNISHMENT IS SO JUST. NOT EVEN A SHADOW OF THAT SATISFACTION MAY PASS THROUGH MY LIPS NOW. I USED TO DINE WITH THE GODS."

"Until you fed them your son. That's why you're here now, right?"

"IS THAT WHAT THEY TOLD YOU? PERHAPS I DID. PERHAPS I STOLE A PLATE OF AMBROSIA FROM THE KITCHENS. OR PERHAPS I ONLY QUESTIONED WHAT THE GODS WOULD DO TO US TOO LOUDLY. HISTORY IS WRITTEN BY THOSE WHO ARE LOUDEST. EVEN THIN AS THEY ARE NOW, THEIR VOICES SHOUT MY NAME ACROSS THE CENTURIES."

"So did you? Try and feed Pelops to Zeus? Cut him up and make him into a stew?"

"PERHAPS. WHY DOES IT MATTER?"

"I don't know. Because I want to know. Because I want to hear you more."

"PERHAPS I DID KILL MY SON. CUT HIM UP, AND FED HIM TO THE GODS. DEMETER TOOK A BITE YOU KNOW. MOURNING, SHE WAS, FOR HER DAUGHTER WHO DISCOVERED SHE ENJOYED THE POWER OF HAVING A HUSBAND WHO LOVES HER COLD IRON EMBRACE. BUT CAN YOU BLAME ME?"

"Of course I can blame you. You're a murderer. You killed your son just to prove a point."

"YES, LITTLE ONE, YES. I DID. BUT HOW MANY STORIES OF ZEUS DO YOU KNOW OF, WHERE HE COMES DOWN FROM HIS MOUNTAIN AND RAPES AND STEALS AND LIES? HOW MANY STORIES OF ARTEMIS' ARROWS AND HOUNDS HAVE YOU HEARD? SO, YES. PERHAPS I DID KILL MY SON AND FEED HIM TO THE GODS. BUT CAN YOU BLAME ME? AT LEAST I DID IT FOR A REASON. THE GODS SLAY THOUSANDS IN THEIR SLEEP. THEY HAVE NEVER NEEDED JUSTIFICATION FOR THEIR CRIMES. THEY ARE GODS. AT LEAST THE DEATH OF MY SON HAD A POINT. SHARP ENOUGH TO CUT THEIR PRIDE, OH YES."

"The point? What point?"

"THAT THE ONLY DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A MORTAL AND A GOD IS OUR GRIEF. A GOD CAN FIX EVERY MISTAKE, WITH POWER OR WITH TIME. A MORTAL MUST SIMPLY GO ON AND REGRET IT. ODYSSEUS AND ACHILLES. THESEUS AND JASON. ALL OF THE GODS SOUGHT TO CLAIM THEM AS THEIR GET. ALL THEIR DIVINITY DID IS MAKE THEIR MORTAL BLOODS RUN HOTTER."

"You said the gods were gone, earlier. Are they really?"

"OH, CHILD. ALL THOSE SEDUCTIONS AND SAVAGERIES? THE WARS AND THE WIDOWS AND THE WIVES? WHERE DO YOU THINK THEY ARE? SPREAD SO THIN AMONGST ALL OF YOU. LIKE OLIVES, THRICE AGAIN PRESSED, NOTHING LEFT BUT BITTER, USELESS REMNANTS OF WHAT WAS ONCE THE BOUNTY OF OLYMPUS. GODHOOD RUNS THROUGH EVERY VEIN IN THE WORLD NOW. IT IS WHY I AM GLAD TO BE HERE."

"You are?"

"AT LEAST I KNOW THE SHAPE OF MY TORMENT. THE WEIGHT OF MY GRIEF. HOW LONG HAS IT BEEN SINCE YOU KNEW WHO YOU WERE? TOO MUCH GODHOOD NOW FOR YOU TO BE HAPPY. LIKE ALL THE WINE IN THE WORLD WATERED DOWN WITH EVERY DROP OF OCEAN. YOU ARE MADE OF THE CRUEL HISTORIES IN YOUR BLOOD. I AM SORRY. I AM SORRY. I AM SO, SO SORRY."

