modern confessional

just a place for my writing // catch ya on the flip side.

[maremote]

best plot twist in black sails, go

mr.scott and the maroon camp

207: guthrie-vane death fakeout

310: silver's plan worked holy shit

409.

where are his keys... and has he seen them since he took me away from my men?

Billy lived

205 know no shame

S4 silver betrayal long con

we won't be going any further.

Voting ended onFeb 9, 2023

[galacticpasta]

man the bravest shit you can do in this world is love indefinitely

[galacticpasta]

there’s so much heartbreak and loss out there that sometimes caring about anything feels like a weakness. but despite all the risks that come with being vulnerable there are people out there who just love and love and love without thinking twice and on god that’s whats keeping the earth on its axis

[sacred-portal]

[solardrake]

greeble neeble gomble womp?? e mfucking worgle smeet huga dorble!!!!

[sanctus-ingenium]

inside

[soapstore]

something holy inside you wants to get out but you can’t let it

[frankencain]

- empire builder, typhoon

[valtsv]

i love characters who are like oysters emotionally

[valtsv]

as in you need a knife to get them to open up

[tahskah]

october is not kind. it is ghosts in the parking lot, spectres in the passenger side of your car. it is the creak of old doors and gates slamming shut without a hint of wind. october hides. october giggles as you search the halls for its labyrinthian end. and when you find it, carefully — oh, so carefully — october bites. not enough to break skin, but draws a wince for the coming months. october is a warning, a signal, a calm before the storm: follow the forest. get out while you still you can.

[chinupbabe]

maybe love isn’t ready for you, maybe you are not ready to love

(vía https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cPG6nJRJeWQ)

[tahskah]

august unfurls, hot and demanding in the midsummer haze. it begs to be seen, felt, touched with sticky fingers and scraped up knees and chapped lips. it wraps itself around you, refuses to let go until you can breathe nothing but the fog. august is the end of a roller coaster. it's staring down the barrel of a gun, seeing light at the end of the tunnel. august is the storm and the drought and the cicadas and the crows and the road and august is — august is.

[tahskah]

(some of) the signs as the people i've loved or left behind —

aries: beautiful hands, unexpected creativity, freckles in the summer sun as seen through a bedroom window, flashes of hot anger, warm toes, misconstrued tones, the courage to start something that might fail, the courage to keep trying

taurus: the loudest laugh in the room, chasing a friend barefoot through the house, riding bikes around town until the sun dips below the horizon, binge watching shows, unparalleled passion, learning a new craft for the hell of it, missed calls, missed texts, missed

gemini: stress cleaning every surface, organizing your life and everyone else's at the same time, the kind of hugs that make you feel at home, succulents on a windowsill, incomprehensible jokes, homemade chicken stew, falling asleep on a friend's lap after too much wine

virgo: heartache, empty playgrounds at 3 am, a game of risk on the bedroom floor, edith piaf and breaking benjamin in the same breath, finishing each other's sentences, distance, forgotten birthdays, new numbers, first loves lost to time

libra: drives to nowhere in the middle of the night, lakeside chats, longing for something, sweet tea, unspoken moments, jealousy, spooning on the couch under 12 blankets, trying new things, fast friendships, turning the car radio up as loud as it can go

scorpio: arguments for the sake of arguing, nonstop conversation, speaking only in vine references, unfortunate conservatism, shouted insults, endless energy and a puppy dog grin, peanut butter and chocolate and upset stomachs

capricorn: protecting friends from any threat, the best baked goods you've ever had, a strong shoulder to cry on, taking too much allergy medicine and walking around in public, road trips to new cities, road trips to hometowns, a fiery temper, a heart of gold

pisces: bitter attitudes, long hair and beach waves, bumming around the shoreline for hours on end, writing new music and playing it for your friends, uncalled for judgement, truth or dare in a stranger's house while drunk on irish cream, endings

[mincrvus]

The edges are starting to rust. Green fading to gold fading to steel fading to the red of age. Their movements are stiff, but that is to be expected. “How do you find yourself?,” Mr. Whitley asks. Eyes roll open to peer at the man — he is smaller than them and his face carries with it the whiskers of many years. His smile is kind. “I do not know how to do that, do you?” Their arms creak open from the elbow, or what would be an elbow if they knew of such things; the human terms never stayed long enough in their mind to stick. Such fickle things, humans, always moving. Always changing. Mr. Whitley twitches the tips of his beard in thought and lets out a hum. He is slower than most, they think, a human with no time to spare and yet time to consider. “I think,” he starts, “I think that it starts when you are very young and does not stop, even when you are very old.” 

“Then you are wise for your years, human. But where do you find yourself?”

