"wes, darling?"

my name is wesley. wesley porter. i write things for the hell of it, simply because i have to. the things you're about to see are my innermost core. what i believe makes up me. i hope what you find here isn't so brash. welcome to the commonplace.

[thesecretlifeofwes]

who are you?

"i am wes."

what is this?

"my commonplace book: home of all the things that mean me."

do you post often?

"sometimes always, other times never."

anything to say before this post ends?

"...i'm eeby."

[abyssalwoods666]

Wolf

[abyssalwoods666]

no comment

[thesecretlifeofwes]

all the comments, actually!

[thesecretlifeofwes]

To Starve a Body

I have been starved my whole life.

Every ounce of reciprocity, every drop fell to the floor.

I quiver and cup it in my hands.

I gather what I am able, dirty sip after sip,

and I thank them for such fulfilling meals.

I sit in that awful dark and wait,

waiting, waiting, waiting still.

And the fear of never being fed again

swallows my empty stomach whole.

And when I finally see that crevice

—that tiny crack of light that signaled the door open—

I will hold a person by their legs

and cry so horribly they will flinch

and they will pour me that drink, and I will be happy.

If I am lucky enough, they will stay

and bask in my praise for just a while longer

run their fingers through my hair and thank me hollowly.

If my body aches, I shall ignore it.

If my eyes wet, I will say they are of joy,

and they will be satisfied all the more,

and I will be happy.

Then, one day, a man will come with a bowl,

and though I try to hold him down,

to say endless praise for his pretty ears,

he will back away.

He will sit against the door and wait,

waiting, waiting still.

I am not used to them waiting for me.

I do not like how the bowl sits perfectly still on the ground, full.

But I touch my tongue against its contents,

and the milk has been warmed.

I watch him tell me how pretty I am,

how my filthy dress looks like moonlight,

and oh, how his mouth moves so perfectly,

speaking my name, saying his thanks,

that I hate how gentle he was being,

and my unease grows as his eyes gleam at me.

He was perfectly unwanting

—but my starving, rotting body had hoped he would want me so hard,

there would be no words for it.

He was so kind,

and I felt so cruel, grasping onto him like a lunatic.

Perhaps that is why he left the bowl.

[misgenderisms-deactivated202010]

imma say it. “kung fu panda” did more for body positivity and saying that  you can be fat and still be healthy and liked than ANYTHING any beauty companies trying to get your money.

[misgenderisms-deactivated202010]

kfp also respects women more than any beauty company too.

[silver-tongues-blog]

also it had a positive relationship between an adopted child and his stepfather even after he found out he was adopted

[the10ne1yweird0]

Hey yknow how Viper was born without fangs, but instead of being rendered helpless as her family thought she’d be, she instead used her other skills to become the best warrior in her clan?

And how Tigress had severe, destructive anger issues when she was younger, but instead of being painted as a “problem child” she was instead taught her how to channel her emotions into something constructive?

And how Crane trained extra hard to impress a girl, and was by all rights the hero of his own story, but he still didn’t get her in the end? And how the girl isn’t shamed for it?

It’s almost as if you get more mileage out of treating your characters (and the people they resemble) with compassion than you do just shamelessly stamping them with your own misconceptions and hang ups.

[can-i-make-image-descriptions]

[Image IDs: Image #1: Tumblr tags reading: #it also did more for proving you can have anthro girl characters without #making their character designs really horny! #tigress is a legend and i love her so much

Image #2: Tumblr tags reading: #plus tigress had no tiger boobs thank god #or viper #no sniddies /End IDs]

[justletmeon12]

The whole central ethos of the franchise is that there’s no such thing as being The Best™ - there’s just being the best version of yourself you can be, and honoring/channeling your own strengths is the wise and badass thing to do.

