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srjacksin · 5 months

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The shirt I'm wearing belongs to a dead girl

And I don't know what to make of it.

It is soft, and 3 sizes too big, and I hold it to my face absentmindedly as though some part of me hopes I might still smell her on it (despite the fact that I've already washed it, and it had sat in a box for a year before the fact.)

I remember picking through her things, feeling like a vulture. Scavenging for anything I could justify taking from the tomb of her bedroom, anything I might use, while her father sat on the bed with tears in his eyes. I hate the fact the first time I saw her room was long after she would never set foot in it again.

The shirt has an Edgar Allen Poe quote on it and I wonder how it ended up in her closet. Did she like his poetry? Or was it just this specific quote that resonated with her?

"And so being young and dipped and folly I fell in love with melancholy."

I think it was the latter, but I hate that I don't know for certain.

I sat down next to her father and there is both too much, and not enough to say. I said what I was able to and then flopped down on my back and stared at the ceiling.

The bed was nearly bare. It isn't until much later that I realized it wasn't that way because she'd been too depressed to make it- no. They'd stripped the sheets because she'd died laying on them and I'd just lain in exactly the same spot.

And it strikes me that I almost died the exact same way.

It's not fair that I survived and she didn't.

#i don't know how to tag this im just feeling my feelings rn #i guess this counts as poetry #prose #spilled ink #death tw #she was a friend and i wish i knew her better #suicide tw #hell of a piece to christen this blog with thats for sure #writblr #my writing #vent

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belowaveragecow · 8 months

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Society portrays life as black and white but that’s untrue. There’s so many special things and so many layers that one person couldn’t come close to digging through all the layers. It needs to be a group effort

#justpulledthisoutofmyass #i guess this counts as poetry #we’re all in this together

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etherealspacejelly · 6 months

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its funny how quickly i revert back to my old coping mechanisms the second im back at home. me and my 16 year old self are both sitting on this bed listening to music and dancing inside our minds, trapped in a bunk bed that feels oddly like a cage, dreaming of escape. the boredom clings to my bones, but i cant bring myself to do anything about it. there is a book sitting next to me but i cant seem to pick it up. i want to retreat, further, further into my mind. my daydreams protect me from the harsh reality: my house never felt like a home, my room never felt like mine. i will never feel fully myself within these walls.

#vent #tw vent #poetry #? i guess #idk if this counts as a poem #emotional neglect

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goldiebeams · 7 months

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Girl help, I’m regressing to that point in my childhood where I’d imagine a fictional crush standing by my bedside as I try to fall asleep, gazing lovingly down at my resting figure in awe of the raw beauty and honesty that comes with the peaceful stillness of slumber

#text post #shitpost #my text post #relatable #? i guess #man idk #maladaptive daydreaming #adhd #adhd things #probably #daydreaming #or actually nightdreaming i guess #idk man I just work here #it’s weirdly comforting to fall back into old habits even tho I know it’s probably indicative of a larger issue #womp womp #writing #does this count as #poetry #probably not but I’m tagging it anyway

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attex · 5 months

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disgust

#art #comic #artists on tumblr #[rare art tag]#poetry #i guess if you squint it counts as that.#r slur tw #this is about ocd

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justalittlelogophile · 5 months

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💙 🌌 Want 🌌 💙

She turned hesitantly with tears in her eyes. Her hands clenched in white knuckled fists around the fabric of her shirt as she croaked out,

“You have no idea…how much I. Want. You.

How much I feel...how much I crave...that kind of connection with you.

I want... I just want...to hold you, cradle your face, wrap my arms around you and never let go.

I want to tell you why I believe in you, help you see all the good you do, and be your biggest supporter. I want to soothe the worry lines between your brows, to remove the tension from your shoulders, be the one you wake up from your nightmares to, and be the one you come running home to.

I want to see your smile reach your eyes every single day. I want to talk with you for hours, tease you relentlessly, be the reason you laugh yourself silly because that’s when I know you’re the farthest from what’s ever hurt you.”

The absolute broken anguish in her voice, shattered my heart. The longing in her soul somehow reached through time and space to brush against mine, and I could feel the bond between our shared ache. “I just want to be with you...in any way I can...”

~Po

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speedyslothboi · 2 months

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I spent an hour making a flower crown today. I'd never made one before. It didn't turn out very good; clumsy knots and and sticky fingers and broken petals but I still put it on and smiled. I never got that kind of childhood. I wondered if this is what healing feels like: sitting on a picnic table, gently warmed by the sun, breathing in the world. I have so much to do (an ap psych test in three days, ethics bowl nationals and science olympiad state to prepare for, a read through for the play on Monday) and instead I went outside and listened to the birds.

