tinylittlemovements

[tinylittlemovements]

what is loneliness?

it's feeling pressured when I'm out, and taking pictures on my own, and there's a line forming, and really, I should hurry up, shouldn't I? It's not like there's more of me and less of them;

it's the terrible assumption that once I leave the room, the air would clear up a bit for everyone else;

it's the acid that rises to my throat, burning my vocal chords so I won't have to come up with an excuse not to talk;

it's the constant nagging feeling that i'm just too much, but also not enough, never enough;

it's overhearing plans being made without me, they're having meat, they're finally having that barbecue together, now that i'm gone, now that i've been transferred, it's thinking that it must be nice;

it's overhearing strangers sharing remarks on the movie they all watched;

it's overhearing laughter and feeling my stomach churn;

it's sitting in bed and wondering, for a terrible moment, whether my current girlfriend will get sick of me anytime soon;

it's sending every picture of myself, and wondering, ever so terribly, which one will turn her away for good, which one will make her realize she deserves better;

it's looking up the ceiling and realizing how narrow a space a three by two meter room seems to be;

it's the numbers on the scale, that don't ever change;

it's the way i just don't look like everyone else;

it's looking in the mirror and wondering what went wrong, and when;

it's the way there's never really anything good to say;

it's the way my teeth grind, and realizing that even the way i chew is wrong, it's the shame in knowing, it's the crookedness of my teeth;

it's the way i'd instinctively lean forwards, on a bus or train platform;

it's the way i'd think of being ten, and vying for the cleaver again, thinking of chopping off all the excess off my body so i'd feel whole again;

it's realizing i can never be truthful if i want to live, and others have it worse, anyways, so i can't complain, really;

it's how every compliment feels backhanded, messy lines add no charm with no intention, understated means boring, confidence means arrogance;

it's bearing with every awkward hello, and watching as someone doesn't know what to do with me, when i don't know what to do with me either;

it's feeling the flesh on my skin, and hating clothes shopping, and wanting to pick off the meat off my bones;

it's getting weird looks, it's being given a fake job, it's constantly feeling like the spare leftovers;

it's getting home, and immediately typing this out, just so it'll get out of my head

#factory rejects

[tinylittlemovements]

when I look in the mirror,

holding myself,

all i see, all i am are just

the patchy

dryness of my bleeding lips, the heavy bags

of my weary eyes, the

isolation and

desperation in them and the

only things I know how to do is to is cry; perhaps

i am nothing but a set of math problems

waiting to be fixed,

always full of fake derivatives, and formulas that don't work with,

no real solutions

to the rational mind, and maybe when I'll be put on the

test, no

one will be able to solve me in time and, the

door will be closed for me again and,

i just don't know if I really want to die, but I do know that,

everyone would(n't) mind

#ugly #bad

[tinylittlemovements]

the risks of a failed attempt

by the time I'd want to meet my end I'd imagine, the angel of death will have me inspect, all these fragments of my life, missing: all the receipts I keep, never once accounted for all the expenses, never once kept track of all the unfinished works, never once published all the stories I kept in my mouth, never once spoken of all the friends I'd abandoned, never once mended to all the hearts I ruined, never once cherished all the lives I could've had.

and she'd say: this is not a life lived, or she'd say: this is all proof that your life is not enough, for me to take.

#mine #attempts at #poetry #spilled ink #writeblr

[tinylittlemovements]

I broke my mug.

I broke my mug the other day. It fell off the stool I'd been using as a nightstand (I was too broke to afford an actual nightstand, and there won't be room for it anyway, my dead cat's cushion is there, it'd be in the way, the nightstand).

It was sudden, and I didn't see it happen, but I knew it did. I was half awake, it was late, I'd inadvertently moved and pushed something off.

The next morning I'd found its remains by the side rail of my bed.

I liked that mug, mostly because the handle's blue, and I was supposed to like blue, it was my mother's favorite color. And partly because it felt heavy, and I could tell when it had water inside, because I could easily feel the weight. It's reliable like that.

Even as it broke, it didn't break away to tiny little pieces, and it didn't pierce my foot with any of its errant shards. I didn't have to go looking to clean off any microscopic ceramic off the floor. It was reliable. And part of me hated that reliability.

Part of me wanted it to shatter, wanted it to pierce me so I could share its wounds too, so I'd let my feet bleed out on the cold floor, maybe then it would get me to clean up, to pick things off the floor.

Another part of me had expected it to happen. A stool cannot be a proper nightstand. It's too small, and flimsy, and unreliable. Hadn't this been a clear ending set out from the beginning. Could I have done better?

I don't think so.

I liked that mug.

It was plain white with a light blue handle.

It reminded me of the sea. I missed the sea, and the clear blue skies, and the wispy white clouds hanging overhead. I miss it.

It reminded me of my dead cat. All pure white with a black spot on her forehead and a medium sized black tail and a singular black spot on one of her hind legs. I can no longer remember which leg it was. It's only been two months. Maybe three.

I had another mug, just as white, with a darker blue handle. But maybe I was mistaken. Had it been that one that broke? I couldn't remember.

I hadn't the mind to pay it attention.