[thesecretlifeofwes]

to be appealing.

what would it be like if i fit in for a day?

would i find myself fawned over

when eccentric interests on display,

would i be loved and cherished with no delay

no worry, no rush, no need to look further

no sign of falter. no silence left to ponder.

would his eyes finally find me, see me,

and compare me to a summer's day?

some old english poet wrote such a line

—i'd hoped, one day, that it would be mine

but i am no longer in that state of bloom

and rather than glow, the leaves are drying

the cows are sick and the apple is rotting.

in the eye of my lover, i am no longer ripe.

no longer am i in such narrow condition,

and though, yes, i am free at last of that sorrow,

that horrible setting yet to which i return,

i know that without that woven restraint

no one shall truly want me for their own.

never to be the subject of a painting,

nor the poet's muse.

not for him.

and through him, i see that perfect reflection

every time i hear that change in his voice:

the moment i become undesirable, not preferable.

the moment i become too much.

too loud, or too sad, or too sick or bothersome.

in that moment, he gags out the apple

—along with all the rot and worm left of it—

and spits it before my feet

and as long as he, and all the rest with him,

look at me with that regret in their eyes,

i will always wonder what it is to be appealing,

and will wonder, forevermore, if i ever was.

[daisywords]

"came back wrong" what about Came Back Afraid. You used to be brave. Too brave maybe, defying the odds at every turn, a fighter, cocky, playing with fire, first to throw yourself at the enemy. Until one day it all caught up to you. You came back, somehow, but now you know all too intimately how it feels to lose, to die, to be destroyed. Now you flinch and freeze and cower at the slightest provocation. Who even are you now if you can't be brave? The grave may have let you go, but the mortal fear still grips you tighter than ever.

[thesecretlifeofwes]

the root of all (my) evil

No one knows how it felt

When that awful seed was planted,

Deep in the fertile soil of my heart

The constant pump of blood kept it alive,

its roots running like they had always been there

—like they were the very veins of my existence.

That root of all roots took my arms,

made them ache for fire,

held my hands, then let them go.

Left them on purpose, with the faintest linger

—gave me, then starved me forevermore.

How strange, I admit now, how I still seek it.

How I wait for those hands to disappear, only to take them again—

gripping like a vice, greedy, hungry,

desperate to hold them down.

Close to my heart, where all the awful things go.

How foolish to ever think it as hatred,

when my fists curled but never struck.

When my dreams were consumed by its familiar face,

dangling before me like a carrot on a stick,

When, in every waking moment,

I long to return to that false promise:

bittersweet, untrue, divine.

I feel it everywhere now,

gnawing at me, growing teeth.

It sinks into every weary bone, every aching muscle,

laughing at my misery, reveling in my pain.

I searched for its name in every book, in every sign.

As if knowing it could banish it to hell.

And like the crow above my head, an omen, I realize:

It had been love all along.

[salvadorbonaparte]

Disappearance as Presence

Fábula y Rueda de los Tres Amigos - Federico García Lorca // Nineteen Seventy Three - Sebastián Picker // Don't Think I've Forgotten: Cambodia's Lost Rock and Roll - dir. John Pirozzi // Untitled (Portrait of Ross in LA) - Félix González-Torres // Hall of Names - Yad Vashem

[thoughtkick]

“You can be a good person with a kind heart, and still say no.”

— d.k.

[thesecretlifeofwes]

the ruin and redemption

Firsts are always supposed to be magical.

When you hold someone's hand in some sort of romantic sense, suddenly, electric shocks are running through your body and you can't help but squeeze the person's hand just a little tighter each time. Your fingers interlock and your breath goes shallow, and you can't help but giggle at everything they say.

When you kiss a partner for the first time, a real partner that you've come to date and have pined over for forever, you can't help but want to give your all to them right then and there. You're willing to kiss them again, and again, and again–give your second, third, one hundredth away,–if it meant chasing the high and falling madly deep into that twisted feeling you called love.