Then I got home and cried. Because 30,000 people will never get to make a flower crown again (and how many never had? It took me 17 years. That's more time than many of them ever got). I haven't breathed clearly in 6 months; a weight on my chest and a pit in my stomach but for one hour, I felt like I could breathe, the smell of grass unfamiliar but comfortable (and how many died in that time? Trapped under rubble? The weight on their chests real).

I feel like I've been sitting Shiva for strangers halfway across the world but I'll die before I finish mourning (575 years is a lot to ask of this body). I'm not doing a very good job. But what else can I do but remember? I don't know know what to do with myself. I'm heartbroken and horrified and I am so angry. I go to school and hear kids talk about tik tok drama and I want to grab them and shake them and yell "how can you think about anything else? How can breathe around your guilt well enough to speak?" I feel like I know to much and too little, never informed fast enough. I feel like I'm grieving and like I have no right to grieve. I'm tired. I'm not doing well (I can't remember the last time I brushed my teeth and I still need to schedule my fillings and do my laundry and change my sheets) but I feel so selfish doing anything to make myself happy, like I'm stealing joy I don't deserve. And I know that I'm burnt-out (years into it) and that I have to take care of myself too but I just don't know how to carry all this grief. And this isn't about me (I'm making it about me, aren't I?)

This will be the first presidential election I get to vote in and I can't vote for him, I can't. And I'm scared. People keep saying it's selfish not to but I'm the one who will face the consequences. I'm one of the "vulnerable" people (does that make it self-sacrificial? Does that make it okay? To risk my communities if I am at risk too?)

Paul Alexander died three weeks ago. I can't stop thinking about him. (Most of the articles won't tell you why though; that one of the most vulnerable members of society was abandoned to a disease that has killed 3 million). I keep seeing inspiration porn articles about how he didn't let his disability "stop him" (I feel like I'm "letting" mine stop me). None of them mention "I love the sun, but I haven't felt it in a long time. It's lonely." (I feel lonely all the time but I didn't feel lonely at the park, with dirt in my fingernails. I don't really believe in heaven but I hope it exists so Paul can sit in the sun again). I think of Paul and I am filled with rage. 5,000 people die of covid every week; that's one person every five minutes (how is that okay? how could you abandon us for "normal"?) and I'm one of three people out of 2200 at my school who still wear a mask. I got the most recent booster two days ago (the one only the "vulnerable" can get as if long covid isn't becoming an increasingly documented mass disabling event. And the genocide is one too. And what about the countries we blocked from getting vaccines with patents. How dare we condemn the global south to suffer without vaccines only to stop getting them). And I need to buy more masks (yet another expense to exist while disabled) and they aren't free anymore so it's another 3 hours of work. Cases keep rising despite the lack of testing and wastewater doesn't lie. And whats the new variant? News isnt reporting on it anymore because "no one cares" (I care. I need to believe others would care if they knew. Maybe thats just wishful thinking) I still have at home tests but their negatives feel like taunts (a positive is a positive though, I remember)

I don't really have any friends. I have acquaintances and people I work with for projects but I don't want them to be my friends. My mom and my therapist keep telling me to reach out and do things with them (I know it would be good for me to socialize but doing so would put me at risk. They can't even wear a mask, and I'm supposed to choose to spend extra time with them?) Neither my mom or therapist wears a mask. (My mom fought for me when doctors didn't believe anything was wrong. Fought for 7 years to get a diagnosis and now she won't protect me.) I go to the doctors and even they aren't wearing masks (didn't you learn your lesson?).

I've seen people complain about "boycott fatigue" and I'm just wonder how you are surprised? I lost faith 2 years ago when people decided that disabled people's lives weren't worth discomfort (I used to value the nuance, how it isnt that simple. Now my compassion is shot. My empathy used up on three million deaths. But it is, isnt it? Simple that is. You just dont care enough). When the accessibility we begged for for years that had been "impossible" was suddenly "easy" when everyone needed and then taken away just as quickly. The second you could leave us behind, you did. So how could I be surprised people would do the same for Falastin? I love theatre, and I'm excited for too much light. But half of them will walk in with Starbucks on Monday (and none of them will be wearing a mask) and I know these people will never truly be my people (I resent them and love them but mostly I'm disappointed.)

