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@lovesby
Do Not Repost without EXPLICIT CREDIT AND PERMISSION!!
the exception is web weaving posts which are allowed (and appreciated!) but you must credit this blog/tag me. thank you!
my website 💭🍳🎱🐈⬛🧿
the white cut out of the camera where the heart should be, sby (jan 2025)
untitled (thinly veiled rant), sby, march 2023
only before it rains (golden shovel after @halogen2) // sby, nov 2024
[transcript under cut]
Mistaking smallness for ease (sby, july 2024)
text: Stop Overthinking! Recognize that not deciding is a decision: tempting life to feel... endlessly delaying. Recognize that some decisions may not feel good: expect to give regardless of what you write. Accept that risk is unavoidable: obviously taking it closer to nothing. Know that every decision involves loss and compromise: Loss is an inevitable part of making. By choosing, you're choosing to want. Acknowledge what you had to give up. Resist reversing decisions out of doubt: You make and then feel. Want to stay the course.
sby, august 2024
* Managing Editor: Edward Ahern * * Associate Editor: Alison McBain * * Special Features Editor: Matthew P.S. Salinas * *
Very honored to be included in this issue of Fairfield Scribes' micro Fiction section! Go check out my piece "A Cold Tap on the Canvas" and the other amazing work by all the other writers in this issue!!
untitled, august 2024
Text: I am not a person or at least I still/shake with the anticipation of becoming one./Even I sweat like you. Once/for judgement, twice for sin.//I have written this story a hundred times/but not found an ending I can live with;/half baked conclusions; rotting core of grief, of losing self;/solipsistic grief; mirror grief;/finding my way home in the dark,/finding my way to an unfamiliar home,/in the dark,/finding
text: the more hours i spend surrendering myself to a nihilic idealist version of paradise -- that nothing matters -- the more i drown i drown i drown i drown... i grab the raft and my nails break and even back on the shore i mourn that. i was never taught how to mourn so i make do with my popsicle stick version of grief and card through the stages without feeling, without catharsis. the waves roll on their backs expectantly, like mouths, tongues. a seagull steals my sandwich, and i turn ravenous with losing.
stitches — a handmade zine (by meeee)
text and image description under readmore!
i am reminder. i am sore spots. i am the ghost of a little girl who everyone sees but we're not supposed to talk about. i live my life small and you reap the benefits of not knowing. i am protecting you, really, no really, protecting you by holding this knife up my crotch. there is a monster in my lower belly where all the evil in the world sleeps and i try to keep it inside of me by crossing my legs and whispering.
MORE ART ABOUT BEING RAPED AS A KID (sby, july 2024)
untitled free write (sby, june 2024)
Text: i feel plucked/and quiet./i feel torn apart/like limbs or the/soft pieces of my heart. tender/for the eating and/taking apart./a flower grows on the windowsill/and dies.
untitled ars poetica, image from NASA/JPL-Caltech/Dan Goods, "First TV Image of Mars (Hand Colored)", poem by sby
[Text: Thinking I could exorcise the heavy core of it, I sat down to write a poem on the topic. I do not know how many words I have left to write around it. The only way out is through. Could I, given the grace, go into the mirror maze and find the other side? As it stands, I am in one of many dead ends, passionately disrobing my own reflection.]
everything leaves a hole (sby, august 2023)
being an afterthought: an erasure poem of a caterpillar that eats tortoise shells by deyrup, deyrup, eisner and eisner (linked here) (original text under the cut), sby march 2024
[Text: Being An Afterthought Realizing that plight of an oddity such as this little moth calling attention to existence worth knowing Does not Does not ultimately prove applicable]
dawn yes crying gold, a golden shovel after lisa marie basile (sby, feb 2024)
[Text: Put it as such — have mourning for the end of a night. Waste the moon away, try to discard of all the connotation of song. A person (or – or! – a girl) with telling or telling without such terrible, ruinous ambition, with such and such, with graveside rumination.
Do not grieve what I learned first and last in lesson. I could/should learn to be an am from the broken skin of nails obsessive.
On the break of morning sun, I find that darkness-unholding, that light-which-can-contain; ah, but in truth find nothing. no, yes, well, no, but yes, maybe yes, find nothing in the endless song’s replay.
Well… I confess/don’t think I ever will be “am.” In the shower at the break of morning sun, blood drips down my face and I wash the blood away. Oh and long to finally turn off the replay.
Key of contents: The running water; the second wind; the keeping (close to my chest) the who that I; then finally, there is no am. Believe what grief you please. Or don’t. I have not yet gone where chariots go.]