Stranger Things
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
I'd rather be in outer space šø

ellievsbear
we're not kids anymore.

#extradirty
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
šŖ¼

ā
will byers stan first human second
One Nice Bug Per Day
Misplaced Lens Cap
Xuebing Du

Andulka
trying on a metaphor
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her

⣠Chile in a Photography ā£
$LAYYYTER

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@rowbaybee
āI donāt clench my jaw when I hear your name anymore. I still canāt watch your favorite movie without digging my nails into my palms but I can listen to the music you showed me and no longer consider it āyoursā; it is all mine now. My hands still shake when I talk to you but I can almost keep my voice from trembling when I talk about you. I still think about you a lot but youāre not the first and last thought on my mind every day. I still want to be yours but I can talk to other boys without feeling dead inside because theyāre not you. I still think of you every time I see something about your favorite band but I no longer text you about it. Seeing a picture of you still feels like a punch in the gut but I donāt go out of my way to try to find them anymore. I still love you but I donāt say it out loud anymore. One day I hope to see your face or hear your name and feel nothing but this will have to do for now (The name of this poem is Progress)ā
ā (via yeahlilay)
Bringing this back up Bc fuck yes lily it is fire
āFebruary: The fall starts easy. I took baby aspirin, and a rusty spoon to my head, and smoked the stale weed my brother left in a broken vase before he left for college. Night comes fast, and tells the creation story. I ignore her this time. I donāt give a fuck about how I was made anymore tell me how I fall apart. March: Nobody can ever find the raw spot on their leg until they start itching. I remember 6th grade when the mosquito bit my calf. Larvae and laps on the soccer field in early spring. He is oozing into my shoes with the mud. April: My mother buried my rusty spoon, and took my brown hands. the clothesline was dripping carbonated orange soda sun, the wind was soft, the mice were sleeping warm beneath the floorboards; she spread my tarot on the floor with the forever broken and gnarled thumb she stuck in a blender when she was 5. That spring I walked home alone some nights, the heatwaves followed me like the labored breath of drunk men who donāt take no for an answer, I turned over The Devil and someone dropped a wine glass next door, she gasped, white eyes, the mice began to scrape and scream, the heatwave killed their children like it split my shoulders open and ate the youth inside. May: The month of falling out of trees, junior high was gonna shipwreck any day now. There is a fast food place where the milkshakes taste like cough syrup and the skater kids cheat death on 3 feet of concrete stairs. There is a crack in the sidewalk in front of it, and he kick flips on it to break the back of the mother who left him at 13, he breeds violence between his fraying vans and then something in his ankle snaps, my oxygen goes tar black. He bleeds, he. Makes this sound. Like a dog when you step on its foot. I want to hold him, put a butterfly on his cheek, give him a band aid, something, God, something. He looks like heās in pain. I want to. I donāt know. Help. I walk away trembling and put my head between my knees behind a dumpster full of shitty milkshakes. June: The neighbors fuck like rabbits while Iām trying to cry to joy division. I pray for a lightning strike. This type of poetry is for pretty girls, anyway. July: my birthday flies into the glass of my bedroom window and breaks its neck. mom said the only things you can grow in summer that wonāt die are grapefruit and hair, and I made a garden, I cut my chest open for Demeter each full moon. These locks were watered with gulf stream sea spray. I fed them bludgeoned daydreams. I threw my head against church doors trying to send Jesus some red flowers for his funeral, or maybe his birthday, doesnāt really matter, we celebrate both. August: I got kicked out of high school knocking myself out on my desk. People carved hearts into the enamel, I carved my heart out of my chest and turned it in for my midterm. I slam dunked my skull into the bleachers on game day, and when the bleachers fell, into my history textbook, and when the book was mushy with blood, into the track field. Iām grinning ugly, dancing to the 80ās synth in an empty gym after homecoming, with a nosebleed dripping love songs down my yellow teeth, like words on old gravestones: here lies a moontoothed