I've been crying alot. I never used to cry. Sometimes I feel like that means I'm healing (some of the time I wonder if I have the right to heal right now). It's like this grief keeps overflowing but the world keeps turning (and how can everyone keep living right now?) and homework keeps coming and the genocide keeps happening and I need to get back to making my magma composition notes. (I left the flower crown at the park. I felt guilty about picking the flowers; that must be bad for the environment, right? How selfish, to kill things just to make a silly crown, and I didnt even do it very well. It fell apart within a minute. An hour of work crumpled in my hands. A moment of enjoyment stolen at the cost of life, what a bad vegan I am. Anyway, i left the flowers there, to decompose where they were born)

#free palestine #from the river to the sea #free gaza #covid #long covid #wear a mask #poetry #?#does this count?#poem #i guess #vent #also the 575 year number is real #i did the math and started crying #and then i wrote this

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crowleys-hips · 8 months

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do you ever love something so much that you push it away in utter fear of losing it, because you'd rather be the one in control of that than ever having to bear the feeling of it being ripped away from you? but then you inevitably keep gravitating towards it because it's got a sort of magnetic pull that you can't seem to ever escape from, no matter how much you've tried. and time and time again, you're bound to get burned. and no matter how much it hurts, no matter how much it scorches your hands to a crisp, you keep jumping in and out the fire. you've been doing this deadly dance for years and years, and your feet are aching, but you'll never stop. the mere idea of anything else is unthinkable. until one day, your greatest fear of all comes true. the flames extinguish. your legs break. you lose it.

anyway, i am very normal about good omens. it totally didn't force me look in the mirror. could never be me. i absolutely have no idea what all that is about.

#does this count as poetry?#anyway it's sad prose i guess #good omens #good omens 2 #aziraphale #crowley #aziracrow #aziraphale x crowley #crowley x aziraphale #ineffable husbands #ineffable idiots #ineffable divorce #ineffable lovers #air conditioning #neil gaiman

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l-e-morgan-author · 7 months

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Surprise post! Two poems. I don't know how to add alt text in Wordpress yet, though, sorry.

#Besides #the first poem I haven't even written down apart from in that image lol #poetry #my poetry #salt and light #<- i think they count? who knows #indie author #christianity #chrumblr #every so often I second guess my decision to separate my author profile from my main tumblr blog because I know it would get more traction #there but also No

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sisterdivinium · 5 months

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Rating: T Categories: F/F, Gen Relationship: Jillian Salvius/Mother Superion (implied) Character: Mother Superion (Warrior Nun) Additional Tags: Introspection

"She makes her way back to Jillian, battered and bleeding, but there is no consolation in store for her. A circular cross awaits and she must nail herself to it now, for the glory of God." An exploration of what's going on with Suzanne when she stays behind "to protect the ark" and the consequences thereof.

#warrior nun #mother superion #doctor superion #warrior nun fanfiction #the challenge closed so i can post this at ao3 and link to it from here :)#this is... kind of prose poetry-ish? i guess? so it comes and goes with rhythm and sounds and whatnot #i am physically unable to keep things simple even for fortnightly challenges it seems lol #anyway. hope you enjoy it. i'm a bit torn on it myself but the friends who read it liked it and i hope other readers will as well!#narratives and similar #at least ao3 isn't hiding the word count on this one lol the last one still shows word count as void and tbh i find it hilarious

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alecscudder1987 · 2 years

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trans pain but make it chronic. collage inspired by @sweatermuppet [x]

#saw his poem this morning and i couldn't get this phrase out of my head. there's a lot of joy in being trans and in being disabled but.#sometime's it's just hard. yk #egan.art #egan.poetry #i guess?? does this count? who knows. fan poetry if you will. a recreation.#chronic pain #disability #chronic illness #art #found poetry

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cardworksartblog · 1 year

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The Lord Of The Wilds. The Beast. Wahteva u wanna call her. She doesnt care she just wants to let you hold a totally normal dead dove that she caught. Why does it look like you can see how its very atoms move and shudder when you grasp it ? Dont worry abt it haha

#not rw #not rainworld #monster design #werewolf #(? does she count as a werewolf? i guess kinda?)#Cardwork Poetry #The Beast #i felt like experimenting with my brushes. her eyes made me want to kill myself they were needlessly hard to get right #but im Satisfied with her now i think #tw dead bird #tw dead animal #tw mild blood

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dropthedemiurge · 8 months

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when i was born, my mother gave a gift to me called Grief, for many years unwanted kid like me read fairy tales and foolishly mistook that gift with Care because the vinyl records in our living room were playing gentle lullabies into my ears they drowned out man's yelling and the woman's cries i didn't know the mother's hands should not be cold i didn't know the bitter drinks in glasses smell like death not knowing any better, i grew up her perfect copy – the same dead look, dramatic outbursts and mourning of life i longed for love but how can one discover something never seen? it only grazed my heart in bathtubs, drawn by a path of pills the actress passed a cursed theatric play to only child – the ghost of one, who danced with Death more often than with other people; her hugs were cold, awaited and familiar

tonight i take a cigarette and put it in between my bleeding lips unknown singer lights it up for me, and suddenly i breathe – your flame feels warm your eyes see me your touch is nothing but a gift of Care so maybe if you sing the lullabies for me the Death will never interrupt us she won't dare

[Ray, Only Friends Series]

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moltengoldveins · 2 months

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. old bones .

