[inkskinned]

there’s this little rumble brewing. we are all stepping around the same date, less than a week.

i have been getting texts. one of them reads is it okay if i don’t want to even fucking look at the results i just want to sleep through it all. i don’t know how to respond. i have this habit of wanting to cut my hair and then keeping it long. i like to snip split ends any time i have scissors in my hand. i’ve been walking around with sharp things a lot lately.  

i have been getting emails. on account of the fact we don’t know what the world looks like in a week, we will not be holding classes on wednesday. i want to ask my classmate - do you think she’s just planning on being hungover but it doesn’t even feel funny. i stare at it for a long time and then make an annotation to my calendar about due dates. the story i was going to turn is about being bisexual and young and having good friends.

i have been getting resume requests. jobs all come with mission statements and addendums. it feels silly to plan for something in 2021. that doesn’t even sound like a real year, my sister says. on my cover letter, i consider typing - there are many who would liken me to a cockroach.

i have been getting little worries. we are in the skype together, and he says - i love you all so much. i want to watch the world change with you. how terrifying a thought. we make a joke about it. about penning each other letters across the rest of the end of our lives. they say - oh! you’ll be armed with a hot glue gun. 

more and more people reach out. do you want to meet up? they pass little hopes and keep little loves. will you be here? do you need me to come? are you safe? i’ll get in my car and drive. do you need to just get drunk?

what else is there. these tiny little proofs of love. of wanting to hold hands, of wanting to be together, of not being done.  

seriously, i’ll get in my car this moment. seriously, i’ll buy the plane ticket. seriously, i’ve been meaning to run. say the word and i’ll come. say the word and i’ll come. say the word and i’ll come.

[inkskinned]

the men in my life are all good men, or, at least, they are men who are not violent - and that is enough for a man to be considered good; that he could be violent but is not.

the men in my life are good men. recently at a hardware store one of the men in my life let me stand behind him, just a little, in that ghosting way that girls can learn. the disappearing technique we master of shadowing behind our Good Men. this was to protect me from a man who was not-being-good.

i fall down. one of the good men in my life offers me one arm like a knight, we are laughing while i clamber back onto my feet. i give the good men in my life piggy back rides because i like to show off how strong i am. i give the good men in my life run-at-them hugs. i let the good men in my life pick me up like i am a sack of grain; i get the good men in my life coffee, i make them sandwiches, i teach them dancing.

i am a man-hater, obviously. i am gay enough the insult is sort of funny. waiting for the bus, where there are men who are not-known-to-be-good, i google how to make a fist. i can never remember if the thumb goes on the outside or the inside, only that it is imperative that i do not fuck it up or i will break my thumb at the same time the man tries to break me. 

i walk my dog around the track only-at-dusk and-no-later. i made that mistake once, in august, hoping i could take a later run and maybe see the stars - i romanticized the idea of being able to skulk like a fox. the man that followed me across three lawns, two road-crossings, and back to my car - he spent the whole time whistling. the good men in my life say - oh, do you need me to come with you? and are actually asking - do you feel safe?

i fall down in a supermarket. a man i do not know grabs the inside of my knee. i do not know if the man is good, but i am supposed to give men the benefit of the doubt, so i laugh while standing. a man trying-to-be-in-my-life says what, no hug? and i have to decide if it worth it to just take off or put up with it. a man who-might-not-be-good stares at me while i walk by - i have to calculate if he’s just looking or if he’s watching. other men have badly hurt me, physically. the casual remark made is that those men are not real men. but they were real enough, to me.

there are many men who are mad at me. an entire reddit thread once was dedicated to how to dox me for feminist ranting - it was kind of funny, when it wasn’t downright scary. i have been stalked and harassed and treated horribly. they are all good men, in their own lives, you know. they are not violent, usually, unless provoked, and all it takes for a man to be good is for him to not be violent unless provoked, and i am, of course, always provoking.

a man in my life rolls his eyes. “i am sick of hearing this. we get it, all men are fucking evil. get over it.”

a man who-is-not-good shouts something unwritable at me. i have to tell the good man i am standing next to - it’s okay, this is nothing compared to what-could-be, this happens, it’s really not that big of a deal to me. 

“but it should be,” he says. “it should be.”

