one more ugly, stillborn cry

hi! I'm rai, 21, she/they. this is a sideblog for writings and reblogs. I'm interested in literature, a bunch of 10's TV series, and of course, fanworks. check #writing for my works!

[hungryfictions]

chelsea g. summers, a certain hunger / ginger snaps (2000) / joan macleod, the shape of a girl / L’AQUART - jade medusa, 2020 / john collier - lilith, 1887 / florence + the machine, “howl” / battle royale (2000) / brenna twohy, “swallowtail” / caravaggio - judith beheading holofernes, 16th c. / herbert james draper - ulysses and the sirens, 1909 / william etty - the sirens and ulysses, 1837 / alicia ostriker, “in the 25th year of marriage, it goes on” / gone girl (2014)

a monster in the shape of a girl

[artist-sisley]

View of Montmartre from the Cite des Fleurs, 1869, Alfred Sisley

Medium: oil,canvas

[errratum]

i wanted to walk in outer space

heel to toe between the stars

I'll forget gravity, kiss it goodbye

and I'll feel its gentle hands

slowly let go

one and the same with the vacuum

mirroring the crushed stars i was made of

i wanted that. i dreamed and wanted.

i wanted. i wanted.

i want.

I'm tired of wanting.

I'll never be a star, and gravity

still grounds me, its hands

like shackles like ball and chain.

i don't expect, nor do i want its

tenderness.

I'll never be a star,

and I'll forget what i ever wanted.

i won't wish my breathing to be tides,

powerful and unrelenting in its wake.

I'll remember each as it is,

as meaningless as a grain of salt

in the ocean.

i want. i want. i want to forget.

....

one of the things that frustrates me the most about my condition right now is remembering how I used to be. I can't get that version of me back. I lost myself.

there's something comforting about remembering my insignificance. I of course had trouble thinking about how useless and how utterly slow my life has been. I feel like I've failed, at 21. but I'm trying to make peace with the fact that I'm not special, and just mediocre in every sense of way.

but it hurts to remember that I used to be different. I used to want to be something, used to have hope of being something, used to believe I could be something. I don't want any of that now. it feels too far fetched when I'm struggling with doing the very basic things to live.

I can't keep punishing myself for losing that version of me. I can't keep wishing for her to come back. I wonder if it's really better to forget she existed at all. it really shouldn't matter if I was at peace with my present self. clearly I need help. haha

[maurice-prendergast]

Children at the Beach, 1897, Maurice Prendergast

Medium: watercolor,paper

[errratum]

i have thoughts about bodies and

things not fitting into place

i am an artist, after all, and I see bodies

as art

as mediums

as ways to express

colors

movements

the subtlest of actions

(shivers and trembles

belts fastened and buttons closed

done and undone again)

my body (her body, his body)

thought about being taken

so i listened and i took

and i wondered about taking

her body, his body

but my body is caged in mirrors

seen through a fogged gaze

done and undone again

[artist-signac]

The Look at Montauban in rain, 1922, Paul Signac

Medium: chalk,watercolor,paper

[errratum]

looked through my notes. this is for an original story i planned to develop, it's called no stars in the city.

i gotta pat my 17 year old self in the back for this one, this is quite good. I knew I was kind of good at writing, or at least have a knack for it, but i never had the courage and confidence to share it to people around me or online. this had changed since, this blog is an evidence.

[errratum]

first thing to go encapsulates grief so well. i can't handle it. it hurts.

[errratum]

The reunion of two souls parted for a thousand one hundred twenty days. No, I wasn't counting. It is an estimate. I don't care that much.

(I shouldn't care this much.)

You are different now. You look different. Something about growing, and then aging. Something about what you do now. I remember the work of your hands, still. Your voice sounds hastily different, but it's your voice. I recognize it all the same. You don't lose yourself, I did.

And I...

I have been fine. I have been... me.

(Ever self-indulgent, me. I continue to blur the edges of myself. Compartmentalizing sounds good enough until I find myself running out of choice. I let it all wash over me. There is no way in hell I am telling you all this.)

(Don't look at me. Not like that. I changed. You changed. Isn't that fair?)

Muscle memories. Steps falling into place like they have been for a thousand days. You're living years at a time. You're seeing too far ahead.

(I couldn't possibly catch up.)

Glad to see that you're well. (It's better off this way.)

I hope we'll get along fine. (Let's put all of this behind, scrub the slate blank.)

Odd, formalities coming from you. Even odder, my mouth just agrees with it. The slew of words taste like nothing, it means nothing. There is nothing anymore. You move in a precise way. Decisive. Always scheming. Compartmentalizing works great for you. It all has been impersonal. I'm merely mimicking.

There is nothing anymore.

(I have to believe this, too. Since you're trying to. It's always been like this, you take the lead and I'll take the cue. So don't look at me like that. This is what you want.)

(Who cares what I want?)

There is nothing anymore.

[errratum]

I'm afraid to get used to it, this creeping loneliness.

this acidic point of view. heart, soul, mouth tainted with cynicism. it sure is taking its time, making nests out of twigs and thorns within me. laying envy and raising it and calling it home.

heart, soul, mouth stained with jealousy. ugly things. red eyed, words slurring. they're making a home out of me.

they can keep coming, and they will, vultures or doves alike. I am too human to say otherwise. I am a home of all things.

[02png]

Twi | ins

[orpheuslament]

white gauze (1984) / excerpt from monstrous love, d.e / fused skulls, mutter museum / dolce, hannibal S03E06

[errratum]

dolce is my fav episode of s3 just because the tenderness of that museum scene...

[amourduloup-deactivated20210512]

1. La Belle et La Bête, dir. Jean Cocteau 2. Kissing the Witch, Emma Donoghue 3. Bram Stoker’s Dracula, dir. Francis Ford Coppola 4. Deathless, Catherynne M. Valente 5. Hannibal, ‘Naka-Choko’, dir. Vincenzo Natali 6. Under the Jaguar Sun, Italo Calvino, tr. William Weaver 7. Beauty and the Beast, created by Ron Koslow

[joaquin-sorolla]

The Fish (Catalonia), 1915, Joaquín Sorolla

Medium: oil,canvas

[errratum]

sometimes, when I talked to no end, something crept up

a vomit of ugly things strung up by the dancing of my tongue

and I bit down, but sometimes, it's too late

I bit down just enough, never to draw blood

I don't know about the rest, do they bleed because of me?

and sometimes, I wonder why

why I couldn't stop

why I said those things

why I even think about them

like a goddamn coward hiding in some flimsy shell they call judgement

sharp tongue, wretched words

the slight slope of mouth, mocking, dismissing, demeaning

and one time, I talked nothing but good to my mother, of this silly thing I cherish

and then she spoke and i was looking at my reflection on a muddy water

those ugly things, the same dance of her tongue

well, I know now that they bleed, I do too

and I thought, oh mother,

I really am your invention.

[artist-monet]

Garden at Sainte-Adresse, 1867, Claude Monet

Medium: oil,canvas

[joaquin-sorolla]

The Elche palm grove, 1918, Joaquín Sorolla

Medium: oil,canvas