🚮
i was born into a world on fire, while spaghetti sauce dripped from the ceiling, ceramic lay shattered on the floor. watching bodies crumple to the concrete, spines contorted, flesh ripped open, seeping puss. daily fodder for an internet sensation, sheer virality.
your hopes and dreams picked apart by culvert vultures.
misfired shotgun shells lay quiet around surrounding glass, like a silvered mirror peeking back at you with a sick sycophantic smile. glaring as gore fills the gaps like a kintsugi amphora. yet they’d rather bite my tongue off for me than hear a hiss of dissent. hear the wail of a mother and you’ll spit back too.
my blood sweat and tears help fund the war on terror. my minimum wage pays for crack cocaine and veuve cliquot and ballistic missiles at 8 cents on the dollar.
a warfare bargain.
a shein regime.
finance your state sanctioned genocide for 4 monthly installments!
i’m tired of choking on ash and tire smoke and deductibles, yet, we are the sacrificial lamb. so heave yourself upon the pedestal, and wither and rot upon their cake.
Jun 18, 2025
Related Recs
⭐
i remember wondering what they must have been thinking. while the bombs were being dropped, while their high school crush was sent to fight a war he didn't want. i wondered what they spent their days doing. what their older coworkers were whispering about in break rooms. what the best cook in their friend group was thinking as they fed dinner parties with ritz pies and canned vegetable casseroles. i wondered how it felt to keep spinning when the world was falling apart, surely the citizens knew better, surely they spoke up, surely their bones were alight with rage and confidence and desperation! surely it felt cataclyismic. that's how it's always been taught. looking back, we see the patterns. looking forward, we just see another day.
these days, as my rights are being taken from me every morning, as the farmers are scared to farm and the reporters cannot report and the people are stirring unsteadily- these days i know all too well. i cut my strawberries in fours wondering if next week there will be any left. i listen to conversations in break rooms and elevators, making a tally of who's husband has a red hat and who talks about lowering taxes and whos eyes shift to the floor whenever someone says the word immigrant. i savor, save, and wonder. i worry, don't we all worry?
i hold my lover tight and blanket us in gratitude, praying it is enough that we never discover how lucky and rare this moment is.
when i was young i signed myself up for the revolution because it was exciting. then because it was necessary, and now because it is all there is. we expected songbirds and battle cries and passion, instead we carry casual, mundane grief. maybe there is no better future. maybe all there is is the hope of one.
so i no longer wonder. i know what it is to be one of the unlucky ones. i know the lack of glory in living through the next generations 'never again'. we are not revolutionaries. we are not martyrs. we are people just getting through the day. no one will write me a biography when i am gone, my diary will not be published. but my hands will be dirty and my soul will be light when they accuse me of the crime of being human. i lived, despite it all, during it all. isn't that what it's all about?
Jan 28, 2025
🌳
I am rotting.
I am haunted by an echoing pulse of once verdant requiems,
morbidly veiling my vision with whispering fungal blooms.
They chatter and chit,
until withering into skeletal thorns that sink beneath my skin and burrow into my cadaverous tissue.
I am overgrown with lingering epitaphs,
as if they were carved into me,
the memory of those I loved secluded in my vessel of a body,
nestled between my tendons and sinew,
Nervebound.
There is a rift between the seraphic nature of the dead and beloved,
and the morbid and discordant kiss of death that blesses me even in life.
Though I yearn in my anguished turmoil to either blossom or wilt for a final time,
the will for my fractured heart to return it's abyssal pieces from the void
is a pointless, forsaken task.
For all my decomposing pieces have been exiled into the earth,
distant and estranged from the Sun.
I will soon be bound by roots,
and I only hope my sap will be bountiful.
A solitary tree, hollowed by silence and a chambered wildfire.
My bark shall ossify into marrow and cartilage,
and a volatile mix of dendral viscera,
wood and resin and pine.
I am fated to decay,
until I embrace the sky,
resurging into a cathartic rebirth.
My crimson liquor within my veins will become liquid amber,
feeding you with sweetness and the phantom flavor of my flesh.
3d ago
My room is a corridor of doorways. Not a space, not a shelter, but a network of half-thoughts and abandoned exits. The floors reek of piss, like some wild dog marked its territory and then left me to rot in it. The walls pulse with memory. Or maybe delusion. Either way, it’s loud in here. Thoughts swarm like ants — frantic, mindless, pathetic — all scrabbling for something to hold on to. Information. Meaning. But there’s nothing. Just famine. Starvation of sense. A thousand tiny legs searching for crumbs in a house that hasn’t been fed in years.
And every day the sky breaks open again. Not metaphorically. The rain here isn’t poetic. It hammers. It devours. It doesn’t cleanse; it drowns. The ants drown, but they don’t die. They keep moving, twitching, twitching, twitching. Not alive. Not dead. Just full of guts and nerves and the viscera that keep them twitching. That hard carapace we all grow when the storm doesn’t stop. That’s all they are. That’s all I am.
Sometimes I think I’ll dig my way in. Crawl through the iris of my own eye — molecular, meticulous — and enter the network of my brain like a savior. A surgeon. Maybe a god. Maybe I’ll find the ants and teach them how to be more than twitching muscle and damp despair. Maybe I’ll name them. Maybe I’ll give them something like hope.
But dry drowning is real. No matter what they say. And the terrifying thing is — there’s no evidence it isn’t.
May 27, 2025
Top Recs from @cheese333
its an in your face slap stick style ignorant. it knows what is has and what it doesn't (money). its kitschy, repeats scenes, ridiculous ,and cinematic. also ninjas and dinosaurs.
Jun 18, 2025
♥️
i’ve often wondered what it would be like to be one of the people with no internal monologue. you’d think it’d get lonely, but i suppose you can’t mourn something you never had.
she hikes through the brush
a tree falls in the woods
yet she does not hear it
id like to roll one up with jiminy cricket and pick his bug brain, do you think he’d forgive me for the spider i killed last week?
what color are the dots you see on the back of your eyelids?
there’s a voice that narrates in my head, that i converse with back and forth to pass the time, that i get lost with for hours, that tells me to play miles davis and eat fruit and sit outside. it is me but it isn’t me. i can’t explain their sound, its lost by the limitations of language.
the landscape of the mind is something that will never be able to be fully communicated between one another. it’s uniquely designed, coded into only your neurons.
how bittersweet, to know that no one will ever be able to fully grasp the world you’ve created in the space between your eyes.
5d ago
3d ago