Maria Gray, from “Bad Nostalgia”
we're not kids anymore.

No title available

★
styofa doing anything

Origami Around
cherry valley forever
Sade Olutola
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
Jules of Nature
noise dept.
Xuebing Du
Mike Driver
Cosimo Galluzzi

pixel skylines
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me

@theartofmadeline

shark vs the universe

JBB: An Artblog!

JVL

ellievsbear

seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from Brunei

seen from Singapore
seen from T1

seen from Malaysia

seen from Brazil
seen from China

seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from Malaysia
seen from Canada

seen from Canada

seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from United States
@moderateclimates
Maria Gray, from “Bad Nostalgia”
Diary entry - 30/3/25
I sit in my bathtub. One of the toes on my foot is pale white. It stands out from the other raw, fleshy ones. I trace my gaze up my leg, and count three blooming bruises. I can't remember where I got them from. They could've just easily come from banging into tables as my own fists. I bury my face into your shoulder and ask Why I Hate Myself So Much. You just hold me and say 'I don't know.' I accidentally drowned a spider running this bath. I didn't see him. I fished his body out with my fingers and left him on the side. He made me feel squeamish, even though he was dead. I felt bad for feeling squeamish. Today I slept on the sofa instead of doing my work. The smudges of the oil pastels I used that morning came out in my dribble, staining the cushion I rested my head on. I woke up, my mouth feeling black and white.
Interviewing My Regalia
Do you ever dream about the mountains stitched onto you? Do you ever miss the summers there? Do you ever think about rice paddies and banana leaves? How did it feel to cross the ocean? Were you carried in a bag? Or were you held the whole time? Did you come over in a box, a small coffin? Or did you think of it like a bahay kubo, a little home on stilts? Did you find a place for yourself here? Did the home they brought you to ever feel like home? Or was it an eternal eclipse, like Bakunawa had finally succeeded in swallowing the moon? Do you like to be worn? Do you like to be shown off? How did it feel to be born from the most beautiful brown hands in the world? To have danced underneath the moonlight? To have walked up and down the mountains a hundred times? A thousand? A million? Since time immemorial? Do you ever dream about the mountains stitched onto you? The rice paddies? The banana leaves? How long has it been since you were there? Would you even recognize it now? I hope one day we can return together.
i do not trust the whims of old men
who break others’ bones desperately
ignoring the brittleness of their own
who have borrowed the fangs of wild wolves
but become fat on their own indolence
men who fancy themselves queens
never thinking of the integrity of the anthill,
and when the caverns collapse
abdicate all responsibility but not their throne
i do not trust the smiles and kindness
when it suits them, before their
borrowed teeth see fit to rip apart
all the failings they imagined of you
i do not trust the whims of old men,
but i trust that those whims are as recurrent
as the tide and the moment of respite
is not relief, but simply breath drawn while
waiting to be dashed against the rocks again
oh wow. back on tumblr again. hello friends and thanks to @shesanargonaut for inspiring me!
lies
The lack of god calls to me And sings hallelujah, sings hallelujah To the emptiness of the space Between bodies. In pockets of air Atoms hum to an unknown tune And I cannot write it down. When I die I will be buried in stone Even though I asked to be cremated But if I burn I will sing hallelujah As my bones turn to ashes And my family weeps to Ave Maria.
Late night morbid drunk fridge poetry.
Jack and I
The giant keeps a pearl in his mouth. Jack climbs an oak tree, calls down and asks for forgiveness. Still the giant curls his tongue around the pearl, calls it an egg, calls it something golden. Jack catches the sun in his hands and asks the giant if he would care to exchange. The market value is in his favour. Jack comes to me and says, I do not have the pearl but I have a diamond. I ask where he found it. Jack says between the toes of the giant. I give Jack the sun and I give the giant my blessing.
The poem was a tragedy. Two hands folding, never holding. The poem ends like a flock of birds migrating South for the winter and this time I do not cry– I do not wail into the heavy night. This time I make the poem a prayer.
Shelby Asquith, Be gentle going into the heavy night (via exahele)
home made of words and commas for doors and semi-colons for eyes and question marks for tea and parentheses for cigarettes and I have built a home out of poems and here I sit and sleep and dream of tigers and the end of the next line
Fear both the heat and the cold of your heart, and try to have patience, if you can.
J.R.R. Tolkien
"Here, let me pick that book up for you. I can teach you so many things, baby. Like the Dewey Decimal System." #sexylibrarian
To feel anything deranges you. To be seen feeling anything strips you naked.
— Anne Carson, from Red Doc>
Rebecca Lindenberg | Interview in The Believer | March 27 2012
I tried to be cute for a party but my cat is still cuter.