My Blog Has Been Compared To @inkskinned. I Have Reached The Pinnacle Of Tumblr Poetry. (fun Fact, They

My blog has been compared to @inkskinned. I have reached the pinnacle of tumblr poetry. (fun fact, they are the reason why I started a tumblr blog because I saw their poetry and was like wow there's still social media left that doesn't emphasize visual content and videos?) also props to @n-ehpamoi, @seeingteacupsindragons, and @literaryvein-reblogs because i checked out their blogs because of this and seeing people who like words as much as i do always makes me happy

maybe if you had been made right, you would be better at being alone. if you'd assembled yourself out of the particulate, coagulating into amber and diamond - you'd be lovely and desirable. instead of pewter and hungry and anxious.

when she doesn't text you back, you should be normal about that. you should shrug and move on and get back to your beautiful life and your wonderful dog. when you wake up shaking, don't call her, don't beg for her attendance. if someone says i love you, aren't you supposed to feel warm and held and gentle. what is wrong with you that your first instinct is to reject: no, you don't, not really.

what is wrong with you. asking for help from your friends and loved ones is supposed to be a moment of connection and vulnerability. instead you spend hours preparing and weeks recovering. you've done all the reading and you know you are supposed to accept-love-as-it-is presented.

but still the internal questions, litany of the prey animal. do you still love me. am i still attractive. do you care about my interests. am i boring you. are you becoming distant. are you going to leave me. do you like me or are you just managing. am i telling you too much. am i bothering you. do you want me there. am i embarrassing you.

the problem is that your prayers have been right before. you loved someone and they hurt you and now the words sluice against the floorboards no matter how tightly you lock the door. you go to therapy and try to trust and try to be kind and try to assume the best. that everyone is honest and loyal. that you can be happy and alone and miss her but still feel easy, at-home.

it feels like waving a flag in front of a sinking ship. you hold up the scripture and research, preaching: i can do this. i am not going to let my insecurities and fears ruin another relationship.

all of the drowning passengers have your face. they try to say i told you so. i told you this is what ends up happening. their voices are swallowed by the water and the deep below.

Of bad seeds, mad lies and wallflower

your town is grey. on a rainy day, it whispers to the permafrost that has kept you town folks buried up to your chests. you and your ice cocoon — have you lost your voice or never borrowed one?

o valley boy

the midnight sky has lent colour to your eyes, beneath the moon.

your deranged town plants seeds of infatuation / soaking them in tears of yearning / years of learning has taught them how to grow fruits of mad love.

l o v e

orange peels. pomegranate seeds.

last nail in the coffin.

twisted tongues ~ in acid wash.

you sell (demolish) bouquets of wallflowers — taking apart their withering petals, one at a time. they die screaming the hymn of love for your sake : ever parched, swallowing the last drop of your sweetheart ocean…

you hell hummers

melt in the slightest inconvenience of love.

like mad dogs on a bad day / you lick the leftover lies off a razor-edged knife / stained in scarlet promises of your carved frozen heart.

valley boy, cry a river

like a lovesick infant, choke on the pith of your forbidden harvest ~

moon witness / rinds of ebony & ivory ate your bitter town / when repulsive lies sprouted of rotten seeds / they made you sick.

s i c k

succulent eyeballs. perennial misfortune.

tendrils of affection: limb climbers.

in love ~ with love ~ for love ~ of love

speak now or forever hold your p{i}e{a}ce.

— circadeacademia

I fell in love with you in the summer. 

It was hot and dry and my lips cracked and bled every time I smiled. You made me smile a lot. I like to think it was a metaphor. You made me taste death every time I laughed. Or maybe life. I could never distinguish the two with you. 

Anyway. I dreamed of you, sometimes. You made me laugh and my lips would crack and bleed and you would lean over and kiss me. My friend said it means I desired intimacy but that the blood meant I was scared. She was into Freudian dream analysis. I never liked him, anyway. 

I guess she wasn’t wrong though. I dreamed about you more than I’d like to admit. In my dreams, you were poetry. In my poetry, you were the dream of you. I laughed and my lips bled and you kissed me and I tasted death. Sometimes you wouldn’t stop at kissing me. Sometimes you would keep kissing me, keep swallowing me, keep consuming me until you’d devoured me entirely. 

“Cannibalism as a metaphor for love,” I’d once said. “What do you think?” 

You’d made a face. “I think it’s gruesome. Romanticizes weird things, you know? Like those people who defend the serial killers ‘cause they think they’re hot.” 

