tirzahstears

[tirzahstears]

The Car Box - Original Poem

She ripped a part of me out of my pocket Bad ideas turned ID into dust Leave us to clean up the mess that she made, sweep up manic ash Too deep in delusion to tell which ends are nearest She runs on cracked roads to harass her dearests' Id takes control, I'd wager she stopped sleeping, so-called all-seeing, illusions kill safe-keeping There's a box, crayon-donned, sleeping under the bed with faux locks from last decade, filled with toy cars neatly parked It meets the same fate as the forgotten birth certificates; wind-opened embers embedded in eviction Vacation's escape, breaks into break for it With daggers in Audis no longer ignore it Car alarms cry, fate's sealed to bleed out in the parking lot Anonymous Accords doomed by proximity, scratched in old names Relatively to me, relatives are fifty fifty, pray to the chorus of car alarms that her shoes do not fit me, tattered and treated with doses of vinegar, doused in steam, let the seam tear open and divide us I keep a barely-safe distance from the one-zombie apocalypse, plagued by twenty-minute driving distance What if it's in me too, how far am I Left to my own vices would I too hack away at the black-tinted windows, free of the knowledge of consequence, at no cost to morality or mortality, might I shake the chain link fence gating madness with my own two fists The car ride home, drizzle drowns the fire, dull blue skies narrate a wistful fear of genetics Tired of wondering just how much undead hurt I'm capable of, once I'm tired of waiting, weighted down by the impatient side of me Could history repeat itself, or worse, I repeat history Finally born at 17, scared to drive, scarred by daggers Scream out exhaust 'til exhaustion and pass out

#READ MY BESTIES POETRY ITS SO GOOD

[tirzahstears]

on food

dipo faloyin africa is not a country: breaking stereotypes of modern africa \\ @medievalthymes \\ bill holm playing the black piano: "bread soup: an old icelandic recipe" \\ louis simpson the owner of the house: new collected poems: "a story about chicken soup" \\ @love-inportofino \\ @tirzahstears in this post (one of my favourite things i have ever read) \\ wendell berry a meeting

kofi

#HI IM CRYING BC NOBODY HAS EVER USED MY POETRY IN A WEB WEAVE OMG #OP I LOVE YOU !!!!

[tirzahstears]

Whenever you cook food the ingredients are lezzing out with each other and that's why it tastes so good

#me who wrote a poem about being transgender and onions and garlic: yeah i'll reblog that

[tirzahstears]

I used to think that my house was haunted, back when I was a kid. 

I’d put rainbow sticky notes on the walls to see if a ghost would move them as I slept with my head under the covers each night. I didn’t know what a haunting was, but evil had made itself so comfortable in that house that it seeped into the walls like nicotine and fear, poisoning the air supply for generations to come. I live beside a graveyard, after all. Ghosts latch on to vulnerable people. I’m still not quite sure if they ever leave.

Sometimes a ghost will take on a human form. I am possessed by the ghost of my father’s anger, and his father’s anger, and his father’s anger as well. I think that a father is a type of ghost. Having a father is a type of haunting I will never be able to explain on a page. There are no blood curdling screams, no pools of corn-syrup-fake-blood sticking to my bathroom floor. The ghost instead lives in the hole his cellphone made in the living room wall back in 2009. The ghost lives in those green eyes I share with my sister that we’d both do anything to change. The ghost lives inside of me, and I really don’t know how to perform an exorcism on my own flesh and blood.

Apparently, there are no clinical cases of haunting, and it is instead an alphabet soup of diagnoses that make sure I will never have children of my own. The haunting is hereditary, after all. It doesn’t matter where I end up, I will pack the skeletons in my closet into a moving van and cry when I wake and the graves I placed on opposite sides of the house have already been dug up.

I don’t think that I live in a haunted house anymore.

