PrettyxNifty

Everybody is wrong about everything, just about all the time.

[meaningfall]

———

C. A. Singh • Mood Lighting

2019

[logicaldreamer]

just twist the knife god. sometimes, in the middle of the night, I can believe that Mary Magdalene kissed Jesus’ knees and laughed. that people were healed. that the son of god walked on feet like mine. if I have learned anything in this wretched year, it is to tell the people you love that you love them. fling open the cupboards. spill the flour across the room. I had to say the words I love you and listen to the silence on the other end of the line to learn it is always worth it. I am finding peace. I loved you like a bird afraid to fall from the nest. you threw me into the air. I am still learning to fly.

g.t.e. // the anniversary of your death falls on good friday

[justpastryvideos]

x

[official-lucifers-child]

*shouting over my shoulder* it’s the fucking chocolate guy again!!

[thatqueerchoirkid]

fucking chocolate guy!!

[iwhumpyou]

One of the best tips for writing descriptions of pain is actually a snippet I remember from a story where a character is given a host of colored pencils and asked to draw an egg.

The character says that there’s no white pencil.  But you don’t need a white pencil to draw a white egg.  We already know the egg is white.  What we need to draw is the luminance of the yellow lamp and the reflection of the blue cloth and the shadows and the shading.

We know a broken bone hurts.  We know a knife wound hurts.  We know grief hurts.  Show us what else it does.

You don’t need to describe the character in pain.  You need to describe how the pain affects the character - how they’re unable to move, how they’re sweating, how they’re cold, how their muscles ache and their fingers tremble and their eyes prickle.

Draw around the egg.  Write around the pain.  And we will all be able to see the finished product.

[ololygas]

mark z. danielewski, house of leaves

[logicaldreamer]

I see your face turned toward the pink light of dusk. there are clouds in your living room. this is a golden hour love – gentle & illuminating. sometimes, I am afraid of the light. I have never wanted to empty myself for someone before you. suddenly, I am pouring out the past like thick honey. there are crusts of me coming undone. tomorrow is a scratchy vinyl & a warm rain & the cheese section of a local grocery store. this love makes me think about weddings in the produce aisle & ruining a dress in the pacific ocean. I usually prefer pants anyway. I told you I loved collarbones, so you cut the necks out of all your shirts. you wear blue & paint your nails black. we fog up the car windows with pho & neck kisses. it is all soft candlelight & bent elbows.

//

I don’t know how to tell you I am afraid of the light. it took me twenty-seven days to come up with the words to write this. this is not uncommon. I tend to dwell, to stew in low places, sit in puddles, cry to the same three songs. I told you I loved collarbones, so you cut the necks out of all your shirts. that’s not what I meant. you worry about your life plan, about donating enough money, about continuity. I don’t know how to tell you god has ruined every plan I have ever made. I don’t know how to tell you that loss is not the worst thing a person can experience. I don’t know how to tell you that I am the one who does the leaving.

g.t.e. // panic palinode

[meaningfall]

———

C. A. Singh • Not Over You

4-8-20

[write-as-rains]

Roadkill makes me sad. The scattered bodies lost in a sea of tar. Why sad? Animals die. Things pass on. This was not a natural death. Not disease. Not the teeth of another creature pulling dinner. This was the plow of a machine. Sharper than that ploughing into the earth.

This was life shuttered quickly. Snapped to a close. There are those that gather the remains like sacred tokens. The buzzards, the flies, the bugs bless it. Even from time to time a coyote may draw near to the feast. Even take the risk.

Road kill makes me sad, mournful. They were following the steps of their forebears. Passed down in spirals they found a way. Then miscalculated. The bridge had changed. The field gone. The body left. No burial, no scenery or foliage to quietly tuck it away. Just a streak of fur, hide, dark and oily left to burn and bust.

[write-as-rains]

What is a haunting

if not a ritual

of consumption

You rolled chocolate into

bread

the way three mothers

before you did

It doesn’t taste the same

A recipe can only do so much

if the hands change

This was an answer

before it was a question

before a word was a word

then flesh

It’s easy to forget these things

There’s a lot of good

that can come from a little

unsettling

There’s an easy way to quantify

purpose

and clink a glass

when it’s a passing

You couldn’t hold your grief

well

So I carried it for you

until it could be something else.

[elcorazonpoetico]

On The Shore

You come & go like the water kissing my toes

We dance, we skip like two children hand in hand

The sun rays activate our solar plex realigning

I feel happiness & joy.

I stand on the shore alone

Reminiscing of the time we shared

I jump & back away when the water comes

The dance wasn't as joyus

The sun burned instead of illuminating

The rays, fire touching down on my skin burning off the disappointment

You can't make a sandcastle a home

When it's only meant to be a memory.

-E.P.Mendoza

[writingfromruins]

Burnout is a helpless kind of hum in the pit of your chest when you’re alone and the weight of where you’re supposed to be going still presses on your shoulders like a relative showing you off at a family gathering, standing behind you, hands with clean fingernails resting either side of your neck and they are sculpting your future from air above you, and the lights are flickering flickering and your fingernails are ragged from biting at them. You haven’t slept properly in weeks. You haven’t had a dream that let you wake up like stepping through a doorway into the morning in far longer. They cling to you, drag you back and down into a sleepy nostalgia, and the sheets haven’t been washed. There’s dust on parts of your room you used to keep clean through motion and now everythings still and dirty and you’ve long since rejected anyone else’s future for you but wouldn’t it be nice if it was as easy as they pretended it would be? If you could sculpt your future out of air now you’d start small, and hesitant, with the dirt under your fingernails that you can never seem to get rid of. You’d start with a mug of something warm. You’d start by changing the sheets.

You can be tired in ways that sleep can’t touch // PD

[semicolonsoliloquy]

I look forward through the expanse of time 

and see an eldritch leviathan of boredom. 

I am bored of my terror, bored of my agony, 

bored of this plain emptiness inside me, 

which is, on the whole, much like everything else. 

(We are mostly empty space. Most of the universe 

is named Space. If existence was a stomach 

it would be hungry. 

But it’s eaten everything there is, it reminds itself. 

It’s not hungry. Just bored.) 

It’s boring even to describe my fear to you. 

Why should I? It’s the same as yours. 

I hand you a sheet of white paper 

and say I have drawn a snowstorm. 

You hold it in shivering fingers 

while tufts of ice cover you and the paper 

both. It dissolves into the blizzard 

and you are left there, bored with the noise 

of your chattering teeth, bored 

with the cold’s claws ripping into your neck. 

What good have I done? You are bored of your pity. 

I am bored of mine.

[juansendizon]

“Daughter When I can care for a being lovelier than I; I’ll share the truth which I admire - men also hold half of their skies. I’ll chirp a soft lullaby with her on my lover’s lap; my little girl grow strong and happy for our presence here is but a map. You are the sky of two souls loving each other so much; when carrying you gets hard – we’ll smile at the warmth of your touch.”

— Juansen Dizon

[meaningfall]

———

C. A. Singh • Mouth

2-18-21

[deadwatered]

love me

[meyhew]

— GIVE ME SOME MORPHINE | s.n.

[perfectquote]

“I have been thinking of how I want to be touched by you, with hands that will play me like piano keys, with fingers that will make a symphony out of me.”

— Karese Burrows