#if I call it poetry then it’s poetry

[lotrmusical]

never let anyone tell you that trawling through mediocre victorian poetry isn't worth it. we just happened upon an absolute BANGER of a worm poem. go read it or else 🪱🪱🪱

[llovely]

here's a fake interview about my me & my girlfriend that i transcribed from my head. enjoy!

[composeregg]

edit (10/23/2024) now that the poll is over: Original version, with 10 questions, from April 2023 here

And, given that the original is from April 2023, that means I can very easily say:

No, this was not an ISAT reference!

Just because I use parentheses and 2nd person pov and love the same concepts of what a time loop can do to a person doesn't mean it's ISAT

(Yes, I like ISAT, the original poll is why I was recommended the game! But if you look at the original, you can see all the origins of the options to choose from, including what spurred me on with the moss option from the replies)

If I were going to make something for ISAT, I would never be so vague, you can simply look at my ao3 for proof of that

[softinvasions]

Eurydice to Orpheus • Nov. 2023

eurydice’s silence is resounding. you can put anything in that emptiness. —@finelythreadedsky

[losermothman]

In the Early Hours of the Morning

TW: depiction of depression + minor disordered eating

I shut off my phone and lay it upon my chest. I look up to the ceiling. It’s dark. The glow-in-the-dark stars sneer down at me from the space they litter above my bed. Mocking me. A reminder of a time of vulnerability, a reminder of desperation. The fruitless search of solace in the childish things that eluded me during my actual childhood. It’s stupid. It’s pathetic. It’s embarrassing.

My mind wanders freely without my phone to distract it. In the late hours of the night, when the only source of light are the street lights peeking through my torn curtains or the odd car making its way down the street, I often find myself drifting in and out of presence. Thoughts cloud themselves between the creases of my brain, clearer and sharper than the worn sheets beneath my bare feet or the dinosaur plush staring forlornly at me from the other side of the bed. I can feel the pressure behind my eyes; they’re pleading with me to close them and to rest. I can’t muster up enough will to care.

I lay there, staring at the chipping paint, unblinking and lost. I fumble through my thoughts as if they weren’t coated in mud, as if I wasn’t walking through torrential rain to try and find a patch of dryness, as if I wasn’t in the middle of a field with no shelter in sight and as if the entire area hadn’t already been flooded. Water pours down my face in buckets, my soaked clothes stick to my chilled skin, my fingers prune, and I don’t even notice.

It isn’t until I hear someone make their way to the bathroom, with their heavy footsteps padding their way across cool, tile floor and the buzzing of the fan being turned on do I return from the storm. Yellow light seeps under my door. The clouds in my mind don’t part, but I do notice the cold seeping its way into my bones from the rain and at least that’s progress.

My eyes roam lazily around the room. The edge of a poster is peeling from the wall. I think of going to fix it, but it stays in my thoughts.

The person leaves the washroom, but the fan continues it’s buzzing and the yellow light continues to shine through the cracks on my door. I hate the fan. And the bathroom light.

I try to ignore them both. Perhaps make my way back into the floating state I was before, or maybe finally fall asleep, but my mind keeps dragging itself back to the fact that I can hear the fan from the bathroom and that if I don’t turn off the light now, it’ll stay on all night and when I wake up in the morning, I’m going to have to turn it off. I hate when lights are on during the day. So I instead stuff my phone in my pyjama pocket, make my way to the edge of the bed. I stand on aching, creaking bones. I stretch, arms reaching above my head and muscles tensing. My shoulder pops. Fuzziness fills my ears, my vision fades to spotting and all my awareness is solely centred on myself. If someone were to try talking to me, I’d be unable to respond. But then it’s gone again and I feel fine. Low iron probably.

I make my way to the bathroom, take a quick piss, turn off the lights and fan and close the door, and then head to the kitchen for a snack. I can feel the hollowness of my stomach. I open the fridge only for emptiness to stare back at me. I don’t remember the last time I’ve eaten. Must’ve been sometime today. Or yesterday? Maybe that was why everything went fuzzy when I stretched. Maybe I don’t have low iron. Maybe I’m just hungry. Or maybe I’m grasping on straws.

There are flour tortillas wraps on the second shelf, but when I look for eggs, there are none to be found. There’s a platter of lasagna I’ve been munching on for the past few days, but thinking of eating anymore of it makes my stomach twist unpleasantly. I stare at the tinfoil container it’s wrapped in, gag, and then tear off a chunk from a block of cheese in the bottom drawer as a substitute. One bite, two bites. It’s disgusting. It’s horrible. I throw it in the sink. I’m not hungry anymore.

I stare at the tile below my feet. There’s a couch not anymore than three feet from where I stand, but I don’t sit. My brain starts to cloud again. I don’t try to stop it. I think about going to bed, trying to rest, that I have to be up at nine tomorrow. I don’t move an inch.

[metamorphesque]

Colorless Musings, Tathev Simonyan

[septiccoffeefreak]

"Are you a man or a woman?"

Am I flesh or bone? Do I peel the meat from my body or carve my skeleton out of myself? Which halves of myself do I keep, after the operation is done?

You come to me asking me this, asking me if I'm one or the other. Am I a man or a woman.

Fuck off.

[kyufeed]

(s)he fine (s)he mine i gotta praise the lord

[screaming-sparrow]

logan + how to be a dog by andrew kane

[myfakeplasticlove13]

This has no theme I guess

or maybe it does

But it’s just that’s it’s november now and it’s cold and lonely without you and time doesn’t move like it’s supposed to and I don’t know what to do

[orpheuslament]

Paris, August 2024, Dante Émile

[smiff-spike]

Poem for, Smiff-Spike Danger

[m1nsur0]

[JTTW OC: 智平] “分桃” The Shared Peach

Originally an act of courtship, Wukong would always share a peach with the Violet Dragon, taking a single bite to ensure it was of high enough standard for him. No matter how many years pass, most mornings spent together begin with the Monkey King passing a peach with a bite taken out of it to his lover.

[thatweirdguyinthebushes]

Genesis, Valzhyna Mort | Better Call Saul

[comedicjustice]

Oh red.. If TSC still knelt down for you, would that make you feel better about what happened? Would you shine from that? Or would you frolic without a care, laughing as you spark the inferno's flame, and remain unaware of its tightening hold on you?

I’m normal about them. I’m normal about all my stick figures- really!

[literally-irreverent]

"There are only seven types of stories" -Nick Miller (New Girl)

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