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ive probably said this exact thing before but i just think that like, cannibalism is such a potent metaphor for stuff that it’s frankly wasteful of you not to include it in your writing.

this isn’t a quentin tarantino foot situation. i’m not saying this bc cannibalism turns me on. the reason my characters talk non-stop about wanting to eat each other is bc all the rest of you are not using your state-allotted cannibalism metaphors and they are going to waste.

does your character love/idolize/worship someone? cannibalism as a means of embodying them.

does your character hate someone? cannibalism as a means of desecrating their corpse.

does your character wanna fuck someone, or own them? cannibalism as a means of claiming their body.

does your character have specifically christian religious trauma? cannibalism as a very literal eucharist.

cannibalism as a means of gaining someone’s power. cannibalism as a means of embracing your inhumanity. cannibalism as a gesture of acceptance. funerary cannibalism as a symbol of returning nature. industrialized cannibalism as a symbol of the devaluation of human life. survival cannibalism as the ultimate sacrifice (you get a free jesus metaphor with this one).

literally every story you write that doesn’t have cannibalism in it is a missed opportunity

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“last night, i ate both my hands. each digit a salty word whose meaning furred my teeth.”

franny choi, “soft science”

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“I feel your pain but I cannot hold your life in my hands.”

— “4.48 Psychosis” by Sarah Kane

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Joan Tierney

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NUCLEAR WINTER, FATED DEATH by @boysaints, published in Warning Lines

[transcript: I. Watch, first: from between the hands of / two bodies lying on a stripped bed in a dingy, airless apartment, / light spills as if from an open wound. / In the distance, a siren blares. On the street below, a woman / whispers breathlessly to her companion: something is coming / to save us. I don’t know what. But it’s almost here. / So the city settles down to wait. The seasons pass. In a decaying bed in a / decaying apartment on a decaying street, / the lovers’ hair falls out in chunks. / Flies circle the ceiling fan. The lovers’ teeth rot in their open mouths. They’re / not dead, just sleeping, in a city of people who are / not dead, just sleeping, anticipating a messiah who will never come. / An hour or a year passes. The two get up and dance, and it’s just like they dreamed it: / slow, their sickly bodies pressed together as they sway. A waltz with / no music except the floorboards creaking underfoot. / But it doesn’t matter. The lovers might as well be corpses. The story / might as well have ended before it began. The lovers mean nothing. All they are is / endlessly resurrected for the purpose of our entertainment. / II. Suppose, for a moment, that in the huge dark empire made of money, / the sun never rose. That we spent years pressed desperately together because / all we had was our own feverish heat— / Suppose, for a moment, that I loved you. That this was / how we brought summer back to / life; the empire to its knees. / A film of sweat. The winding of a metronome. / Overripe fruit. Laughter. We were happy and that was / our one great act of political rebellion. / III. Stay sitting right there by the window, / where the light catches on your face— / Whatever you do, don’t move, don’t make a sound, don’t leave this room: / I’m going to save you even though that doesn’t mean anything. I’m going / to save you even though it’s too late and you are Lazarus half-risen, a decomposing, / corroded thing that doesn’t know it’s already dead. / The poet and the muse. The lyre and the love song. / The eulogy written in lieu of digging you a grave. Verse. / Chorus. Wend and repeat. Wend and repeat. / IV. I’m sorry I looked back. I’m sorry I threw it all away just because / I needed to make sure you were still behind me, still following / footstep after damned footstep, from the belly of this hell into the mouth of another. / I’m sorry there’s not enough oxygen in the story to breathe and I’m sorry that / as soon as it ends we are just brought back to the beginning. I’m sorry that / we have nothing left to carry. We have nothing left to will into existence. /end transcript]

taglist under the cut; ask to be added or removed (sorry if i forgot anyone i havent done this in a WHILE)

@exitwound @boyjuly @bakaree @eudaimmonia @exbi @xuanyuu @lovecorerichie @richardsiiken @franzkafkagf @sunrisegf @imaginaryboys @prettyfuckingfine @colourofinfinity @dragonfliies @shopkin @doublelutz @raavile @boyswifes @seadazes @camifrog @loveislikeawindowinyourheart @ohpombo @spirithold @poetslyre @irwa @venka @brightenthecorners @compilationofletters @myownprivateawakening @chopinns @grocerycores @pancakeboy @backpckt @weedexchange @fruitype @vnusplanetoflove @transcodes @like-butterflies-and-glitter @scintillatea @amaarjaan @yrsong @claryghost @dyketamine @dykepoetssociety @exbifriend @tieria-erde @ruckenfigurs @bardgender @jawbonemage @bicarusgf @feelingofhome @kugisakigf @ijaazat @literaturegf

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Joan Tierney

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just shapes. red shapes all over the grass.