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love comes quietly by Robert Creeley

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desperately need both of these snoopy mugs

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Lev St. Valentine

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But I know that's not true. That's just fantasy. Kid's stuff.

I SAW THE TV GLOW (2024) dir. Jane Schoenbrun

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queer people of all kinds. i am looking you in the eyes. do not fucking kill yourself. are you listening to me it will be okay. it will get better. i am shaking you by the shoulders do. not. fucking. do. it. you have so much to keep going for and so many people who love you. the cost of the present will not outweigh the life ahead of you. i love you. chin up or down keep walking you'll get there. we will pull you back up onto your feet should you fall. i love you

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"It doesn't have to be like this. We could have it so much better"

Calligraffiti in Chicago, Illinois

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no matter how the election turns out, our path forward is the same. engage in your local community, not just through voting but through all kinds of grass-roots activism. learn about indigenous groups near you, their needs, how you can help them. support local black activist groups. form an affinity group. start a community fridge. get to know your neighbors, the ones who are sketchy and dirty and speak weird and are hard to get along with. the way out will always be through community. no supreme victory or crushing defeat; we must choose over and over again, forever, to live through the good and the bad together, as one.

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WHATEVER WE NAME, WE EXCEED

Or in the naming, lose our power. I called you house and light and pushed you forth—

with each new month you show me I was wrong: here, you’ve made a house with bones of cloud. Look now, your darkness is so bright. Of course,

you’re right— I call this love. It burns to ash, and—never bird—returns to flame.

When the border fell and armies came, they cut not only arms but tongues. They opened every house and muted ears, and when the family

landed on these once again rebranded shores they found the rocks weren’t rocks, the bread not bread, the letters broken, hammer-scattered, the sky a thing that hung too low upon their heads.

Perhaps that’s how I know it, in this language their own children would refuse— dziecko, kochanek, matka, dzień—

these things I try to name each day were never mine to lose. MARY KOVALESKI BYRNES

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and i’m sitting in dark rooms lit by neon lights waiting for some angel to take me away from my body and bless me with a home. i’m here and heartbroken and tired and saying my name to empty spaces to remind myself of what it sounds like when someone says it. i am painting colors behind my eyelids, imagining scenarios in the interims, trying to fabricate my own existence because i can’t conceptualize myself enough. i’m drawing the curtains and closing the blinds and forgetting what sunlight looks like until it’s too late, until it’s blinding, until even dawn looks like dusk and dusk looks like darkness and i’m only fed off led light. i miss myself or i miss the idea of it, the faint memory of ownership, the necessity of agency that i don’t have. i’m writing eulogies and practicing speeches and standing over my own grave with a thought in mind. do you ever wonder how you’ll be remembered? ever wish you could just know? i pin myself under the covers and swallow pills to soothe the fissures and when i dream i think of death. i forget the color of my own eyes or the waistline of someone else’s body and when i walk i walk with severed limbs. i’m a stitched together monster or a cruelty of a creator or just some dying animal moaning against the breath of life. i only know where i belong in bedrooms i only see myself on my knees i choose the neon light and nothing else but the angels are gone and god is dead and no one is building me a home, so if i sing the chorus or hum the hymns and start praying or wishing or wanting then just leave me be. this is the only way i know to survive

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And here’s what makes complex PTSD uniquely miserable in the world of trauma diagnoses: it occurs when someone is exposed to a traumatic event over and over and over again — hundreds, even thousands of times — over the course of years. When you are traumatised that many times, the number of conscious and subconscious triggers bloats, becomes infinite and inexplicable. If you are beaten for hundreds of mistakes, then every mistake becomes dangerous. If dozens of people let you down, all people become untrustworthy. The world itself becomes a threat.

Stephanie Foo, What My Bones Know: A Memoir of Healing from Complex Trauma

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The Living End (1992) dir. Gregg Araki

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to the roofers nailing shingles by silas denver melvin, published by the poetry society of new hampshire in vol 66 of touchstone

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I do not know the name of the feeling that I have for you. But it is a special tenderness, something I have never felt until now, not for anyone.

Gustave Flaubert, in a letter to George Sand dated 12 November 1866; from “Selected Letters”

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Smoking is literally good for you because it makes you go for multiple walks a day and get some fresh air

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As A Replacement For Relief, Kalea Miyoshi

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Omar Sakr, Non-Essential Work