#inkflows network

[aikaleegrave]

4.2.22 // id in alt text

[stardustandwar]

girl help im feeling again

(id under cut)

oftentimes i bite my own tongue to ease the ache of my jaw

my gnawing, gnashing anger ripples hurt in all direction

i look at my reflection and i see bones haunted by the unwanted memories 

white luminescent moon-flesh gone mad with un-fed yearning

my own blood burns me 

eats through my skin like acid to melt away the flesh of me

soon we'll see what these bones are really made of

how their color looks beneath natural light

and if they can carry the weight of their own meaning 

i do not aim for self-destruction but i dont think i was built to last

i try to learn how to let storms temper my tender heart

but cannot find any strength in my suffering

each passing blow tears another piece of me away

rain-soaked and half-starved and chest pushed out 

ribs curled forward to escape the heaving of my useless lungs

did the screaming ever stop or am i just used to the sound

stardustandwar

[smallepics]

The contemplation of orchards, Lau B. @smallepics || 04.11.21

In response to @nosebleedclub​ question prompts April 2021 series

Transcript below

[Text ID: I. Is there something that needs to change?

What needs to change is hiding in the fruit

In the stringy sweetmeat.

each bite pushing plum flesh

against gum. you find your teeth gnawing the pip

that only uproots itself to an attentive hand.

That Seed can grow some place else.

Carelessly litter, it will

lapse into the tides of earth

whose palm coaxes out fragility.

germination,

on a birthing blanket of grass knitted to weeds

promising to cradle the fissures the way the heart once did.

The Fruit

on the mouth

gnawing the pip,

gnawing the knuckle,

a kiss lying between your palm & lips &

in the sugar grain on your tongue

much sweeter

& useful,

as it already tastes.

II. Will there be flowers?

Only once the sun promises gentleness to the leaves

What does a flower know of comfort, of being cradled?

There is only ever the light

slipping its fingers beneath the peduncle gentling the flower to its philtrum

To grow into that bowl

enveloping the globe is not the same as falling

As being plucked

or pruned

or gardened]

[streetsiding]

secret sappho gift for @verilies , with lots and lots of love ♡♡♡

[qq-riri]

tonight is a night for miracles

[aikaleegrave]

4.1.22 // id in alt text

[aikaleegrave]

your hands like autumn leaves, her eyes like spring earth. you feed yourself to the deep piece by piece, limb by secret limb, trusting the hungry water to swallow what it cannot bear, to carry you away. blood on the waves and her smile like a mirror or a forest you could lose yourself in, blindly searching.

the river you swam in as a child runs south all winter, seeking the golden coast, impaling itself on shores you’ll never see with innocent eyes. when the storm rushes inland, you’re left again as flotsam on the sand. driftwood love and glass-soft anger, enough to build a fortress or a throne or a home or anything else that burns.

you’re still burning. the riverbed is scorched dry, the ships all sinking. you’ll always know the delta that leads to your homeland by the condemnation spilling red from the river’s mouth, thawed in the sudden heat.

a.s.w

[aikaleegrave]

you know that babies drop toys to see if gravity still works (it always does) and you (empty and transparent) (a synonym for yourself) do the same thing (fevered retreading of the same ideas) (writing the same poem around the same empty space) but you won’t admit it (a deniable language of correlation) (spoken, it becomes causation) (you know enough about tragedy in art to know that your life is neither) you’re still hoping that you (a body hitting the ground) can fool yourself (the ground that the body hits) into expecting anything other than the fall (the red line between desire and habit) (shapes in the receding sky) (the line between i want you and if i won’t admit i don’t want you, isn’t that enough?) (you know it’s not) because there will always be blood (the red line) (does the wound beget the poem or is it the other way around?) and you (weaving desire out of nothing so you can spend tomorrow night unweaving) know there’s no credit just for participating (leaving a space between lines) (pretending no one knows what goes there) so you’ll have to commit to living someday 

a.s.w. || (insp)