Sweet Seals For You, Always
Peter Solarz

blake kathryn
trying on a metaphor
tumblr dot com
d e v o n

祝日 / Permanent Vacation
h
we're not kids anymore.

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taylor price
almost home
will byers stan first human second

Origami Around
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if i look back, i am lost
Sade Olutola
wallacepolsom

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
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@wrongway-goback
“Do I look handsome?” As if anyone will tell me the truth. Every time something goes wrong I change the colour of my hair. I hate being so predictable.
Has anyone ever tried to get a screenwriting agent? All their websites say “no unsolicited submissions - referrals only” but I cut everyone out of my life so that I can go weeks at a time without anyone saying my name.
I walk in the wind and it makes me feel sixteen again. But not who I was at sixteen. Rather, a cool, wise version of me who’s taking it as it comes and wears sick clothes, and can quote Mina Loy and likes the taste of beer (all of which, in reality, didn’t occur until my early twenties).
Something clicked a few days ago. I don’t know if it’s because I’ve been writing more and more, or because my boyfriend is on the other side of the world going on beach trips with Apple Martin and taking drop-in acting classes at NYU. And I walk around by myself. In the wind, at the bottom of the world, so focused on trying to romanticise what’s left of my life as some defence against acknowledging how fucking heartbreaking growing up is. I play songs from Pure Heroin and Honeymoon and pretend it’s 2015 again but it all means more this time.
And I wish I met him back then. I could’ve stopped him from dating that Young Conservative who cheated on him countless times, and he could’ve loved me like he does now—irrevocably and naturally—and I wouldn’t spend ten years trying to earn peoples’ love. And I’d love him straight away. I took my time, in truth. When I think about how he must’ve felt every time I dodged the question because I wasn’t ready, it fills me with anger. Anger directed at myself. How could I not see? I’m going to marry this man. I’d let you all disappear for this man.
“You look hot,” he says in our WhatsApp chat. I sent him a picture of my new hairstyle, along with some scripts I wrote today. Every second thought I have is ‘what time is it there?’
We keep trying to schedule calls but he’s so bad at maths that he can hardly fathom the time difference and we can only ever talk for twenty minutes at a time. His friends here invited me to a dinner party, which was sweet. They’re all actors. That whole introvert/extrovert thing? It should really be ‘are you a writer or an actor?’
He spurs this confidence and faith and trust in me, that… dear God… with every night that passes, and I feel more myself, I can’t help but reckon I’m meant to be both.
and there amidst the apocalyptic tempest, he dug himself into the earth and spoke an ancient proverb: it is what it is
you think so deeply about everything
no wonder you’re always drowning
the shredder
i’m done watching it dissolve and pop into nothing
my time! my fire! i was here!
and so were my pets!
it never snowed, why is it snowing in my memories?
it never ever snowed
most years the dam would dry up
and the crawfish would bake in the stiff mud
they were here
it’s a twenty minute walk to the nearest cafe so i have plenty of time to visit us in my head
where we have a house in each city
and we flit between them
whenever the drama takes us
i only wake up when i have to spell your name to the barista
God forbid i give them mine
you always insist we land in Newark
you’ve got some sick fetish for the Lincoln Tunnel
it’s cute—how i can taste your thoughts only beneath the crushing mass of the Hudson
but then the wax melts
they call your name and i look up
when this you see, remember me
i was born during an eclipse
something, something, spread over brown bread
something gone and dark
oxytocin analogues
i can’t speak to my mother in her mother tongue
a native language wiped out for what? britpop?
she’s deaf in both ears
and whenever i see her happy it makes me sad
i was born forgiving you
through pure muscle, i fight back against the seething in my cells
and the promise in my blood
i worry, in secret, that my houseplants are embarrassed to live in my room
i mix creatine with pinot noir
i am sadder
a triple libra, never balanced
a manic-depressive, never balanced
who speaks two languages, both foreign
a bisexual, whatever that’s worth
i suppose it was only a partial eclipse
and it would seem i was born half a son under half a sun
and so i write—well, i try to write
and i wonder, maybe… the reason nothing i write makes any sense is… because half of it’s missing
half of it’s always been missing
the open
i’ll love you most of any other love you’ll feel
that’s a threat
my love ruins lives
but there’ll be one out there who’s strong enough
to withstand my extremes
steadfast against my delusions
and the open will reach the close
and i’ll give you a child
and raise him with you
and teach him all we know
show him the roads we didn’t take
give him rules he’ll want to break
read him the lunar baedeker
raise him fierce
to show no fear when what’s gold turns grey