[inkskinned]

sometimes a poem is just a poem and sometimes a poem is actually a confession and sometimes a poem is a person and sometimes a poem is a cardinal. sometimes art is just art and sometimes art is actually therapy and sometimes it’s a pipe and sometimes it’s also not a pipe. 

sometimes the text is “got home safe!” and sometimes the text is actually saying i already miss the way your hair feels in my hands and sometimes the text is a warning and sometimes the text is thank you for caring. sometimes you are on the phone with your friend and you’re talking about curious monkeys but you’re also both admitting how lonely you are but you’re also both talking about how love can be a bicycle and sometimes it is not a conversation it’s an intervention and sometimes it’s not a conversation it’s a poem and sometimes it’s not a conversation it’s an art piece and sometimes it’s just a conversation but more often it’s holding hands without touching

& sometimes you are in an argument about the dishes but none of the things you are mad about are about dishes, they’re about the stuff around the dishes and the hands and the soap and how he smelled on sunday of another girl. sometimes the dishes aren’t even dishes they’re blankets and sometimes they’re burnt food and sometimes they’re your favorite book. sometimes the song isn’t a song sometimes the song is a manipulation and sometimes the song is just bad and sometimes the song is stuck in my head from you singing it in bed and sometimes it is “i listened to this so i could learn what you like” and sometimes it is “i showed you this because i want to also show you my palm lines and my heart and the inside of my head.” 

sometimes you are dancing alone but you are not dancing alone because you are picturing seeing her in a green velvet dress across the room from you, and sometimes you are dancing with ghosts, and sometimes you are dancing with your mother’s voice. sometimes it is not a dance it is a walk and sometimes it is not a walk it is lying in bed and sometimes it is not lying in bed, it is not-dying, which is often good enough for survival purposes. 

& sometimes you say  oh, take a cookie with you when you go and you mean that i should take a cookie and sometimes you mean - take me with you, also. sometimes it is just burning something and sometimes it is burning something and sometimes it is burning a lot of other things first. sometimes it is just a shirt and sometimes it’s what you wore when you kissed her and sometimes it’s what you wore when you didn’t kiss her and sometimes it’s what you wore to the movies when you saw your last in-theatres movie without knowing it would be your last in-theatres movie. 

& sometimes the poem is just a poem and sometimes the poem is my earring in your hand and sometimes the poem is your smell and sometimes the poem is calligraphy and sometimes the poem is good lord you are addicting and sometimes the poem is a poem and sometimes the poem is unfiltered yearning and sometimes the poem is an anvil and sometimes the poem is - can i write a home, can you crawl in, can we be like little ferns, all curled up in bed. sometimes the poem is a poem and sometimes the poem is a dance and sometimes the poem is saying - no, i will skip showering, if you need me there, i’m coming.

[publicartfund]

[la-beaute--de-pandore]

Lars Tunbjörk

[modelsof-color]

Fernanda Ly by Ryan McGinley for Kate Spade Winter Holiday 2017

[inthatlieshope]

Lost in Translation // Directed by Sofia Coppola (2003).

[janeforest]

karinasharif_115913103_587198295299958_8844084271664230605_n

[hayaomiyazaki]

Jo Byeong-man and Kang Kye-yeol, married 76 years, in MY LOVE, DON’T CROSS THAT RIVER (2013) dir. Jin Mo-young

[without-ado]

Grannies around 100 years old appeared in Vogue 2020. They are so beautiful just like flowers.

[fkatwigs-fashionstyle]

FKA Twigs shot by Liz Johnson Artur for The New York Times Style Magazine @fkatwigs @nytimes @tmagazine Photographer: @lizjohnsonartur Styling: @sarrjamois Producer: @yasserhc Hair: @rio_hair Makeup: @lucyburt1 Nails: @sylviemacmillan.nails Photo Assistant: @1200mx Prod Assistant: @lldenisall

[lilja3ever]

season one episode twelve, "later" / francis forever by mitski / boot theory by richard siken / three women by sylvia plath / making amends by @holly-warbs / the cart by mary ruefle / love as depicted by subwayhands on instagram / season six episode sixteen, "nice while it lasted"

[andreatomas]

Photo by © Andrea Tomas Prato

Alice’s Art

[whitealbum]

strawberry blond by mitski

[mothvhs]

the fact that time passes and things change and people leave and you can only go back to a place physically and you will never be 14 15 16 again………….. i don’t understand how we are meant to endure that

[mona-l1sa]

[girlonline]