I think that I myself might be the haunted house, with smoke pouring out of the windows and a foundation that is crumbling as we speak. I am haunted by the ghost of my mother’s sadness and her mother’s sadness and her mother’s sadness as well. A mother is a type of ghost that does not wish to be a ghost. If a ghost is meant to be invisible, my mother dedicated her life to fulfilling that prophecy— as if Weight Watchers or the expensive grocery store would reanimate her, as if enough Diet Coke could replace the formaldehyde sitting in her veins. Having a mother is a type of haunting, one that I will never escape. The ghost found me in the form of secret social media accounts and a diary full of calculations when I was twelve years old, in the form of sugar free energy drinks and a near death encounter with hypophosphatemia just a month before my eighteenth birthday. The ghost is in my body still, no matter how hard I try to kill it. It will always live in my kitchen, slamming empty cupboard doors and whispering promises into my ears. My mother will bring this ghost into every kitchen I ever try to relax in. My mother’s kitchen is haunted by her own mother, who’s mother passed this ghost on to her.

The only way to stop being haunted is to become a ghost yourself. I do not like that I may already be someone else’s haunting. In an ideal world, I am invisible— not like a ghost, but like air. I do not want to take up space for anyone. The only way I wouldn’t see blood on my hands would be if nobody were to think of me at all. I hate knowing that I am my brother’s ghost, that I haunt this house just as our parents do. Being alive is a type of haunting, I think. One can be haunted by themself. I think that maybe everyone is.

I will never understand the extent to which this house is haunted. There are ghosts that my parents will never tell me about, ghosts which still possess them in ways too dangerous to share with me. Whether I know their names or not, the ghosts hiding under creaky stairs and bleeding floorboards are family heirlooms I will inherit against my will, no matter how many attempts I make to bury them.

Maybe I do believe in haunted houses.

I’m scared that every house I live in will be haunted. Not haunted by my father, or my mother, or any of the mothers and fathers who came before them, but myself. I am the ghost at the back of my closet, and always will be. I scare myself in the mirror, I thump around in the hallways at hours that make my neighbours despise me. Haunting is what I learned to do best— after all, what better teachers than a pair of ghosts?

I used to think my house was haunted, back when I was a kid.

ghost stories , soleil louise . february 9, 2023

#reblogging this again because it might be my best piece of writing #and it was for a SCHOOL PROJECT . WHAT .

[tirzahstears]

I used to think that my house was haunted, back when I was a kid. 

I’d put rainbow sticky notes on the walls to see if a ghost would move them as I slept with my head under the covers each night. I didn’t know what a haunting was, but evil had made itself so comfortable in that house that it seeped into the walls like nicotine and fear, poisoning the air supply for generations to come. I live beside a graveyard, after all. Ghosts latch on to vulnerable people. I’m still not quite sure if they ever leave.

Sometimes a ghost will take on a human form. I am possessed by the ghost of my father’s anger, and his father’s anger, and his father’s anger as well. I think that a father is a type of ghost. Having a father is a type of haunting I will never be able to explain on a page. There are no blood curdling screams, no pools of corn-syrup-fake-blood sticking to my bathroom floor. The ghost instead lives in the hole his cellphone made in the living room wall back in 2009. The ghost lives in those green eyes I share with my sister that we’d both do anything to change. The ghost lives inside of me, and I really don’t know how to perform an exorcism on my own flesh and blood.

Apparently, there are no clinical cases of haunting, and it is instead an alphabet soup of diagnoses that make sure I will never have children of my own. The haunting is hereditary, after all. It doesn’t matter where I end up, I will pack the skeletons in my closet into a moving van and cry when I wake and the graves I placed on opposite sides of the house have already been dug up.

I don’t think that I live in a haunted house anymore.

