then me @eesirachsthen - Tumblr Blog

i wonder what makes writing chronically online? is it because it’s in lowercase? because that’s not chronically online, you’ve already explained before why you don’t use the capital g in god… sure if someone wants a shallow read they could look at presentation & say it’s online but the content is not

i think it’s just that i sound very tumblr

Where’s you Babylon?

roxbury

Do u ever get really stressed by your studies or do you primarily find it fun and creatively fulfilling? I was blown away by your description of conferences and papers as fun earlier!

it’s a mix of both! i’m very stressed and very fulfilled in equal measure i think

“ sounds like you haven’t met your person yet” you’re patronizing as hell to people constantly. you definitely think you’re some deep person by wallowing instead of moving on.

sounds like you haven’t met your person either lol

#girl it’s a side blog for wallowing you’re so boring for thinking this hurts my feelings

anon comes onto my ‘i hate myself and want to die with my man’ blog and tries to tell me something i don’t know

you think you’re so profound when really you write like the most chronically online person ever

i think i’m chronically online, not profound

‘i think god gives us one person and that’s it‘ pessimistic

sounds like you haven’t met your person yet

yuzu custard, god's / oil in raisin cake, he's / theory on the teeth. that's the verse. in numbers there's this recipe for raisin cakes—the lover, vinegar chips, qumran chests. on cherokee there's this white tree, budding now, with god's feet tossing the leafs. i loved god one night in roxbury. i love him nonetheless, countries from the valley of thirst. boba eyes, theory on the teeth, i love him nonetheless

cellophane love like / ramen in cups, he bites the / left vein of my neck. that’s the verse. he bites openings in me like i'm chives in ramen. he bites openings in me like he's looking for veins. he turns and returns to me, lusting though cruel. chǎo fàn is cavey, caving in on itself. love is cavey, too. i'm dyed dark with him: the color of lemon rind, of loneliness, of cherry cigarette light. there's no verse here. "i'll think of you in every moon," he texts me. then, "i'm a jerk for my lust for you," then, "olive yeq"—he's drunk—then "abgel i s3nd you my lov. H3re you go, have it. Oim drunk, anf if u dont want my lovr ill hold it inside," then, "in high.hop3s of beauty i.hold 9n t9 our stroll thru heaven"

blue green never knots, / he tugs them loose in ounces. / love’s gooey like cuts. that’s the verse. i’m resting on the tub, knees to my chest. he’s got my wrist in his touch, then he’s loosening the blue green knots in my cut. “ouch,” i tell him. “baby,” he replies. he’s cutting them out, one then the next in turn. “ouch,” i repeat, crying little globs of tears, runny on my cheeks. my cheeks the color of the fresh lilacs on the counter, cut themselves by his knives, too

#cuts tw

vigiling the night, / like tonic is grievy. he / left the voice note on. that's the verse. i vigil him in the night, knowing his tonic and his kettleone come up like it's nothing. i vigil him in the night, knowing things crush themselves like lungs. he left his voice note on to tell me the date. tuesday, bone broth, he's reciting grocery lists. bone broth, tofu, vinegar chips. i like him gone like this, reciting in the night. i touch his touch. i tie him to himself. i tell him to try to get loose

lettuce, grey lenses. / unnegotiated unlust / on the couch, him, him, that's the verse. i cling to him, cloves of garlic. the technology of us is white christmas lights, constellation eyes, veering vermeer. overlain on a vase, croceus and cloudy, is his brow next to mine. that's the verse. he's nori in my thrumming heart, he's the knot in my nepheshy neck. the crook of the throat, the hole in my lung. that's the verse, too

i only know his last name. pregnancy test? maybe four days ago, maybe years. elijah and elisha. “מֶה עָשִׂ֖יתִי לָֽךְ”. mangoes. theory. hole theory. fetishism. beefy guys. tummies. happy trails. you're all guts, holes in your organs, holes outside your organs. you like the risk. the gross things, the kind of things god raised men for. love that is as ethical as it is risky. you find yourself at confession apologizing for things you don't feel bad for. like assyrian kink, being strung up, hand on nape and knife in lung. edgeplay, you like to say “hold on.” refusing penetration as punishment. your kinks and fetishes, in the freudian sense, the kink sense, or the ancient near eastern sense? the answers are the same, the flesh of your prophet. noncon. hitting, receiving hits. kneeling, it's you and him now. necrophilia. rumour is you killed him. you like being wanted, flirting, but never kept. you like the word “violate” being used in a pick up line, love men who the cops fucking hate. him in your lap for hours, playing with his hair. allowing god to get of. “you can never know the content or the feel of your limits. they know you before you know them.” that thing you like. d.

ref

illy ill-lit him, / ventive, like god, he's crushing. / he's nuance in the night. that's the verse. he's nuance in the night, frosting on my cheek. he's lemon rind. he's charcoal. he's coke, he's nigiri. i'm bells on the feet, curls on the neck. there's no verse here. i write my name on his back with my gel nail. his voice is covered in the couch. i bite his teres. there's no verse here. i call other men his name

realising that the love I feel for him is the same devotion I'd show to God was world rocking

i'm on my knees for him and for him

getting a phd is like this

nude core, long hair core, / he tells me to quiet, then. / grey curls curl for him. klimt's nude with long hair is the heart, the core, of it. i'm leaning over, grey curls on my cheek, with him behind me, charcoal on vellum. in the closure of us this is nailed in the kitchen he left in. i tell him i can't remain quiet, then. "little longer," he tells me. "i need one of you in tart gummies." "gross," i tell him. "come here," he replies, grinning

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