(Went for a dig and found another old notes app poem. It’s about dysphoria, so heads up.💜)

.

There is a little girl I’ve hid beneath my bed in boxes, dressed in big clothes.

She’s tucked away within the stacks of old unfolded letters, pressed and tied closed.

(And there are things I wish someone had known to tell her.)

She shrieks and rattles the bed frame most nights, she’s a loud one.

She knows she wasn’t right when she walked the world, she was a proud one.

(She knows she was not made a cavern-dweller.)

She did not like her name then, when called aloud. It hurt her senses,

To feel the world bear down and roar like thunderclouds. She was defenseless.

She did not like the way her body felt lit from without, under the sunlight.

Within she begged for something else, a name for times of drought, a tougher birthright.

(It felt absurd to live set up beside the walking dead.)

But I could live life alive like she was not allowed, her plan backfired.

She gets quiet quickly now, the raving stops and starts. She’s growing tired.

(‘Take over, just for a little while’ is what she always said)

I stole this from her, the body lit without, the sunlit road.

I put her beneath my bed, I stuffed her skin, my fingers borrowed.

(She was the first one here. She has always owned this head)

I crawl down there to meet her there some nights when she is quiet, I tell her stories.

Of college classes, Waffle House, our latest book, those little glories.

She likes them. She’s not sure how she feels about the way we dress,

But that sick uneasy swoop that came with skirts is there with her. It’s laid to rest.

(There are so many things I’ll have to build and learn and witness in her stead.)

#Hm yes three guesses as to whether I have borderline personality disorder #The first two guesses don’t count #Do I have a gender? Yes. Is my relationship with that gender really rocky? Also yes #Do I fundamentally believe I was beautifully and wonderfully made? Yeah #Has it taken me two decades to wrestle my way to a passable acceptance of that fact? Very much so yes #Just because I love the Church (Bible edition) does not mean I always support the Church (fandom edition)#I’ve got more trauma than a tied bag of wet cats fished from a river #Poetry #Bpd #gender dysphoria

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writing-forever · 8 months

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Pre-programmed actions

Little poem I wrote in like ten minutes because the idea wouldn’t leave me alone.

Warning for: Hurt no comfort and character death

He greeted you with a smile.

He had no choice.

He got to know you.

He had no choice.

He asked you for help.

He had no choice.

You happily gave it.

He had no choice.

He spent all his time with you.

He had no choice.

You told him you wanted to dance.

He had no choice.

He held you close.

He had no choice.

Something whispered to him.

He had no choice.

He told you he loved you.

He had no choice.

You laughed.

He had no choice.

You thought he was joking.

He had no choice.

The dance ended.

He had no choice.

You went back to work

He had no choice.

The lights went out.

He had no choice.

He stalked you down the dimly lit halls.

He had no choice.

He grabbed you from behind.

He had no choice.

You screamed and fought.

He had no choice.

His claws pierced your skin.

He had no choice.

You told him you loved him.

He had no choice.

Your tears stained your shirt.

He had no choice.

Your blood stained his hands.

He had no choice.

He held your lifeless body in his arms.

He had no choice.

He said goodbye.

He had no choice.

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factumnihil2 · 1 year

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these days my trauma is less a catastrophic tsunami and more an incessant buzzing. that doesn't make it any less significant. that doesn't make it easy.

hail mary, full of grace, the lord is with thee. my catholic confirmation was fifteen years ago this week. blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, jesus. sunday school ended for me, and he probably moved on to some other child. holy mary, mother of g-d, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. amen.

i can still pray the rosary from memory. it hasn't been holy in a very, very long time.

#csa vent #csa victim #csa recovery #csa survivor #sa recovery #trauma #sa vent #trauma vent #religious trauma #catholic trauma #hail mary full of grace witness to the deflowering of your child in the very room i learnt the rosary in.#poetry vent #vent poem #i guess it counts.#todays been rough.

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