I think that I myself might be the haunted house, with smoke pouring out of the windows and a foundation that is crumbling as we speak. I am haunted by the ghost of my mother’s sadness and her mother’s sadness and her mother’s sadness as well. A mother is a type of ghost that does not wish to be a ghost. If a ghost is meant to be invisible, my mother dedicated her life to fulfilling that prophecy— as if Weight Watchers or the expensive grocery store would reanimate her, as if enough Diet Coke could replace the formaldehyde sitting in her veins. Having a mother is a type of haunting, one that I will never escape. The ghost found me in the form of secret social media accounts and a diary full of calculations when I was twelve years old, in the form of sugar free energy drinks and a near death encounter with hypophosphatemia just a month before my eighteenth birthday. The ghost is in my body still, no matter how hard I try to kill it. It will always live in my kitchen, slamming empty cupboard doors and whispering promises into my ears. My mother will bring this ghost into every kitchen I ever try to relax in. My mother’s kitchen is haunted by her own mother, who’s mother passed this ghost on to her.

The only way to stop being haunted is to become a ghost yourself. I do not like that I may already be someone else’s haunting. In an ideal world, I am invisible— not like a ghost, but like air. I do not want to take up space for anyone. The only way I wouldn’t see blood on my hands would be if nobody were to think of me at all. I hate knowing that I am my brother’s ghost, that I haunt this house just as our parents do. Being alive is a type of haunting, I think. One can be haunted by themself. I think that maybe everyone is.

I will never understand the extent to which this house is haunted. There are ghosts that my parents will never tell me about, ghosts which still possess them in ways too dangerous to share with me. Whether I know their names or not, the ghosts hiding under creaky stairs and bleeding floorboards are family heirlooms I will inherit against my will, no matter how many attempts I make to bury them.

Maybe I do believe in haunted houses.

I’m scared that every house I live in will be haunted. Not haunted by my father, or my mother, or any of the mothers and fathers who came before them, but myself. I am the ghost at the back of my closet, and always will be. I scare myself in the mirror, I thump around in the hallways at hours that make my neighbours despise me. Haunting is what I learned to do best— after all, what better teachers than a pair of ghosts?

I used to think my house was haunted, back when I was a kid.

ghost stories , soleil louise . february 9, 2023

#my writing #my poetry #poetry #poets on tumblr #spilled ink #prose poetry #trauma poetry #eating disorder poetry #mental illness poetry #mental health poetry #on mental illness #on haunting #on ghosts #on trauma #generational trauma

[tirzahstears]

chopping onions and garlic in the kitchen while i consider telling my father i'm transgender . soleil louise , jan 21 2023

#another rb !

[tirzahstears]

chopping onions and garlic in the kitchen while i consider telling my father i'm transgender . soleil louise , jan 21 2023

#my writing #my poetry #poetry #transgender #queer #trans poetry #queer poetry #trans writer #genderqueer #bigender

[tirzahstears]

why do all the words sound heavier in my native language? scratch that. why did I choose to seek refuge in a language of another instead of training my tongue to bear the heaviness of my own?

#it's not even my native language but everything feels more real in yiddish #it hurts a little #i don't see what anyone can see in anyone else but queue

[tirzahstears]

2- Mikko Harvey / 3- @beetlejuices / 4- Ocean Vuong / 5- Sarah Kay and Philip Kaye / 6- Franz von Stuck / 7- Cortes Edouard Leon

#i'm hashtag not okay #i don't see what anyone could see in anyone else but queue

[tirzahstears]

Mary Oliver

#:-( #i don't see what anyone could see in anyone else but queue

[tirzahstears]

Andrew Kane

#i am hashtag crying

[tirzahstears]

i think having “having a coke with you” with you by mark leidner is the greatest love poem of all time

#oh....