lover who will never rest in peace, every night she claws her grave and hears the call of western waves. September: Iām high on concussion flavored car races in a stolen low rider, bluebirds fly in circles around my head after we crash, I wrote a song on a 5 dollar bill called blunt force trauma and it is about skater boys with broken noses, snarls of shaggy Jew fro his friends make fun of, and hands. that graze los angeles highways while he rides asphalt waves, slam his locker, and give the finger to the education system he keeps tripping over like untied shoelaces. he pricks those hands sewing together the lackluster parties private school kids throw. he puts his dewy rose bud lips to the jack daniels bottle, and kicks the drum kit over, gives it mouth to mouth, pump his fists into someoneās chest, gives it a pulse again. hands big enough to steal grapefruit with, the size of my swollen heart. I didnāt know it could get that big but he bumped into me, buzzing like a light saber, sky walking out of the grocery store with a grapefruit. with my heart. October: do you have a girl do you? have a lover? Jupiter is orbiting around whatever this emotion is called, the rollercoaster one. when you look at me. We spend Halloween turning into werewolves at the library, you were moshing in the kids section, bleaching your hair in punk rock, I was banging my bruised and knuckleheaded love poems into a paperback copy of Romeo and Juliet, brushing my hair with broken glass. That was the first day the blood on our hands was not our own, she shushed us and we laughed. High on Shakespeare and Jupiter gas, we dug our fangs into the dewy decimal system. You ask me my name, I tell you, you smile. We had matching bruises and I floated home. November: You make me. Feel. You make me feel like I can speak to snakes. You make me feel like my hips have a purpose besides balancing bins of laundry, and bowls of fruit. You make 17 stop feeling like a suicide note no one will read. you make me banshee scream and lick like fire against young pines, when you. dance. when you. kiss her, let her ride your double dutch hips, and your skateboard. She is a new coin, tangy on his numb tongue, and he tucks her in his pocket, his lucky penny. Iām the bubblegum he scrapes off his sneakers and throws into a storm drain. December: I still cower into my pillow and smile a crooked smile, and go red at the cheeks, you. You put the red in my cheeks. Iām here, Iām exploding, why canāt you see me? Just put the bottle down, take your hand from your eyes, I wonāt ask you what happened to your face, or how you got that scar, I will just like you and like you. we can buy angels wings in Hollywood, make an apartment out of crumpled homework pages at the bottoms of our dirty backpacks, we can drop out of high school, I will like you and dissect your sadness like frogs in freshman biology I am used to the rotting smell in your ribcage, I reek of it too. I will like you. until I know how to love you. January: I switch schools, I cut my hair, bleach what little is left. It makes my mother unhappy, she thinks my spirit world is severing ties, she thinks my planets are discordant. I ask somebody back home about him, she says he dropped out and started working on cars. I come down. Softly. February (again, again, again): He was born to a rabbi and a beauty queen. I was born to a chemist, and a witch. Ammonia, bleach. Donāt mix them unless you want someone to die. Blood, adolescence, summer saltwater. Donāt mix them unless you want to make somebody wish they were dead.ā
ā 2. a crush. and nothing more. (via slugmother)
āIf we wait until we are ready we will be waiting for the rest of our lives.ā
ā
Jil Sander 1987
Veronica blends in
Flower District, Manhattan, NY 2018.
Nikon 35ti | Kodak Ultramax 400
āI stared at an empty shower head for an hour or so. Counting all the raindrops as they hit the ground from my cloudy eyes. I stayed in the desert rain. Quietly pretending that 2 hours of sleep and a 0 calorie meal of air would get me through the day. For a year and a half I stayed and I stayed. I pretended to be alright, with this dark melting halo atop my head. Memories spilled from my silence and into my eyes. The world was blurry for a while, blurry and still. I listened to music that made the noises soft. But I never really listenedā
ā
I ramble when Iām sad (via knifty-rebellion)
Itās been 7 months and I still stare at the shower head counting raindrops. Yesterday I sat in an empty bathtub and cried for no reason. Iām still empty but I get 6 hours of sleep now. I still turn my headphones to full volume but now I dance to the music. And I still see the world in blurs and sounds but I think theyāre pretty and I like to watch them. Things do get better.