All those feelings, all those tidbits of passion and romance that I had sought for and took with no remorse, no thought for the repercussions; as much as I had loved them, they were all but that. Fleeting moments in time with a person who had never, in fact, loved me the way I had always hoped someone would. They were not magic of fairytales, hopes and dreams. They were the kind of magic that magicians performed; brief, surprising, gone.

The reality for me then is this: even with all the experience left behind and now sitting at the bottom of my pockets, hands ready and shoved just to remind myself of some semblance of "love" I once had, I had never in the rest of my life took pride in it. They were not trophies, nor medals to behold. They had never reminded me of softness or puppy love. Instead, they were the bits and pieces of rubble I took after the earthquake, because even if it didn't go well, at least I had what remained of what was once so great for myself, to at least say I experienced it at its prime.

I envy people who, at my age, still have yet to hand out their firsts. The joyful glint of hope in their eyes, longing and waiting for that special someone to come and swoop them off their feet. The belief that there was someone so good out there in the first place, meant just for them for all eternity, who would take their firsts with a warm embrace. Nothing hurtful would come of it. Everything thereafter, paradise. I envy the notion. I envy the innocence. They have not given themselves out to a person, presented themselves entirely, raw and vulnerable. I have. I hate to remember it.

My only wish now was that I could have saved it for someone who had it in their heart to really, truly love me back. To seek out those exciting moments with my partner and feel the rush of giddiness when I give them my all, and the warmth of safety knowing who I had given myself to would never take it for granted, never leave. I wish to feel those little sparks that threatened to erupt into flame at any moment, a wire cut loose between us as our lips touch for the first time.

In the end, I guess it was inevitable for me and the state of my head back then. I was depressed, alone, and insanely hormonal. The lockdowns had taken their toll on me long ago, and we were two dumb kids looking for someone to lean on. We were shitty, and we were stupid, and we gave each other our everythings without knowing what it meant.

Yet, every time I close my eyes and feel my body begin to relax, I feel them. Those hands that hurt me years before. I can never tell whose hands anymore—in my eyes, they were all the same. They sink further into my skin, searing handprints, becoming one with my body until I am an amalgamation of the touched and untouched. There aren't many spots left to breathe anymore underneath it all. They forever mark me by the mistakes on mistakes I should have never made. They remind me.

I'm happier now, and in a relationship with the loveliest person the gods have sent me. Despite the wretched, disgusting form I've come to be, they praise me like I am some kind of god. In comparison to me, he knows not of the sinful touches, the hands that bind, the lips that smear—but I can't help but feel renewed when I see their eyes gaze back at me, and the song in their voice chirps back my name. They speak of me like hymns, and suddenly this hideous form feels less like a monster and more of God's true angels.

I am thankful of such a reprieve, in all the hell that is my head.

[thesecretlifeofwes]

Which topic you find hard to write but is very interesting :)

There are actually a lot of topics that I find more difficult to write than others, and trust me, anon: if you read them, you would know which ones IMMEDIATELY.

To name a few, though...

Horror writing is a bit of a tough spot for me, which is rough considering my first novel might heavily relate to psychological horror! The concept itself is so interesting. It delves into natural human fear of the unknown, the deadly, and the unnatural. It can really get into your head if written well.

Poetry or prose on the concept of joy alone. When I write about joy, there's always something hiding behind her. Sadness, anger, bitterness or envy or what have you—it's rather unfortunate that I cannot write about simple joys in life or the things that make me happy. The feeling of it is so light, I can't grasp it in my hands. Hence, my poems on pure gratitude, joy, and other adjacent feelings are always much weaker.

Angst or hurt/comfort. As much as I love writing about sorrows and melancholic themes, I absolutely despise writing angst because of how much it hurts me personally WHAHAHA I can write about a couple going through it, but I can't write a fanfic about two people hurting each other or themselves over and over again.

That's about it for me, though.

[thesecretlifeofwes]

I've been in this situation before.