[tirzahstears]

i had a girl who used to call me peach, the word slipped from her mouth like the syrupy sweet frozen fruit my mum would give me as if to say please eat something. please. we have enough this time. the fuzzy outsides always made my skin hurt but it was worth it for the sweet fruit i scarfed back like my stomach had never been full before.

my grandmother used to make plum muffins with the sourest fruits she could find. they baked into something sweet, something soft. something that fed me. my mom made plum muffins today with the sour plums from the grocery store and i was brought to tears while i ate two of them fresh out the oven. they were better than granny's. she's not dead. she's not dead but i don't know if she'd want me if she found out what i really am. i ate another muffin and it tasted like dusty summers away from home my house.

i ate three nectarines today without even stopping to breathe. the juice dripped down my chin as i swallowed them down without chewing like i hadn't eaten in years. when i was a kid my grandparents would come with a box of cup noodles and kraft dinner and tinned peaches and i thought it was a gift because those were all of my favourites. i thought christmas hampers were like winning a contest and food bank trips were like grocery shopping where my mom never panicked. i ate those nectarines until i felt sated and i almost cried. they were sweet and sour and i nearly chipped my tooth on the stone on the inside.

i used to try plant cherry seeds and mango pits in my garden so we would never run out. so my mom would never give me half her plate again without filling up her own. so there'd be something for her to fill it up with. i didn't know how to grow stone fruit but i grew like one anyway- i grew with with a soft, sweet, nonthreatening exterior but something inside of me that will chip your teeth if you bite in the wrong spot. nobody planted my heart in their garden and watered it daily. my sugary exterior was consumed almost manically, in plum muffins and not-yet-ripe nectarines, in fear of having it taken away if it didn't go now now now. i grew like stone fruit, but nobody replanted me with hope in their heart. i held it in my own, deep within the tooth-chipping pit that i slipped between damp paper towels, waiting for it to sprout.

#my poetry #my wiritng #poetry #on growing up #growing up poor #food as a love language #i want us both to eat well #writers on tumblr #poets on tumblr #spilled ink #on hope

[tirzahstears]

#wow

[tirzahstears]

Apparently I wrote this long ass poem while suuuuper drunk and did not remember doing it until I found it in my google docs titled FLOATING DEATH SKULL, SALT RIM which I think is very fun what a nice little surprise for sober me

#SOMETIMES IT DOESN'T MATTER IF YOU DO EVERYTHING RIGHT. SOMETIMES THE CHICK'S DEAD FROM THE BEGINNING #FUCK

[tirzahstears]

Inside the cocoon the caterpillar digests itself. It deliquesces its nervous system, guts, mouth, eyes, muscles, and legs. What does it feel like to melt? I would hesitate to say it feels like “becoming yourself”. What if one day after a big salad you suddenly started to feel very sick. You went to lie down, rubbing your temples. Maybe a migraine was blooming behind your eyes. When, suddenly, you realized your skin was sloughing off. There was a tidal pool where your chest should be. There is every reason to believe that the caterpillar’s metamorphosis feels terrifying. Or that it feels like death. I wonder if the radical inability to classify the experience is a necessary ingredient in transformation. Each one of the caterpillar’s cells has held this secret ability to self-destruct since birth. This, to me, seems the most comforting thing. Even if the mind is destabilized, literally liquefied, by the transformation, even if the body puddles, you are being “authored” at a deeper level than mind or skin-silhouette. You are being distilled by the intuition of your own cells. A few “imaginal disc cells” remain constant that then “use” the slush of protein and matter to compose a butterfly.

Tomb or womb, the cocoon is a vessel. An autopoietic boat through the meltwater of your own transformation. It both creates and shapes disorder. An interesting fact is that the caterpillar and the butterfly both “fit” inside of the cocoon. When we digest ourselves, we create ourselves. Not a single cell is expendable. Nothing is discarded. The butterfly, then, is a remarkable act of inclusion. No part of the caterpillar will be exiled from the ecstasy of flight. Yet no part of the caterpillar will remain unchanged.

Sophie Strand, On Melting & Memories

[tirzahstears]

Karyl McBride, Will I Ever Be Good Enough? Healing the Daughters of Narcissistic Mothers