#lookaimi

[aikaleegrave]

4.1.22 // id in alt text

[inkstained]

- (j)

[pushkins]

we all want our deaths to mean something, however small, to someone to anyone. but the universe is so vast, our lives are not even dust. the sheer scale of what surrounds us is sometimes beyond what we can even comprehend. sometimes, if you try to understand it all you go mad. then death follows. 

no one remembers the death of mad men. 

-excerpt from The Novel WIP

[horationed]

cosmic expansion by @horationed

[fantodsdhrit]

pen down more civil wars, famines—less of my personal anguish

[humaintain]

my piece A FIELD GUIDE ON LIVING THROUGH THE END TIMES* was published on kudeta magazine for their immediate worlds issue! (i also was hired as a managing editor hehe v honored)

an except:

5. ARE YOU ARMED? ARE YOU SELF-SUFFICIENT? WILL YOU SURVIVE WHEN THE WORLD COLLAPSES ON ITSELF? let me tell you a secret: these questions don't matter if you have money. you pay for other people to be armed, to suffice your needs, to survive for you. you pay for your mbak and supir to die first. you pay for the mbak-mbak kasir and ojek drivers to die first.

please also check out our carrd on #papuanlivesmatter: we need to talk about papua

[ivyburied]

july presses into the soft skin at my wrist and tells me, sleep. it’s a race to midsummer now and i have given up hope of being the winner. this fever-sweet drowse, summer molting over me like hands swollen with light. there’s a boy on the blacktop and i’m forgetting his name. there’s a boy on the blacktop and i don’t know what to do with the sun in his hands. the act of personhood settles heavy into the back of my mouth, cotton-thick and choking.

— lilac wine, soft like my love | e.k.

[sunsounds]

axinomancy

baby, if i rip out the jasmines growing from your  lungs and string them into a crown to wear on  every rooftop in town, would you say that’s a  little like love? it’s okay, you can have the streets and i can have the skies and we’ll dress up in each other’s skins when we want to switch. 

baby, you can gouge my eye out and keep it in a locket like a love-token. i won’t hate you for it  unless you hate me first, but this isn’t a promise  until you’ll let me break it. i’m not dying until you make me, does that make sense? we’re not out of here until you lead us — i won’t look at the path, just at your back, just at your teeth.

this isn’t an indictment, but maybe it’s a prayer. would you let me pray to you, if i knelt and wore our crown and let you cut my throat? baby, there are no blasphemies in this land, we’re all gods  here, we’re all dead things here. isn’t that a little like love if i scrape your skull open when i say it?