Angel (1887), Abbott Handerson Thayer / This Year, The Mountain Goats

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Angel (1887), Abbott Handerson Thayer / This Year, The Mountain Goats
“How is there room for any blood when my heart is so full of you?”
— O. Leary
Gustave Flaubert, from a notebook entry written c. February 1840
“…is it suffering or goodness that makes them holy, or can anyone tell the difference?”
— Margaret Atwood, from “The Saints”
02.05
Please stop doing this to me
Please stop coming and going like I’m just a sight to see during your life
Im okay with drifting, I’m okay with massive fall out explosions, but I can’t handle radio silence.
The static on the other end, it cuts so deep every time someone does that to me.
I hate it.
Having you in my arms felt right until I realised you only wanted me under the moonlight.
Soon I was ashamed, in my own skin and, felt a shell of my former self trying to make up for everything you did wrong.
By encouraging the bare minimum, as if it was proper treatment because of the things I could count on one hand that made you seem perfection in a man.
Truly I’m re-visioning myself in hope that, soon, I’ll go back to how I felt before.
I hope I tear you up inside like you don’t do to me.
“I know loneliness like asking strangers for directions to my own house just to hear someone else speak”
— Natalie Wee, “Therapy Talk”
bear and bird are friends
sometimes this’ll get a burst of notes and that is strange. it’s nice, too, but it’s strange. i wrote and drew this at three am on a school night, right on the precipice of leaving high school, fearing change and fearing growth, because they were not things that had ever been kind to me. i decided, instead of panicking, i’ll draw a bear. and then, instead of trying to make the bear look perfect, i’ll draw a bird.
and it’s three am on a school night, yeah, so i’m looking out my window at the sky, and i’m thinking, i am so used to not wanting to be alive. but i did want to be alive, right then, and so i thought, why is that? when and how did i get to that point?
so i wrote it down, and i posted it, because my therapist told me that i should share more of my work, even if i think its points are hackneyed and its details are messy. and then, people liked it. which is so fucking weird. and kind. and good. and fucking weird.
basically: thank you for liking this. i’ve grown and i am growing, and i am not so scared anymore. i want to draw more birds and bears, someday. i hope you’ll like them, too.
You taste like the worst thing, I ever dreamed of having.
K.C -Why Can’t I Stop
You make it sound like it’s a bad thing, to be a monster. But the day will come when you wish for a monster to drive away the true evil, but I wasn’t here to be at your side.
- And on that day, your kingdom will fall // CBL
“I need you to be a monster / which is to say, I am trying not to love you / which is to say, I am still dreaming of kissing your claws.”
— Fortesa Latifi
“I break promises like they mean nothing, and speak of love like it is the last thing I care. But we both know that I care. That I do not mean every horrible word said. We both know that I am just a terrified child, trying to be a terrifying monster.”
— Lukas W. // Terrifying monster
What a Cyborg Wants
(Franny Choi)
What a cyborg wants is to work perfectly. To simulate pleasure perfectly. To not cry at dinner,
forget to call back. To keep her skin clear. To keep the sheets clean. To reply-all when asked.
To get up at a reasonable hour. To stop smoking, or at least get it down to something reasonable.
To not worry her friends by worrying about her weight. To not be so afraid.
To not pick at her face. To have a face you can really trust.
To have the face of a pretty American, who makes you smile back when she says,
Right this way, sir. Or who makes you drool when she says, yes sir
I like it sir. What a cyborg wants is to be clean.
Reasonable. To wash her hair a few times a week. To not kill the plants. To stop trying to leave her friends
before they can leave her. To smile and mean it. To believe in heaven. To believe the humans
when they say they love her. To not want sometimes to watch them cry. To not want so badly
to be touched, badly enough to slice herself open, to trap a man in a corner,
to peel the skin from her face and not let him go until he looks.
“–I adore you sinkingly.”
— Kim Addonizio, from ‘Crossing’, Wild Nights: New and Selected Poems