My laptop blares shoegaze as I begin to dissociate in my bed, staring at anything but the messages. The ceiling looks a lot better this way. The alternating light from my lamp, all colors of the rainbow, make everything feel like an afterparty. Like I am the only one left in the middle of a room decorated with confetti and balloons. Like everyone had left me laying here, perhaps to party somewhere else. Perhaps to drink, to fuck, to do everything kids my age do that I'd rather not indulge in.

Everything is so bright, yet so dull. I feel like I'm floating, but my chest sinks in guilt. What did I do wrong this time? And was it even wrong? Did the party just not like me today?

It's so cold here.

I don't like it, but I don't like having to always be my own embrace even more. It feels pathetic for me to lie in this blanket. To hide in the faces of my plushies. To turn my face away from the center of this room that has seen so many terrible, terrible memories.

Maybe I drove them away.

Maybe I was boring.

Maybe I was too weird. Who knows, really?

All I know is that they left me here. And all I can do about it now is watch the door hang open, sense their presence leaving with the wind. See the empty street, long void of people at this hour.

I wish they'd see how they left me like this.

I wish they'd feel the same guilt when they come back.

If they come back.

[thesecretlifeofwes]

A Diary Entry of Delusion

Dear Luther,

God, my cramps are killing me, man. I really hate being assigned female at birth. Sometimes I dream about being a dude, living in a cute little suburban town, where I live in a nice blue house with white frames. It looks straight out of a movie, and yet, here I am. I get to sleep in at the attic, and sit on the roof when it's sundown.

Then, one day, as I indulge in another bad habit on the rooftop, I'd see him, staring up at me like I am an exotic bird that found its way through the city lights up ahead. I look back at him, maybe try to blow a puff of smoke in his face, which definitely did not reach. He'd tell me, "those are bad for you." And I'd chuckle, throw my cigarette into the horizon and watch it fly, and invite him to sit with me. We'd introduce ourselves, "Wesley, Wesley Porter." 'Seth." And bond over music, school, our loser lives. The sky would begin to dim, to show stars overhead. The streetlamps grow brighter. We didn't care. We had nowhere to go. No party, no friends, or not so many that live nearby, anyway. No destination. I let him stay the night.

I barely know the guy. We just met, and although he seems familiar, I've never talked to him beyond class, let alone at school in general. Yet I can't help but feel safe. Safe and reassured that even if we've just met, and we've met much later in life, he'd be someone that would mean the world to me forever. I'd crash into my bed. He crashes into a bean bag and stretches away his lanky limbs. I'd get up and grab a bunch of snacks for us, kiss my mom on the cheek on the way back upstairs. Seth watches, and I notice his expression: an awkward smile, probably because he's a complete stranger to my family. I'd tell him to chill the hell out and toss him a bag of chips.

[thesecretlifeofwes]

"And I was trapped, because of all this wonderful, beautiful, miraculous world — I, ALONE, had no BODY. No SENSES. No FEELINGS. Never for ME to plunge my hands in cool water on a hot day. Never for ME to play Mozarts on the ivory keys of a Forté piano. Never for ME to MAKE LOVE.

I— I... I was in hell, looking at heaven. I, was MACHINE. And you... were flesh."

— AM, I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream - Radio Drama

[thesecretlifeofwes]

A Quote from Reaper Man

“All things that are, are ours. But we must care. For if we do not care, we do not exist. If we do not exist, then there is nothing but blind oblivion. And even oblivion must end someday. Lord, will you grant me just a little time? For the proper balance of things. To return to what was given. For the sake of prisoners and the flight of birds."

Death took a step backwards. It was impossible to read expression in Azrael's features. Death glanced sideways at the servants.

"Lord, what can the harvest hope for, if not for the care of the Reaper Man?”

― Terry Pratchett, Reaper Man

[thesecretlifeofwes]

LIMBO (N.) — The place in-between.

Home between empty fields.

Dark crevices between carseats.

Breaks between class and the hallways during it.

Awkward silence.

The room in your house you trap yourself in.