Monterey Bay Aquarium

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@theartofmadeline
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祝日 / Permanent Vacation
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@thenightmareonwallstreet
May Leaves
[18/05/2026]
Last night a priest from a past life
came to me in the orchard of my sleep.
He wore the face of someone I used to trust,
his robes stitched from the letters I never sent.
A door drifted down from the ethers.
The hinge sung my name
when the wind was lonely enough to try.
I am the patron saint
to this door that opens into nothing.
My knees know the exact geography
of that threshold, my palms
have memorised the grain
of its wood.
Then I remembered
how she held me like a spare key
to a house she hadn't built yet.
I hung to her necklace
next to her symbol of the divine,
metallic and cold,
waiting for a lock that would recognise
my teeth.
She held me with precision.
She kissed my eyelids while I slept.
She remembered the name of my childhood dog.
It was not nothing.
It was our house,
windows with light peeking
and warm bread and the particular
timbre of her laugh at dusk.
But our house was haunted
by a phantom architecture,
a shape I learned to eat around
like a tumour on the tongue of every evening.
I made room. I became
a contortionist of the heart.
I folded myself into smaller and smaller
origami versions of a vague personhood
until I could fit in the drawer
she kept for Wednesdays.
Every morning in her shower
I could not scrub off:
that her love was a bed
I had to share with ghosts.
Some nights I felt her hand on my cheek
and wondered whose skin
she was remembering.
Some nights she said my name
and I heard two other syllables
hiding inside it like larvae
in the belly of a fallen pear.
I left because I was tired
of being the third thing
in a room built for two.
I left because her love
was a feast I was starving at,
my plate full of food
I watched her serve to someone else
in the secret kitchen of her mind.
I left because I could feel
my bones beginning to curdle.
There is a specific rot
that sets in when you love
someone who loves you
as a contingency plan.
My blood learned the word maybe
hovering like a question
no mouth can be wide enough
to ask.
I could smell myself spoiling.
I could see the fruit flies
of my own self worth
gathering at the corners of my mouth.
So I unhinged my jaw
from the doorframe. I spat out
the splinters I'd been calling home.
I walked into the graveyard
I had been digging the whole time
without knowing.
The earth here is soft
because it is made entirely
of the hours you forgot I existed.
You built a cathedral to my leaving.
You light candles to the ghost
of my absence. You tell everyone
I was the cruel one
and perhaps I was.
The wound was not my leaving.
The wound was staying so long
I forgot what unbruised skin
looked like.
But you watched as I took the pliers
to my own mouth. You watched
my hand become a surgeon,
an exorcist, a butcher
who still believes in tenderness.
The metal touched enamel
and I pulled. God, I pulled.
The sound of cracking
was not a sound,
it was a root
being torn from the earth of me.
It was a lifetime of making room
being extracted through my jaw.
Blood ran down my chin
like a red syllable
I had been trying to pronounce
for years.
When it came out, the tooth,
the weight of us three,
I held it in my palm.
It was heavier than it should have been.
It was your face. Their face.
I never saw but always felt
sleeping between us in the bed
we called a sacrament.
Now I kneel at this door
that connects to no room.
My tears are the amniotic fluid
of a future we miscarried
three heartbeats, mangled.
I press my ear to the wood
and hear the wet thud
of that dumb persistent muscle
still knocking, still asking:
was I not enough,
or was she too much,
or is love just the arithmetic
of accommodating more
than the human chest
was ever built to hold?
Memory is a taxidermist
with a cruel sense of proportion.
It stuffs her tenderness
next to my evacuation.
She loved me.
I made room.
Some love is a graveyard
where the living still have to sleep.
-Radiya
Unraveling
Faux-Face by @thrydes
[ Above are my reflections on dysphoria a year ago ]
[ New Entry: 29 June 2025 ]
The Moth
Big Little Moth, you mistook my skin for the Sun once again.
You've found your place under it,
gorging yourself on artificial light
till there's nothing left.
Your incessant beating against my thoughts
I hear you trying to stay afloat.
It drowns in every puddle of my voice.
I will outlast the fluttering.
You've carved your name into my ribcage
like stained glass
like the scars you left me were your birthright.
I coughed up wings for weeks.
- Radiya
“The night copies me in all its stars” - Frederico Garcia Lorca
Today I watched Kafka's Ape a 2015 stage adaptation by Phala O. Phala of Franz Kafka's short story "A Report to an Academy" and once again watching a Kafka play in South Africa has cemented its place in my soul. Art is life. 🫀🫁
If you love me now then shoot to kill
The Art of Forgetting
not forgetting flames me up
like a foam of whispers
bursts into with laconic daring
over darkened waters
your name hangs unwritten
I rolled over on a rib
but it's useless
how long am I going to ferment you in my armpit
with your fragile ****** smile?
chase me away like the passersby do
with the meaning of travelling
I was not and you were not
you were not in my dying
we were only a laden pool of sunlight
I didn't find any solution
than to behead the days
these thin days unraveled from myself
from the bone of the world peeled of magic
the art of forgetting is for those
who sleep on pillows
such a long, long road
I've been travelling to a destination
obliterated by pain
to this gravitational center, to this place
with no hiding space
only mute seagulls
have seen my screaming
I've cursed myself on pages,
diaries of gory hours
I've cupped myself in belated answers,
dancing tears
more than eyes can meet
while I was forgetting nothing about everything
the world revolved once, twice, a dozen of times
you were learning to dissipate your name
to waste it on the lapel of not yet discovered seas
in the silence of leaves
now I know this calmness,
this tenderness of dying
I could write this unthreatening poem
today, tomorrow
till forever finds some peace
perhaps
some forgetting
- Irinia
The Velveteen Rabbit
I sit I scrub your stains off the broken walls in my body
I will build them up again
Perfectly, neatly, fantastically
– Just like you taught me
I will be real once more
Cigarettes And Whiskey And Wild, Wild Women
Perhaps I was born kneeling,
born coughing on the long winter,
born expecting the kiss of mercy,
born with a passion for quickness
and yet, as things progressed,
I learned early about the stockade
or taken out, the fume of the enema.
By two or three I learned not to kneel,
not to expect, to plant my fires underground
where none but the dolls, perfect and awful,
could be whispered to or laid down to die.
Now that I have written many words,
and let out so many loves, for so many,
and been altogether what I always was—
a woman of excess, of zeal and greed,
I find the effort useless.
Do I not look in the mirror,
these days,
and see a drunken rat avert her eyes?
Do I not feel the hunger so acutely
that I would rather die than look
into its face?
I kneel once more,
in case mercy should come
in the nick of time.
- Anne Sexton