sweet little yellowrose @go1denrod - Tumblr Blog

captainamericanidi0t

reblog to tell your mutuals they’re lovely as fuck

#tips my hat like a victorian dandy #did victorian dandies do that? idk the sentence sounds right it's 3am

What a party! Me, the champagne, and every thing I've ever owned packed into a handful of boxes.

Fireworks and headlights fall through the open window and shimmer in my glass.

These days I feel so much any sweet thing could kill me.

Before I leave, I write a note to the girl who will come after me and tell her the lock on the door sticks.

I will never see her face, but I love her anyway. I want her to live easy.

#poetry #poets on tumblr #spilled ink #just wanted to write something melancholy today

[ID: a poem written in all lower-case black font on a white background. The poem reads: “little bird, fall quiet. worried dog, lay still. hunger, shut your noisy jaws. no way to ask nicely. no way to make it tame. nothing to be done. no words, no pictures, no poetry for this ugly thing my dad says sounds like a cancer, mi-so-pho-ni-a, this funny little curse of mine that glues music to my hands. i’m tired, so tired of thunder and lightning, this storm i stick to my skull. silence is its own sound. i want to wrap it up in gauze and stick it in my ear canal. i want to swallow it until my throat is so full of cotton that everything sounds like bedsheets and i feel peace.” /End ID.]

#misophonia #misokinesia #sound sensitivity #sound sensitivity syndrome #sensory overload #overstimulation #sensory processing #mine #poetry #poets on tumblr

good night, sweet boy. 7.14.21. [ID: a screenshot of a poem. it reads, “good memories assault you in a way you never thought possible. at the sink. in the bedroom. at the park he used to love. it is everywhere and you cannot touch it. the pieces of him. your companion. your sweet boy. your phantom in the hallway. the laundry you’ve been putting off looks remarkably like him when it’s dark, doesn’t it. months later, when the old bed is long since gone, you still mistake your own footsteps for his. /End ID.]

#mine #poetry #poets on tumblr #animal death #we had to put my dog down yesterday... he was 16 years old. we've had him since i was four. it's just impossible to understand #like for me. for me it's just impossible. i know it's only been a day so it's normal but it's like...#what is this house without him? you know?#anyway. next few poems are likely going to be about grief.

– 2.3.21. [ID: an untitled notepad window. the text reads, in all capitals, “i forgive you for the harsh words and the late nights. i forgive you for letting it go and for crushing that moth. i forgive you for falling apart and letting no gentle hand gather you, letting no soft tongue speak, for convincing yourself that you were shameful under the guise of truer confidence. i forgive you for sleeping nightly beneath the bridge and dreaming nightly of the hard tar at its center. i forgive you for throwing stones and bruising the mirror. i forgive you for cutting too deep on the avocado pit, so it could no longer grow. it let out a lovely dye before it rotted.” /end ID]

#mine #poetry #poets on tumblr #just smth i spitballed just now. i liked the way it looked in the notepad window.

k.c.s. text below cut.

#poetry #poets on tumblr #mine #p

THE NEW ME (WHOEVER HE IS) dreamland i & ii dialogue erasure poem, k.c.s. text vers. below cut.

#mine #the x files #poetry #poets on tumblr #p #f #fuck it i'm posting it <3

who cares enough to be good? what is good? i cannot hold good in my hands. if you tried to hit me over the head with good i would survive, not because you didn't want to kill me, but because good would have no impact.

who cares about good? who lives and dies over good? strong, gentle, compassionate, passionate: these things leave bruises. good i could hold in my hands and blow away from myself into the forest, an infertile seed that would land in a dark corner and turn into crow food.

i want to be held up to a light so that my skin turns orange and luminous. i want someone to look through my fingertips and say, "isn't she just glowing? just the warmest thing on earth? just the softest just the kindest just what you want on a christmas morning?”

“dont you wish you could wrap him up in bee paper and keep him in your tea cabinet so you could be sure nothing would ever scuff the shine off of him? i think if i kissed his eyelids, my lips would come away sparkling."

the game isn't about good-ness. good was never even a player.