They continue to unfold as they speak, an accordion sighing open after years of disuse, the keys striking a sour note on the collapse. When was the last time their eyes took in the sights of the world? There used to be towers, stadiums, grand causeways, farms of people among the great cities  — now there is only dust and the river. There is always the river. The human’s feet are slick on the stones and they watch as he lowers himself to sit at the bank. Will he not get mud between his — toes? Mr. Whitley smiles at their confusion. “I have found myself in the mountains and in the sky and in the faces of my children. When I was younger, I found myself through wine and whiskey. Today, I sit here and look for myself in the spaces between the words I know how to speak.” Cracks appear in their neck and they crane to stare at the man. Were they able, their brow would draw together in a magnificent furrow. “I have seen the mountains and the sky. I have watched your people have children and outlive them and bury their bodies in strife. I have watched you drink the whiskey and the wine. I have nothing but the river — and time.” A flake of rust shakes off of them, setting gently on the water. They both stare.

“Then you must search the river,” Mr. Whitley sighs, “and you must search for all the time you have.”

“I see. I think for now, human, that I will stay here and keep you company, if that is alright.”

Mr. Whitley lays against the ground, his shoulders pressed into the damp earth, a hand spun out to brush against their steel. It is warm from the sun and humming. Potential, Mr. Whitley thinks before he allows his eyes to grow heavy, that is potential. They stand guard while the man falls asleep on the riverbed, a child of the world once more. Dust rises from the human’s chest and settles among the soil and the wind carries the remainder of his breath away. 

They stand guard while the man falls asleep on the riverbed. When he is gone, they search the water. All in the river, Mr. Whitley said, and all in good time. 

[tahskah]

there is no more room in your world for walls of stone and iron bracing

take the miles of track you run to keep distance from the sun and burn it

raze every defense to the ground, salt the earth where your weeds used to grow, catch the words as they leave your throat before they make contact

have a little faith & for all that is holy —

let yourself be soft

[tahskah]

wild animals

the strongest smell of the summer

is peach juice

sticky sweet and smooth

running down the edges of my fingernails

i roll the pit around my mouth and

feel dogs at my heels

i used to hate the southern heat, i think

i spat blood onto the pavement and watched as

steam rolled off the iron

my bare feet collecting blisters in

defiance

there are no rules when there are

no fathers, no mothers

only the sun and the salt and the

dog cracking open the skin of my ankles

the summer After

all i did was run

i'd had practice

chasing tail through the haze

speeding as sharp edges spurred me on

i'd reach the waterline only to

turn around

and run back home

i must have traveled a hundred miles that june

on bad days, worse days, my legs wouldn't move

when that happened, the barking

got louder, their fangs got

sharper, the whites of their

eyes got larger and larger until it was all i could see

i'd forget about everything

but them

do you know how hard it is to run with a pack of wild animals at your throat?

today, there are howls in the distance and peaches on my tongue

i swallow the pit

so it sits in my stomach

— familiar —

and i smile

it reminds me of the summer i

raced to see the sunrise with blood on my hands and

fur in my teeth

feral, but

alive

[mincrvus]

“Mourn Icarus not for his melted wings, but for his descent from fire to craggy shore, skull split as his heart is in two. Mourn his lesson: it is always in the consequences of our passions that we must pay the price tenfold: Fly, fall, you dying stars; burn bright then fade away.”

— we are the architects of our own destruction.

[tahskah]

the ocean rises to greet me and I can't help but to think of you. you anchor, you pendulum, you tyrant, you blaze, you matchbox, you hope — you child. we contain multitudes, russian dolls stacked on the shelf. how many lifetimes can you fit into one heart? my ankles brush the foam of the sea and the tide rushes past my calves. oh young girl, tired girl, scared girl, angry girl; there is so much you don't know. I know you're staring out at the same horizon and wondering how you can stack an era of hurt into the waves. you're thinking about folding your pain between the pages of a book and letting the salt spray erase the evidence. but no ocean cleanses that deep and we never were that lucky.

so pick up the notes and the bottle and your boots, sweetheart — you have a long way yet to go. soon you'll be standing here as me, wishing well to the past and toeing the edge of a future you don't know how to swim in. you will be fine, baby girl — just stay afloat.

— a letter to who I used to be

[tahskah]

you feel like every fear i’ve swallowed whole in the last four years, gnawing on the panic in my own bones, the future holding still and heavy over our heads like a death sentence

yesterday you took my hand and told me to focus on the present, on the now, on the here with you on a cool night in february when we have each other and the sky is clear and my heart is too big for my chest

i am not good at focusing on the here and now, always tripping ahead to the what if’s and the could be’s, but i’m afraid i will lose you just as soon as i found you again

so i will try to let the panic pass and hold your hand and kiss your lips and let myself go soft at your grin when you catch me staring

honey, you are my a harbor in a storm -- i don’t know how long i can stay but by god, am i glad to be here