#userlindseymorgan

[inkedpoet]

i am clawing at the light. (it learns to bleed quietly.)

excerpts from my diary, once upon a time, so did i

[blurrifies]

- anna graham

[lovefulls]

I would pluck every star, comet, and moon from the sky if only they would match the spark in your eyes. As such, I have never reached for the stars.

Ad Astra Per Amicitia, from my upcoming chapbook, “An Intro on Loving”

[pushkins]

salvation is crafted in debt, when artemis pulls those girls from the mawling jaws of selfish men she expects to be repaid in kind. she always brings them back, her home is theirs - with it’s endless rooms illuminated by apollo’s glow.

men use iron shackles; artemis weaves them from gratitude and love and hope; what more can a girl want than hope? it is malleable, flavoured, passed from mouth to mouth. bare ankles beneath the sun; the water inviting; inside the walls swells power.

artemis licks the rim of a glass, condensation gathered in her tongue. perhaps she will breathe a storm to life tonight.

— untitled || Eliot C. || happy birthday @ibuzoo !!!! ||☕|| Inspired by (x)!!

[inkmagician]

Sorry for all the things I said when I thought you weren’t listening. Sorry for all the things I didn’t say when you were.

excerpt from LOVE LETTERS TO GHOSTS by Arlen C.

[etoilies]

there’s a term for this, but i forget- it’s the way we tend to hate any recorded versions of ourselves. the way my voice doesn’t sound like mine when i hear it in a video. the way we shift away from our reflections. i imagine this might be related to why we tend to hate people who are similar to ourselves.

anyways. i hate my writing style. it’s repetitive. flowy. dreamy. it doesn’t sound like it’s hitting any reality, much less speaking the truth. there is something dishonest about the way i write, and it frustrates me. of course my writing would include excessive description, of course it would feature a lack of brevity and a love of commas.

but. it is my voice. and although i hate the way my voice sounds when it’s recorded, i sing anyways.

-

i don't know any other way | trami n.

[tartts]

unstoppable force (wanting to finish current writing project) meets immovable object (inability to write)

[sixovcrows]

i knew a girl once. she said she loved the flowers blossoming in the meadow outside of her house. she told me they were dandelions. they told her they were weeds.

i loved the girl once. she had a smile warmer than the sun, and the stars begged her to shine softer so their glow might not be lost. she told me she loved me too. when i said it back, i told her a half-truth.

i saw the girl once, her brilliant smile dulled by the shadows of the man standing over her. at twenty-one, he was five years our senior. he ate the moonlight of the girl and spat out something different, something sad. he called her flower and smelled like weed. she told me he loved her. he told me it was a lie.

i knew a girl once. the woman in front of me has her face, but her eyes are bleak and she does not smile. a baby suckles at her breast, a toddler pulls at her wrist. they look like the man who killed the girl i love, who beat her darker than the other side of the moon until she didn’t know whether his arm would hold her or ruin her. she told me that she has missed my presence in her life, how she wishes life had not broken us apart. i tell her i miss her too.

— and i love her still, perhaps i always will, j.g.