eunoia.

you want a better story. who wouldn't? aish. she/her. xx.

[sapientes]

sacrament. aish, 17.07.2023.

transcript:

Hello, good night, are you up— I’m sorry, I have regressed to babyhood and I must wake you up at an ungodly hour. Come here. Give me your hand. My teeth ache and I hunger for something— inarticulable. And, honestly, nothing about this is ungodly. See, come here, kiss me and I kiss you back. The mouth has always been a place of worship. Let me sink my teeth into you— don’t cry, I love you. I do not love my own flesh enough to soothe myself on it, but my teeth ache and I cannot sleep and I am hungry for sensation— satiation. My tears rot in my gums and I need to cleanse them with blood. My teeth ache. Maybe I should swallow them instead. Can I break them against the bones of you? Give me your hand, give me your knuckles— please, so when my softness decays they find my hunger in the hollow of my not-stomach, where it should be. Not in my skull, not smiling, not grimacing in the wake of the aching. Come here, give me your hand. It’s soft, it’s sweet. My teeth ache and I cannot sleep and I will not cry and I love you. Please. I just want to rest.

[ashiqui]

media naranja (literally, “half-orange”): soulmate; better half

francisca matos, and where were you that summer / alessia di cesare, the side effects of eating too many clementines / (x) / nina lacour, we are okay / (x) / wendy cope, the orange / dropdeaddream and whatarefears, the thirteen letters / (x) / mount eerie, tintin in tibet / amy schmidt, abundance / rafael romero barros, naranja abierta y azahar / frank ocean feat. tyler, the creator, end/golden girl / a photo taken for me by my lover / @mothscaled (x) / (x) / jean little, oranges / maggie stiefvater, the dream thieves / cressida campbell, mandarin with chinese plate / morgan rogers, honey girl / jacques prevert, alicante / hafsa qasim (x) / lorde, 400 lux / ban gilmartin, there is a light / (x) / @ritikajyala (x)

[havingapoemwithyou]

Interview by Jordan Kapono Nakamura

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Joy Sullivan, “My Mother Asks How I'm Doing with Just Whisky and Cats”, Instructions for Traveling West

[ashiqui]

(i want you! i want you! i want you!) — mia, 21.08.2025

[havingapoemwithyou]

I AM 17. I HAVE LOT TO SAY. by Jackson Holbert

[ashiqui]

the centre of every poem is this— i have loved you. i have had to deal with that.

gigi perez, sailor song / @/beyourself.ph on ig (x) / jeanette winterson / three days (1991), dir šarūnas bartas / ocean vuong, on earth we’re briefly gorgeous / amy lowell, the letter / franz kafka, letters to milena / (x) / (x) / edna st. vincent millay in a letter to george dillon, c. 1929 / bram stoker, dracula / micah nemerever, these violent delights / (x) / the crane wives, never love an anchor / @schuylerpeck (x) / (x) / amal el-mohtar and max gladstone, this is how you lose the time war / yves olade, belovéd / rachel h, fleeting things / franz kafka, letters to felice / (x) / (x) / ursula k. le guin, a fisherman of the inland sea

[nixscriptum]

the archive of almosts.

[lena-oleanderson]

also a poem from the new, unreleased collection. very possibly my own all-time favourite.

[geryone]

Lucretia II, Nicola Maye Goldberg

[havingapoemwithyou]

miss you. would like to grab that chilled tofu we love. by Gabrielle Calvocoressi

[soracities]

Marina Tsvetaeva, from "Bus", Selected Poems (trans. Elaine Feinstein, with Simon Franklin) [ID'd]

[poemsonmars]

i think my default setting is guilt.

i don't even remember

what it feels like to not feel

like i'm doing something wrong.

i chalk it up to social anxiety

but there's something about

looking into another person's eyes

that makes something deep inside

of my stomach knot up and not let go.

like they'll know.

they'll take one look at me

and they'll know everything

i've ever done wrong.

it's been like this

since i was a kid. forever.

my teachers used to praise me

for being such a rule follower

but i didn't know how to explain

that my obedience

was born from shame.

that if i didn't do what i was told

i felt like everything

inside of me was rotten.

i'm only twenty five and my lips

have made a lifetime's worth

of undeserved apologies.

they just spill out of me,

like they're the only thing

that might save me.

my hands have made myself bleed

because i thought

i deserved punishment

more times than

i know what to do with.

all i'm really trying to say

is i'm tired of it.

i just want to breathe without

feeling like i'm swallowing cement.

without feeling like i did

something to deserve that.

-mars

[poemsonmars]

i want to be with you.

what i mean to say is

i want to be as close to you

as physically possible.

i want to share your clothes

and your jewelry

and your mannerisms.

what i mean to say is

i want to be inside of your skin.

i want to see the parts of you

that you refuse to show

even to yourself.

i want to feel the way

your heart beats

from inside of my chest.

what i mean to say is

if i cannot have you

i want to become you.

i want to take your place.

i want to consume you so entirely

that i can never be

apart from you again.

what i mean to say is

there is no part of me

that exists without you.

there never was.

-mars

↳ ❅ for @alicenthighstower

[elizabethanism]

I love the syntax of this love poem by W.S. Merwin:

[sapientes]

sacrament. aish, 17.07.2023.

transcript:

Hello, good night, are you up— I’m sorry, I have regressed to babyhood and I must wake you up at an ungodly hour. Come here. Give me your hand. My teeth ache and I hunger for something— inarticulable. And, honestly, nothing about this is ungodly. See, come here, kiss me and I kiss you back. The mouth has always been a place of worship. Let me sink my teeth into you— don’t cry, I love you. I do not love my own flesh enough to soothe myself on it, but my teeth ache and I cannot sleep and I am hungry for sensation— satiation. My tears rot in my gums and I need to cleanse them with blood. My teeth ache. Maybe I should swallow them instead. Can I break them against the bones of you? Give me your hand, give me your knuckles— please, so when my softness decays they find my hunger in the hollow of my not-stomach, where it should be. Not in my skull, not smiling, not grimacing in the wake of the aching. Come here, give me your hand. It’s soft, it’s sweet. My teeth ache and I cannot sleep and I will not cry and I love you. Please. I just want to rest.

[metamorphesque]

"The Birth of a Poet", Paruyr Sevak (translated by Tathev Simonyan)