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Show & Tell
$LAYYYTER
The Stonewall Inn
titsay
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KIROKAZE
we're not kids anymore.
NASA
todays bird
★
❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
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will byers stan first human second
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
d e v o n
@theartofmadeline
Keni
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@alicebedelia
i am not religious but i have sinned against the universe the divine omniscience of CCTV the divine omnipotence of my own shame
i have this fantasy where my past is erased like the fall crisp & fresh & loveable a new and familiar debt
the only rub i know is the glancing absolution of your hands the split second nobody is watching before red light flickers in the periphery.
they auctioned the gun
with which van gogh killed himself in that field, or that barn - the story is yours already. one hundred and forty thousand. for the pleasure of having a cold gun.
sometimes i feel like that sticky child clutching your shirt sleeve stumbling down corridors made for someone bigger. there’s a stain on my jeans where i tripped over drunk. cigarette burns on my coat. there’s a chip in my tooth where i fell too hard.
you laughed; you held my hand the rest of the long walk home.
clouds of smoke and hope ache in the lungs of the kids hanging off other kids in the cul-de-sac
behind where your grandmother lived (died?).
there is a big gaping hole in my stomach that i like to call home it's torn-up and pussy and it will kill me, because i cannot kill it (because the antibiotics get stuck in my throat?)
while the paramedics were here we bedded up in the attic room eyeing eachother over ceramic
while the paramedics were here must’ve been less than twelve hours felt like it too nothing poetic about blood on linoleum, blood in the carpet & how it takes a while to clean. feel that? your heart steady through those nightmare years. some small miracle we are here. your steady boyfriend is grateful.
we are real people. touch my warm, rough skin and i’ll touch yours. play pretend we can feel eachother’s jackrabbiting hearts.
you say you have vertigo; our gravity spun out. but the universe looks on with mild consternation. my fingers on your cheek. your blood under my fingers.
i am all hard edges. you are far too soft with me -
no, don’t stop.
i want to relax in your arms; so badly it wraps around my chest, cuts off my airway, choking around a half-baked admission, a doorstep confession.
we are real people; hold your nerve.
i am beginning to unravel the way my eyes cloud over when you speak to me with That Tone stony-faced & shameless - there, i thought it was subtle. how i curl up on myself like a cellophane fish. an abused child caricature. old ugly hound snarling in the corner i trained myself out of flinching: there is nothing i cannot endure. (uncanny & untrue) would you be proud of me? if i stared down death and laughed? would you be proud of me? or would you pity your lack of daughter first?
who am i when you're not watching? do i want to be beautiful for you? i wish i knew. would i prefer to be straightforwardly tragic? the pretty cherub, drawn up in generic strong arms? i think so. they say it's better to cry in a penthouse. i think it's better to cry in a shallow lover's arms than none at all. so whilst i am young, i have this. you must understand.
#5
We have a routine now, of sorts. Usually, my hand is in his hair and I whisper to him that he is an approximation of the divine, that he deserves not just love but devotion, but worship, but adoration. He is the best thing ever created, because he was created, not accidentally made: with his mousy hair and awkward gait, mismatched socks and baggy, overpriced jumper. He is the originating point for societies, because he has read Sartre, and I have pretended. He speaks brashly, and I cover it up. He mocks me for reducing my opinions for others. He never smiles unless he means it, and I smile for the both of us. We fall into position most weekday nights. He goes so easily to his knees, but he doesn’t much apologise, and I don’t expect it. Why should he apologise for needing help? Why should he apologise for wanting more care? It is not greedy to want to be adored, I think. His forehead slips to my thigh and I wait a beat before fingers curl into lightly matted locks. My sigh is as gentle as his movements are not, fingers tensing and untensing, stay. He is a heavy-gauge woollen blanket on my senses, dulling my life to revolutions around his.
#4
This time it will be good. This time she will be enough and she will. Get the text in the morning. And in six weeks she’ll meet his mother, and. They’ll talk regularly on the phone. And she’ll go home in his shirt, his sweats, not her dress. Not carrying her heels and stopping, to vomit. No hand in the hair. Sick on my dress. This time it will be good. This time it will be good. This time the hug will be comfort, won’t leave that twisted burn-scar over her bruised hipbone. This time she’ll be small enough to fit in your arms, to fit into your wardrobe like she was always there. She will stay without coaxing, she will be languid and unselfconcious and good, like the women in the paintings. This time she’ll be precious.This time she’ll be sober and you’ll be. Sobering? This time you’ll wait for me to be ready, and you might even stop when I ask. This time it will be good.
This time it will be good. This time it will be more than a dare. A dare with no audience, still, whispered under the duvet but. This time. It will be something real. This time she will wrap me up in that old blanket and stay. This time she will not take the shot glass from my lips before she kisses me. This time it will be good.
This time it will be good. This time she will be clever enough and slim enough and pretty enough and she will say actually, sweetheart, I’ve been thinking about it and I hope that you know that I love you. And she will wrap her arms around me and. I will cry on her pressed blouse and. It will be good.
#3
when push comes to shove, when
the axe falls and someone was under it.
the tattered red flag of your past.
i know that sound.
#2
Absolutely, I needed to be angry. It is not selfish to be angry, although it does not help your friends. It just is. I felt that if I wasn’t angry, I didn’t value myself enough. But it wasn’t any singular person. Years and years of the convicted, personal belief in my own nothingness accumulated a veritable roster of mistreatment, usually by people many times my age. This is criminally simple in adult retrospect.
The issue is, though, at some point, you have to learn to live. You cannot live in the past. Because there is no answer to the inevitable conundrum of, why haven’t I killed myself? I could have done, this is true, and I have said many times that maybe it would have been justified, understandable. There is no real romantic reason I didn’t. I am too old to attribute it to fellow teenagers, who don’t deserve that burden. I am equally too old to attribute it to one artist. But art helps.
In the depths of uni depression, mask still plastered on my face, I started taking trips all alone. I told nobody. I went to the museum, and it was our secret. Shared between me, the barista, the ticket-checker. It was our secret. Years ago, a woman told me her sister’s baby had just been born while I handed her yum-yums. I think I get it now.
#1
it is difficult to pick up guts from carpet. partly because nobody understands how the guts could have gotten on the carpet. especially because they are your guts and you are picking them up.