#mine #poetry #p #c

yrbutchgf

maybe it’s just the lesbianism but over the course of the last few months, as ive grown more secure and more at home in my sexuality, ive found increasingly that the things i like most about women are the things society hates most about us. i like our muscles. i like our bellies and the way the skin folds on the stomach. i like our shoulders, wide and strong, or small and weak. i like strong jaws and confident eyes and loud voices. i like obnoxious laughs that snort and chortle and fill the whole room with bubbles that snap and pop like bubblegum let loose. i like strength, i like a woman who takes up space, who spreads her legs and stomps her feet and grins toothily at her friends. i like a woman with dimples. i like a woman with freckles and blemishes and acne scars, with stretch marks and hairy legs and curves where they don’t like them and straight lines where they do. i like a bony girl, i like the way the clavicle looks, i like the gap between the neck and the shoulder, i like the way sunlight catches on the sweat hanging from the peachfuzz on the upper lip…i like a lot of things about women that society told me to hate about us…realizing i was a lesbian revealed to me the beauty in “ugly” things that i had never considered before. none of these traits is something i “work past” when falling for a girl — they are things i love just as much on a woman as society loves a woman’s long hair or perfect curves. the so-called “"imperfections”“ only serve to captivate me more.

edit: bi women can absolutely reblog. we all love just as intensely as each other.

#mine #i wrote this when i was 17. wild to think about

yrbutchgf

maybe none of it was shameful after all, maybe we were just kids and the town water was all full of sparkle powder, maybe a year from now when new year 22 hits and we’re all losing our minds in a hotel bathroom, it’ll come back up again, the way things always do, and ill read the patterns in the urinal and say no, no, this doesn’t have anything to do with the future, it’s only about the past, and the tea leaves are telling me all of it was forgiveable, and it still can be, you know, if only you’d only stop swallowing and just let it come out

#mine

yrbutchgf

thinking about this monarch butterfly that hatched a few days ago in my mom’s garden. i think it must’ve fell when it came out of its chrysalis, because the wings still haven’t uncurled all the way. sometimes when i come out i don’t see it and i think, oh, good, he’s made it. then an hour or so later i come back out and there he is, crawling along the grass. i do what i always do with him. reach down and let him grab hold of my finger. cup a second hand around him so he doesn’t feel the wind and think it’s time to go, even though he can’t, isn’t ready yet, will he ever be. take him to a wildflower and let him down gently. let him drink his fill.

#mine

yrbutchgf

thinking a lot about how things have changed for the better for me over the past few years. i remember being 17 and just beginning to experiment with he/him pronouns, thinking, ill use them online, but no one would ever respect this in real life, right? today i read old diary entries and smile. think, i wish i could talk to her. wish i could hop back in time and let the thing that lived inside the sleeves of sweaters know that she could survive in warm weather, too. tell her, you have no idea what you are allowed to ask for. tell him, it will be radical and exhilarating and feel like artwork. tell her, it will be often difficult and sometimes scary, allowing yourself to become, but in the end, the older man you met at the poetry festival was right: god (or whatever it is, out there, the universe, maybe) loves you. people will love you. one of those people will be yourself.

#mine

yrbutchgf

i don’t even think my love language in many situations is words of affirmation, i just think it’s words of recognition. one time a friend of mine mentioned offhandedly that i have an interest in ceramics, and even though it was the furthest thing from a secret, i thought about it for about a week after. simply because he bothered to remember

#mine

yrbutchgf

the full post i was gonna make is that it’s so weird having memories of childhood friends tht you haven’t seen since before even the formative yrs of ur youth but still having those, like, vivid memories of them stuck in your backlog of smells, names, inside jokes… to this day every time someone says the word seabass i think of a kid i knew when i was really little who we called that. he had a lisp and curly black hair and wore big glasses. i dont even remember what grade that was but i remember eating lunch with him

#mine

yrbutchgf

when i turn around and look at my cat, she blinks at me and curls her paws into the blanket. she is asking me to love her. but more than that, she knows that i am going to love her. she doesn’t need to ask me to let her lay on my legs at night, or to pick her up and put her on her table when she asks for food in the morning and she’s too tired to jump, or to pull the tick off of her cheek when she itches at it. i turn around and look at her and she curls her paw, having learned from experience that i break into a grin when i see her pet at the air, that i croon and scrape my fingernails down the bumps of her back. the behavior has been pavloved into her for so long now that it’s no longer, please love me; instead it’s, you’ll love me. i know you will. you always have. when i come home and see her waiting on the counter in the kitchen, i always smile, and she always curls her paws. i think she’s smiling too.

#mine

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