I didn’t tell you that sometimes, I dreamed that I bared my neck for you, and that you’d torn it apart, my heart between your teeth. A kiss is the beginning of cannibalism. 

Anyway. It was summer and school was over and everything was golden. When the light hit your eyes right they looked golden. Sometimes they were dark, a soft brown like the piano I tried to teach you to play on and the damp earth after the summer storm. Sometimes they were blue like the sky or the sea and I was suffocating, drowning. When they were gold, they were like amber, sweet-sticky-thick, trapping me. Everything looked golden when you looked at me like that. I didn’t protest so long as you kept looking at me like that. 

It was your birthday yesterday. I wish I didn’t remember. I wish I didn’t text you even though you hadn’t talked to me in months. “Hey. Happy birthday.” It’s dinner time and my mom yells at me because I keep checking my phone. You text me the next day. “Thanks.” I don’t know if I’m disappointed or relieved or angry. I bite my lip. It’s bleeding again. “No problem.” 

You don’t reply. 

Anyway. I quit piano. I look into my father’s eyes and see you. Blue eyes that make me feel like I’m dying. “Oedipus complex,” my friend says knowingly. “You go after the familiar.” Sometimes I wish I didn’t remember your birthday. You didn’t remember mine. My father didn’t remember my mother’s, but he bought a girl a multi-hundred dollar gift for her birthday. She was closer to my age than his. You sent me a picture of yourself shirtless. My father sent a nude to her. I dated a boy just to see what it was like to be wanted. Maybe that’s why my father cheated. Maybe that’s why you kept talking to me like you could love me. It was summer and everything looked golden and I let you keep using me so long you looked at me like you loved me. I don’t know if I am more like my mother or my father. They are both unhappy. It scares me. Who am I?

Anyway. Sometimes I dream that you kiss me and I taste my own blood on your lips. Sorry about that. Sorry about the mess. Sorry that I bleed every time you speak. Sorry that I gave you my mess of a heart. Sorry that I loved you. I’ll keep bleeding for you. Just keep looking at me like that. Just keep telling me you love me. 

I fell in love with you in the summer. My lips cracked and bled every time you made me smile. I like to think it’s a metaphor. Maybe this summer I won’t remember your birthday. Maybe. 

Pomegranate juice stains your mouth and it drips from your teeth like blood. I think i want to drink it and drink you and devour you whole. Persephone’s lips are stained with pomegranate juice and my lips are stained with your divinity. She eats six seeds but for you i would have eaten an entire pomegranate so that i could always stay with you, always taste you, always love you. Her mother wails her name in grief but i say your name like it’s a prayer and you are my god. Persephone smiles because she is free and you smile with your teeth and drag them against my skin and i can only think that this must be holy. I’ve tasted heaven and it’s your skin and your lips and your flesh. You kiss my neck and my pulse is between your teeth. The pomegranate juice drips down your body and i drink it from your skin and i beg for more. I crave you obsessively, madly, incessantly, desperately, hungrily. I want to taste your lips, your hands, your lungs, your ribs, your heart. Persephone is laughing as the dead surround her and whisper her name and reach to touch her and her vibrancy and i’m begging to taste you again because you’re the closest i could ever get to heaven. I think i’ll go to hell for the things i’ve done for you but i don’t think i care because you taste of ecstasy. I’m drinking your blood like wine and i’m tasting your flesh like I’m running out of time and it’s so intoxicatingly addictingly divine. I make a throne out of your bones and your fingers make the crown and your teeth are around my neck. I have tasted all that you are and i crave more.

You smile at me with bloodstained teeth. Offer me a pomegranate. I eat it.

it is a slow and dampening torture when no one will listen to you. hydraulic press on your tongue. a whistle that screams through your blood. when-and-if you explode, you are treated as if radioactive; others flinch in shame.

are you sick? are you sad? are you actually in pain? it is selfish to be attention-seeking, right. they will tell you that it is "brave" to ask for help, but when you ask for help, they'll suggest a hotline. the hotline will suggest you see a doctor before disconnecting. the doctor will suggest you drink more water and lose weight.

are you asking him to put in more effort? to plan dates? to actually-clean around the house? to be genuinely interested in your life? someone tells you that you should never beg to be loved, but if you leave him, they'll ask why you didn't try talking it over first. if you leave because he doesn't wash the dishes, you're being unfair. if he cheats, you should have treated him better. you're a nag and a witch and now you're ruined goods.

are you struggling? how's that rent check. well, keep hustling! it'll be okay slapped in a bumper sticker over your face. good luck, babe.

at a certain point you stop trying to shout. there's no point anyway.