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@taleoftruthsandlies
weird feeling
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I didn't realize how many times a day people actually called my name until now. Every time I feel like I'm getting stabbed
I went back do my birth name and pronouns cause I'm tired of fighting.
But now I feel so empty. It feels like I left my own body. I am no more than an empty shell.
The gnashing edge, the last refuse,
the part of the feast that bites back, is what I am.
In the slaughterhouse of hunger, I am uneaten—
hard, blunt, a barricade of bone
in a world of want and waste.
They’ll eat everything else, tear sinew from bone,
savor the blood-rich muscle, the salt-slicked skin.
But me? I’m too jagged to swallow,
too bitter to carve.
I am the orphaned edge, the grit they spit out,
the piece they can’t make soft.
In the gluttony of flesh, where bodies become bodies,
and meat becomes memory,
I am what remains—
resisting the swallow, daring the knife,
still sharp and knowing, still something of self.
Maybe that’s why they leave me—
no flavor worth the fight,
no succulence to justify the choke.
I am pig’s teeth, where the hunger dies,
where the eater meets the eaten and recoils.
So let them dine on marrow, belly, and flesh,
let them hunger until there’s nothing left.
I’ll be here, in the bones of the mouth,
last line, last laugh, the part that survives—
sharp as truth, stubborn as hunger unmet,
pig’s teeth—unyielding, unswallowed,
the feast’s final secret kept.
"I swear I'll never miss you.
Even when you leave me,
Which I know you will,
I'll put on my mask and smile,
And won't even admit you're wrong.
I'll tell you that I'm lonely,
You'll brush me off and say
'I can have other friends too'.
Yes, but I thought I was your best.
I swear I'll understand,
Just let me say goodbye,
I'll let you go just fine,
Though you're always on my mind.
I loved you very deeply,
That can't just go away.
I say I'd never miss you,
But you'd always be welcome to stay."
-B
Hello my dears. This is the first poem I've been able to complete in a while because I've had a bit of a hard time lately. This poem is about a friend-breakup, which is something I find truly awful. I don't feel very confident in the meter of the poem, so if anyone can help me fix that, I'd appreciate it, but otherwise I'm always ready for help and as usual I hope you enjoyed reading. Lots of love.
Nothing but obsession, is Art.
Obsession with the way your chest feels heavy when you can’t quite breathe right,
with that one face, that one name,
scratching at the walls of your mind
until it spills out in ink, in brush strokes, in graffiti on the bathroom stall.
Art is obsession,
with needing the world to hear you,
obsession with the hope that they really hear you,
to shove your anger down its throat,
to let it know this is what I stand for,
what I hate.
And I hate it,
art.
I hate its arrogance, how it demands to be felt,
how it worms its way under your skin,
makes you bleed for it,
like it’s some fucking sacred thing
when really, it’s just a mirror,
one of the double sided kind, with someone that spies you on the other end.
I hate how it pretends to be beauty
but it’s just greed in disguise,
the greed to be anything other than invisible.
But that’s the trick, right?
The paradox.
The thrill hidden in the feeling of despising its very existence.
Because isn’t that the most raw form of obsession?
To hate it so much that you can't let it go?
And though it was I who left,
it feels as though you disappeared.
Do you ever think about the fact that every morning millions of penises in the same time zone are erect at the same time
how to find new job without wanting to stab fork in eye
how to find new job without wanting to set things on fire
how to find a new job without your soul being sucked out of you
how to find a new job without calcium starting to leech from your bones
how to find a new job and not descend to hell dimension
they should invent a grief that doesn’t define you in new and strange ways for the rest of your life
TW: mention if csa, mention of violence and abuse.
Tonight I had this dream, it's so vivid in my head.
There was a woman cooking in a huge pot, smiling children ran over to her, calling her name. She had really short hair, and from behind, you couldn’t see her face. She turned slightly to smile at the children, her face was horribly scarred, though I only caught a glimpse for a second.
Then the scene shifted. There was a scruffy-looking boy, maybe around 10 years old. He was overweight, with greasy long hair, square glasses, and dirty, sweaty clothes. Despite his appearance, he formed a close friendship with a neat, well-kept girl with a bob haircut and bangs. The girl felt sorry for him and tried to help him clean up, though his appearance never changed throughout the dream. For some reason, the boy insisted that their friendship had to be kept secret, even from other kids. He told her that something bad would happen to both of them if anyone found out, and she nodded in agreement.
It then became clear that the girl was an orphan, adopted by a cruel old woman who lived alone with her unemployed son. The woman exploited her small hands for sewing and often locked her in a dark closet or refused to feed her. The girl frequently ran away to an abandoned warehouse, where she met the boy. Despite his mildly creepy appearance, the boy was always affectionate toward her, giving her gentle kisses on the forehead and holding her hand whenever she needed comfort.
One day, news broke out about children disappearing, leading to a curfew. But the girl still sneaked out at night to see the boy. In a whisper, she asked him, "Did you do it?" He didn’t answer. "Do you know where they are? You love everyone so much, you’d want to keep them with you forever,I can understand it. " she said. The boy became furious, suddenly letting out a horrifying scream, and ran away.
After that, the girl grew more fearful and barely left the house. However, one day the old woman demanded she make a delivery, threatening not to let her back inside until she completed the task. As the girl walked, she encountered the boy. Terrified, she started to run, but he was much faster, like he had longer legs. She barely made it back to the house and screamed for the old woman to let her in, begging and saying she was scared. The old woman dismissed her, claiming she was only saying that because she didn’t want to make the delivery.
Seeing the boy getting closer, the girl chose to keep running. She came across two other children and shouted for them to play hide-and-seek with her to save them. They all ended up in the abandoned warehouse where she used to meet the boy. The three of them hid in a small, closed-off area, but eventually, the boy found his way in. The two other children didn’t escape, though the dream didn’t show what happened to them.
The girl kept running but soon found herself trapped in a dead-end alley. The boy appeared in front of her, holding a broken iron pipe. He SAd her and then hit her face with the iron pipe repeatedly. When he finished, he picked up a big shard of glass from the ground and began stabbing himself. With each strike, he grew older and older, transforming into an adult. His appearance was the same, just bigger. I guess it fit better this way. I think he had never been an innocent child, but the little girl had always seen him as one so I did too.
I don't recall every single detail, it was much more impactful while I was dreaming, I ended up waking up with a huge headache.
(Also English isn't my first language so, sorry if anything was confusing lol)
i feel like throwing up
Forgive me, for when I love,
I fasten myself with these talons,
in a worship so fierce,
even Hera would tremble.
I become a creature,
pathetic in my fervor,
devout to love as though
it were an ancient relic,
holy, untouchable.
I can't be trusted with love,
for it consumes me,
whole and unrelenting.
– a poem of mine
I find it kind of stupid how 'half full' vs 'half empty' is framed as an optimist/pessimist thing. If it starts full and gets halfway drained, it's half empty. If it starts empty and gets halfway filled, it's half full. If you don't know the starting state it's both simultaneously.
The most sure sign that someone doesn’t know much about poetry is when they insist that poetry has to rhyme.
And the most sure sign that someone is a little too pretentious about poetry is when they say that they hate rhyming poetry.
— Arthur Miller, The Crucible
I wonder where they are now
All the versions of you I fell in love with