#prose #??? #I don't know #I'm just trying stuff out #it's bad as always

[tinylittlemovements]

30/01/23

aku tidak bisa menemukanku, di bahasa ibuku, bahasa mana pun yang ibuku tahu, atau seharusnya tahu, lantunan-lantunan syair terdengar asing bagiku, guyonan dan gubahan musik terdengar samar di kalbu.

//

lantas, aku tidak juga menemukanku, di wajah teman rekan sebayaku, di lautan manusia yang menjemputku. aku tidak ada di antara mereka, di konser-konser dan di kafe-kafe, di jalan-jalan maupun di makan-makan aku tidak kenal mereka, pakaian, parauan, suara senda gurau mereka, aku tidak memahami mereka, tangis pilu dan tawa canda mereka aku tidak di situ. aku tidak pernah di situ. //

aku tidak bisa menemukanku, di serpihan-serpihan yang terkubur, di bawah tumpukan pakaian kotorku, di bawah plastik dan sampah kemasan hidupku, di lukisan-lukisan terbengkalai yang tak kunjung selesai, di mimpi hidup yang tak kunjung terlalui. //

aku tidak pernah ada sepenuhnya, aku ada dan tiada, tidak seluruhnya, aku berbanyak, dan aku hanya satu, aku bagian, tapi aku terpisah, aku perantara, sini dan sana, aku menggeliat, dan aku diam sejujurnya, aku tidak yakin pernah ada. // tapi aku ada, di mata bocah kecil yang meracau tak karuan, di tepukan halus seorang lanjut usia yang menyimpan tempat duduk bagiku, di lengkungan kuku bulan yang menusuk kebiruan memar malam, di lautan dalam, dan di pasir putih yang menyusup sandal murahan di pagi hari, di antara buku-buku, mengenai kisah lama dan baru.

//

selama dunia ini belum berakhir, mungkin aku ada, di dunia yang baru

#mine

[tinylittlemovements]

I have lost myself

In the bustling streets of the city;

pieces of myself,

Torn and strewn about,

Like chunks of flesh and tissue,

All over the rail roads,

In the lonely songs, in the lonely nights,

In the meaningless conversations,

In the midst of fright,

In the books I've read and left unread,

In the graves of my foremothers,

In the empty bosom of my mother,

In my understanding and my lack thereof,

In the now and the hereafter

Now the sounds echo through me like a hollow chamber,

Now what remains is a cave one dares not to wander,

Where is myself? Where am I? Even I myself have started to wonder.

#text #mine #ugly #230123 #poetry #ugh can i even tag it that

[tinylittlemovements]

some stupid angsty gay poetry that should've been written by a teenager

and not a 23 year old with no hearts nor desires.

My love is a type of prayer, the killing kind, the ugly, dirty thing that wants and crawls, and devours; aches at the crushed rib cage of my lungs. // it is the possessive kind; a wretched thing, that wants so badly for everything to be his; my song, my words, my will, my utterance, my art, my own two hands; // i am a writer who'd tear open my lungs, just to get out the words that's been stuck in me, only i'd be so bad at it, i'd pick out the letters, from the tangled gore and mess, but I'd know nothing about arranging them, so there they lie, in their dirty alphabet soup, I wouldn't know what letters I'd have written to myself, I wouldn't know what words would come out of myself. // all i know is to be ugly, I'd be so good at it, tear my lips and hair out, I'm no good for the world.

#ugly #factory rejects #gore cw #body horror cw

[tinylittlemovements]

And now for my next trick, you will all see me do terrible things to myself.

#messy #mess

[tinylittlemovements]

Here are the steps to free your heart. Follow only if you are willing:

1. Dig a hole and carve it right out of your chest. Gently. Roughly. However you want it done, just get it done.

2. Hold it in the palm of your hand. Grasp it, gently, so that it will not burst. Feel the veins and align the arteries. Make sure it's all in working order. Don't mind the wetness of your blood. You'll wash yourself of it soon.

3. Feel its weight, how much space does it fill, does it occupy, how much of its space is filled, is occupied, how much tar do you need to siphon out, how much ink do you need to wipe away

4. Consider its texture. Bulbous. Gloomy. Dirty. Consider its scent. Rotten. Metallic. Sickness inducing. Consider the nausea, the sharp pangs in your head.

5. Take a deep breath, and then, take a big bite, right out of it, sink your teeth right in it.

6. Chew it. Sink your teeth in the rotten flesh and tear it to fine pieces and swallow.

7. Let the acid in your guts burn what you couldn't bear to chew. What you couldn't bear to take. Feel it burning. Melting. Feel it becoming... No more.

8. Live with the hollowness in your chest, gaping and wanting, unfulfilled. And live with the knowledge, that the answer's been right inside of you all along.

