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pixelpantomime

Late Night Flight

Rest your head on my shoulder, darling

I'll tuck your face into me and hold you close

I'll keep the window shades drawn

So the rising sunlight won't touch your eyelids

I'll keep my body still

So your sleep won't be disturbed

I'll put my blanket on my shoulder

To cushion your neck and prevent soreness

All I ask in return

Is that on the next red eye flight

You hold me the same way

And let me rest my head on your shoulder, darling.

cosmic-obsidian-poetry

A Confession 16.07.24

I wanted to tell you,

I’ve been meaning to tell you

for a long time.

I wanted to tell you

that I love him.

I wanted to tell you that,

I see my future

in his eyes.

I wanted to tell you about him.

I could go on for hours

about the way he can somehow,

Somehow

make me feel like

I am more than enough

in this life.

That he would scour the earth

to find me

in every life time

that comes after this one.

I wanted to tell you how safe I feel.

How his hand on my lower back

sends a wave over my body that

feels like home.

I wanted to tell you

about our lives together.

How it is soft and slow.

Not unlike a Sunday morning,

everything is simple and you know

the next week is waiting around the corner,

but you do not care.

You just talk over sleepy eyes and coffee.

I do not wait for the next moment.

I am just happy to be in this one.

He makes me feel content.

Secure.

Happy.

I do not cry.

I think he has set a goal

for himself

to hear my laugh as often as he can.

I wanted to tell you

how proud he is to call me his.

How he sees the best in me

when most days I can only find

the worst.

He tries every day

to change my mind.

I want to tell you that

he is everything

I wished you to be.

But the universe must have known.

You couldn’t.

Maybe didn’t want to.

So it sent me him.

And he is

e v e r y t h i n g.

- M.T

yeah-i-farm

I will love you longer than I will live this life.

When the day comes to bid you farewell, I will have known you three years. 36 months. 1095 days. 1,576,800 minutes. 94,608,000 Seconds. That is all. And that day will come in the near future, when we say goodbye. That goodbye will be final. I do not know how we could meet again after that. I will step on an old red bus that drives fast down rickety country roads, and it will deliver me to my hometown where I was born. You will do the same I'm sure, but it is not my bus you will step on. We will travel down different lanes, into different villages where we will lead different lives, and never speak to one another, dying apart as we were in life. It shouldn't matter. We are not friends. I could count the amount of times we've spoken from sheer memory, and clinging too hard to ideas of people we don't know. When the day comes to bid you farewell, I will have known you only 18% of my life, yet that number seems to big for the time we spent together. Each night, I will climb into a warm bed, and fall asleep to the soft sounds of oceans waves. I will dream, and in the nooks and cranny's of those dreams, I will see you hiding, wondering if you should say a word. I will have remembered you for longer than I knew you. I fear your face will fade, and as will your voice. I will forget what parts of you were you, and the parts I wanted so badly to be true. I will love you longer than I was even aware of you being alive. I will love you longer than I will live this life.

wholeheartedsuggestions

funny-upset-clown

A professor from two years ago told me to write everyday, I am the middle child of my life and I have no idols, in their absence I latch onto ghosts and make the meekest attempts at diagnosing the essence of my hope, I have no idols. He told me to write everyday and your products will be mediocre, he told me to write everyday and it will hurt. He told me with a twisted arrow in his eyes, learn to love that pain, learn to desire it the way you have learnt to desire other kinds of pain. I don't know if even he believes this is possible.

From experience- desiring pain is never sophisticated or stable enough to know anything, not your cunt from your throat, not your tears from your droll, yes it is in my experience that desiring pain is never about executing your sentience, or developing your production. It is simply a state akin to a deadly trance, a phantasmagoria of tension permeating both the idle spirit and inflamed bod. However it isn't that such masochism is without the consequence of sentience and production especially since they are overlapped by their opposites, unconsciousness and destruction the beauts of transgressive germination.

I have no idols, I do not know the border line. The definitions of words like production bloom violently away from bodies toward unmade ethers, to tug at their limbs and beg that they lay by you is not quite to desire pain, it is to desire despite pain. For me to write is to need, and need despite the ache.

TO state again, I have no idols. Something in me has designated that my inherent necessity to write should be contingent on a frenzy, an almost unadmirable vampirism upon my inspiration. Now in this moment I see the relationship between the jelly ache of active inspiration and the thrusting totem of the idol. In both we see devotion, idolatry, mimicry, strife, however it is the symbol of the idol that remains still, unmoved and unphased- untouched; the state of inspiration comes upon you like a sudden rain, in different forms, touching you, wetting you, lulling you into the slumber of your life to dream of heavenly others- or a fitting perfection. I unchangingly admire inspiration, it is an idol of mine.

I write about fruit today.

I write about sundown.

I write about knuckledragging, cobblestone, and the flash you get day to day when you become aware you will probably never be blind enough to kill yourself.

I write sundown and blood worms and telephone calls and telephone calls and telephone calls and a life made tall by telephone calls.

Only use the knife with the white and gray handle, only that one. I cut at the fruit because it is not me. I cut at the flesh, the trillion bulbs of juice, haphazardly around the blushing pit. I cut because the skin is too cold on teeth.

It becomes dark blue.

For the first time in three weeks I slept as I am meant, I slept with no intent to wake. For days I had stayed awake until my eyes crossed in conversation, had woken with the desperation of someone pulling all the weight of their body up with splitting yarn.

I imagine decapitating telephone lines with baby-safe scissors and the wire exploding with words and flames. It is because the telephone is where lovers quarrel.

skelejor

i keep looking for ghosts. why cant i stop looking when i know nobody is there?

i get a shiver down my spine and i spin around, the ache in my chest hoping to be filled, snuffing out the dark

but my ribs just rattle. the chains being pulled on by the memories ive shackled to myself. desperate to keep them close

i haunt these ghosts, i cant let any of them go. i need them to stay and they fight me at every possible moment just trying to get free of my sentiment.

when im not looking dozens slip out at a time. i dont notice their absence until im searching for some else and notice how thin the crowd is

i have nothing left of anyone. why are they taking the last bit of themselves away from me?

maybe they never wanted me to have them in the first place...

its not fair, forcing them to stay. but its not fair that they left me! what did i do to deserve this abandonment... is there no other way to atone for my sins?

its not really about me though. its about them, they deserve to be happy even if that means that im left in the ditch. shivering, searching for their hands in the fog of my breath

its not about me, why do i keep making this about myself?

quotefeeling

“I’ve learned a lot this year. I learned that things don’t always turn our the way you planned, or the way you think they should. And I’ve learned that there are things that go wrong that don’t always get fixed or get put back together the way they were before. I’ve learned that some broken things stay broken, and I’ve learned that you can get through bad times and keep looking for better ones, as long as you have people who love you”

— Jennifer Weiner

wintercorrybriea

beco+18

chillpotato

Mieko Kawakami, from 'Heaven'

heartofmuse

I refuse to exist at the mercy of others. I refuse to put my self-worth somewhere outside of me. If what I need cannot be found inside of me, then I have work to do. I will grow what is needed. I will plant the seeds myself, water them, take care of them and watch them grow toward the sky. In the end all we have is what we grow within ourselves for if we plant our garden in someone else's backyard, know entrance may be refused at any time.

e.v.e.