#transmittances

[a-chilleus]

[bleedinglys]

writ·er

ˈrīdər/

noun

1.

everyone loves a good tragedy a writer will need it to be alive

even if their phobia of open closets gets in the way

they know who the real monsters are

hidden between the lines

horrifically beautiful in their invisible ink

2.

a.) carnal beauty blooming with a curious furl

b.) the soul-searching for your maker’s will

c.) youngbloods playing their games, each one more recklessly than the next

these are the writer’s alliances one must look out for

neither friend nor foe

but feral creature comforts all the same

vying for the very attention your parents warned you about letting into your house

3.

the difference between a poet and a writer is the following:

a poet will drink your heart dry

a writer will do the same

except they’d vomit up your blood and paint your happy-maybe-ever

and compose a requiem from your ribcage

and try your skin on for size

and rearrange your bones to spell out

“after all it’s fiction right?”

4.

this is a warning to the wise

whatever you do

don’t ever kiss a writer in the dark

and most importantly

take care to never let free your name

should you value your humanity and all that comes after

WHAT MERRIAM-WEBSTER DIDN’T TELL YOU ABOUT WRITERS | r.k.

[transmittances]

a writing collective for trans writers.

its me the og admin back at it again restarting this bad boy with a shock to the chest. join our discord! im on it a lot more and its going to be more active with prompts.

[arckhaic]

i think you taste of        falling. starlit and hot. something        celestial. something human pretending         — we’re really good at that.        i want to devour. the essence of being is to        eat. black holes in empty space to        children born into more empty space,        we’re all a testament of devour-ing.         ( verb. the act of consuming dangerously. )

and my        teeth ache. i am something out of the        dark in search of a light. for a completion.        a contrast.        i chose you.         you don’t have to choose me back.         remember, we’re really good at pretending. 

you taste like falling. 

i will ask two things of you 

first. leave me burning, midnight shrinking  inside these bones when you pick yourself up and put your parts back together and head out. see, morning leaves out the worst in me. 

      i’m too full of everything.

and second. please

      leave the flowers. i won’t ask for        you. or your light that i will find spilled       on the floor, scrapes of midmorning and       afternoons. you’re a mess sometimes. but       so am i. humans are good at pretending.       sometimes, i don’t want to be. 

human, that is. or pretending. or good. 

sometimes i,       just want the flowers. so please,       leave them heavy there on the counter.       tepid water reminds me of blood. leave their       crushed petals, creased and dark with        use. i have want of them. i choose you but       i want them. i will curl up around them.       metaphors of one another. use, misuse.        ( flowers don’t grow to be harvested but                 neither do hearts and i’m trying not to gnaw                mine out of my chest for you. )       i will burn, devour, pretend. and maybe       the flowers can help with that.

so, please leave the flowers.

caleb lovelace. another untitled flower poem.

[argentophobic]

california dreamin’

have i ever told you? i had a dream in which i went to california & you were in the hospital (this dream was during the months you were Away) & somehow me & my now-ex & some other kids i can’t remember were trying to find you. i had a macbook, & then i almost lost it. there was a lot of running around, but no asthma. your hometown is somewhere i confess i have never been. i have family there, but i’ve seen them in santa rosa, in san francisco, but never There. never in their actual home.

in the dream we were running around the parking deck, trying to find you, & then we were in the hospital itself. i don’t remember how the dream ended, but i remember waking up happy, because i got to see you, even for a moment, even in a dream.

[haunthotel]

bullet hole peep hole view on a crime scene in action / SUMMER OF 2017 | J.M.

[drippingtragedy]

you are feeling a moment so sharp that

blood starts to swell up in your mouth.

a palm to the nose, a broken heart so vivid.

the dashboard of the car greeting your face.

the seatbelt grasping on your body.

an all copper taste, pennies against your tongue.

the neighborhood boys take turns socking you in the stomach.

then it’s all bile,

stumbling out across your chest.

an acidic retch up the

length

of

your

throat.

tongue burning up at the taste,

you are keeled over in the hive-inducing grass.

but their fists keep swinging.

and again.

and again.

and again.

strung out like a rag doll,

the love of your short life is collapsed on the couch.

his eyes are glazed over,

his smile lighter. lighters

keep getting passed around.

cotton mouth:

your teeth jutting out at all the wrong angles.

teeth too big for your mouth,

brushing awkwardly against your tongue.

cracked lips, he wets his and it’s all downhill from there.

in a moment, it becomes freudian mouths exploring.

[disremembering]

i started testosterone today

to think that life could exist in a 200 mg vial in alcohol wipes and syringes and needle gauges it’s so wrong it’s so right it’s so wrong it’s so right it felt so easy to measure out the dosage so today i pumped a milliliter of golden syrup under my muscle i felt it swirl throughout my body like sweet lemonade and i’m pretty sure my skin is just a little bit rougher or maybe it’s just because it grew so thick trying to make it to this day