#cw gore #messy

[tinylittlemovements]

I am just a silly little paper boat drifting out to sea on my own.

soon the water will seep into my paper skin and take me with it, soon it will hold onto me and break me and never let me go, and soon i will no longer break surface, i will no longer ride the waves,

instead I will be very still, and sink into the water's embrace

#spilled ink #messy

[tinylittlemovements]

It would be so easy. It would be so easy to cut myself open if I didn’t scream, If I didn’t think I could still cry or even wince. It would have been so very easy. But still I fear, for the screams about to come, for the things I’m about to run. From? Nothing from its course. Everyone’s liable to it, at some point. It changes nothing. The palm of your- of my hands remain unblemished. Is it punishment when you want it done? There is something in the back of your- my mind, something in the back of my throat. Something creeping, reaching, seeping out.

There is always a predestined answer, a path remaining unchosen. For what reasons? Well- 

There is a ship out dock somewhere and you- I’d think it’d be best if we ride it. Where? Somewhere. Towards the dawn. Towards the dying light? Towards-

There is no predestined answer.

The blade chips at your- my skin, but it does not graze it.

But you- I could.

It would have been so easy to rip it apart. To tear it open. To smithereens. Like party wrappers. A bunch of meat confetti. 

There’s something beneath that demands seeking.

Nothing should remain definite. The pangs in your head and heart will only grow larger.

Have you ever thought to set it apart? Set what? Apart.

Tear it out, your lungs. There’s no musical description for it. No melodious annotations.

Why is it that I am oscillating from here to there? Neither there nor here. Wherever else shall you be? Nowhere. Preferably.

The coast only grows farther and farther. Should there be an oasis expected in the dried sea? Our bare feet are soaked with sand.

Perhaps this will go on. Perhaps this is your answer. Perhaps you are- I am- we are, to go this way. 

But that can’t possibly be true.

#cw gore #spilled ink #writeblr

[tinylittlemovements]

mistaken identity

There is a pit in my stomach, And another deep within my heart, If I peer too closely, What will become of me? What will I come to find? Somewhere in the back of my mind, There should be space for me, Upon a throne of lies // The mirror will not lie to me, Nor will it fill me with glee. There is nothing in my heart for me, Nothing that you can see // Where should I lie, Between the dotted lines, Will there be space for me, When I can't seem to tell the time. // The hunger grows, The bellowing follows, The bell will toll, For whom, It shall not be known.

#spilled ink #fragments #writeblr #hm.

[tinylittlemovements]

Sometimes you just have this intense moment of realization that maybe things aren't quite so alright after all! And you realize that, you are still escaping even when you think you are being still...

because none of these things are within your control but they keep telling you that they are, and that you are the one who can fix this, that this is what you are meant to do.

Because everyone else is afraid or think each other impossible so you keep your heart and guts locked up in the freezer and you never let this fear thaw within you and you keep giving everything away to work things out and mend them in proper working order.

And it depletes you and so, you needlessly dive out the spaceship to get some fresh air and to feast your eyes on the glittering stars and pretend that your asphyxiation is a symptom of these joyrides instead.

And then you'd forget everything, and the hurt and ravaging remains anew and you repeat it all the same and you wonder if the other passengers will ever man the ship on their own. And then a turbulence will occur, someone knocks the ice box over and your heart and guts will spill out and so too, will your fear, and instead of thawing, the shock shatters them apart....

And you won't know what to do with yourself

#writeblr #fragments #writing

[tinylittlemovements]

Sometimes you just have this intense moment of realization that maybe things aren't alright after all! And you are suddenly hit with this sense of absolute reality. And you realize that, you are still escaping even when you think you are being still.

You are looking outside instead of facing what's going on within, and you realize these things within are nearly entirely out of your control and yet they tell you it is, anyway; that you are the only one manning the train and all the other passengers are scared to death and you are the only one left standing who can fix it.

But you are also scared to death.

(You could never say this out loud).

#fragments #writing #writeblr

[tinylittlemovements]

And I thought to myself, I'd love to be consumed by the things I do, by the creations borne of my own two hands. I'd welcome the ravaging fire, and I would expect the inevitable whirlpool. Because maybe when it's taken all it wants from me, there'd be no more of me to hate, when I've scattered myself beyond the oceans of my subconscious. Maybe then, I'll finally be at peace, I'll be content.

#mine #fragments

[tinylittlemovements]

E.E Scott, Every Day I Am Trying New Techniques To Make Myself Disappear

#words #not mine

[tinylittlemovements]

I dreamt of my mother drowning me; her two long arms pushing me by the shoulders into the clear waters of a public pool. I had been wearing my favorite purple swimsuit, the one with the butterfly bow. As I gazed upwards, from beneath the surface, I could not see her face staring down at me; her dark hair had concealed it and the sun overhead resembled a halo eclipsing her. Still, I did not find trouble breathing. I felt calm and at peace, the cold water almost refreshing in my dry lungs. As I stayed mid water, the water below me descended conically into the cold darkness.

I floated in the water for a while, her arms still holding me down. And I thought to myself, matter-of-factly. "This is a memory." And wondered, "How could I have ever forgotten this?"

And as I was met again with the sun and my mother's youthful face, I simply yelled with childish enthusiasm and tried not to take note of the bitterness in her smile.

I woke up the calmest I'd ever been the next morning, clearly thinking to myself: This never happened.

#mine #fragments #writeblr #prose #? #drowning #mothers #memory #dreams #writing