(via knifty-rebellion)
So fucking sweet row.
(via radiguess)
Now itās been a year and Iāve stopped trying to count raindrops in an ocean. I still cry for no reason and sometimes I think itās gotten worse, but then I think about how much Iāve survived. I think about my battle scars, painting my skin with stories. All the futures Iāve promised people just by saying the first hello. Itās 1am and Iāve gone another day without writing my own ending. And I guess that says something.
(via rowbaybee)
I wrote this original post two years ago, now Iām 17 and I love the desert rain. I forget to eat sometimes, but itās different. Itās different from how I used to try and become skinny as the skeletons in my closet. Itās just a bad habit now. I still cry for no reason sometimes, but doesnāt everyone? I get good sleep, Iām close with my mom, and my scars are healing. There are still bad days, but I think you need those every once in a while. They remind you of the things youāve overcome. They remind you that not everyday is a bad day.
I come upon this post every once in a while and I cant help but to write more on it.
Iām 18 now, about mid way through it at least. Weāre in the thick ember of another Oregon summer but Iāve been feeling the rain harder than ever before. Heartbreak and July heat donāt mix well, I get sick to my stomach with him. I honestly think that I have become one of the skeletons in my own closet, Ivy tells me I look like I am withering away, about to evaporate in the dry air. I am I am. My mom and I declared yet another civil war but this one feels more permanent. I have new wounds, just beginning to scab over and peel with my sunburns. When I cry it always comes back to him. The only thing Iām not ready to say goodbye to. At least thatās a reason I guess. These days happy feels like forecast of the future: sheer and vague
My world shipwrecked around me and I am currently trying desperately not to drown
Iām still 18, the last piece of writing I have on here is barely 6 months oldā¦
I said goodbye and I ran or I guess I moved
I moved to a little beach town and Iām finally learning how to breathe underwater⦠Maybe soon Iāll even learn to swim.
It still breaks my heart to be growing up without him, but thatās okay. A broken heart can still beat, believe me Iāve checked.
Iām 20
The last time I wrote on this was about a year and 3/4s ago
Iām home, and that feels like a curse word. Itās strange how chunks of time can feel mistaken. That wasnāt me, Iām not her. Youāve got the wrong girl. Cause Iām all gap tooth smile and dimples and freckles and I would never
I havenāt felt this rotting ache in a while and maybe it hurts more the second time around. The music is loud and dancing is infrequent and I wonder if it would be different if he was here. Sometimes I think heās the ocean
Other days I know heās just a storm and my year of winter is finally ending. 2 year old heart throb
Buh boom buh boom
tunblr roll call! reblog if your in the following fandoms:
-suffering -the pain of living
Spooky season
Every memory crackles under my shoes like the leaves
Peoples faces look like masks
Or maybe everyone just looks like monsters
I donāt know
This country smells like deep dish pizza and cement
I gear up for the cold
Cry into my hot cocoa while my mom picks the nits from my hair
Tomorrow looks just like yesterday
And Iām itchy with anxiety and lice
The days go by like a flip book and a novel all in one
Im sliding on icy concrete into places I never planned to visit
I see you
You sit in the cold on my back porch
Breathing out steam and cigarette smoke like a tea pot
Iām wearing one of your t shirts and
I am 2014 love stories all over again
Barely able to think of your face without trembling and blushing
Iād break my knees if I meant I never had to leave the house again
Agoraphobia?
You are a land mine among stepping stones
I am barefoot
My skin dries out and the desert evaporates any liquid sadness I had left
My wrists and ankles peel
High altitude and Iāve lost my thick skin
My sun toasted skin pales back to translucent
I can see my veins
I feel raw again
Hiding as if someone is actually looking for me
People who donāt even remember my heart attack heat stroke summer
People who didnāt miss me
The potholes in the road are more comforting than my bedroom
I feel unfamiliar
But not new
10/15/19
Can old men stop flirting with teenage girls like go have a heart attack Please
Adut Akech by Letty Schmiterlow for Modern Matter, fall 2017 styled by Emma Wyman
in the process of healing
Am I cute? No. But do I have a nice personality? Also no