Rec
š
The girl wrapped her fingers around the piercing hot blades of the electric radiator, she counted for how long it would take for her finger to change from a warm fuzz to a sharp burn. Ten. Ten seconds. She pressed her finger harder against it seeing if the pressure would shave any time off. It did.
Ā
The girlās mind slinked back into its usual slot, clocking in for another cycle of self-scrutiny and catastrophising without solution. Itās like slouching, unattractive and slothful but oh, how snug it feels. The sky is fuzzy outside her window, mute in tone but relentless in its ability to coat everything over in a layer of doom. Its like TV static, monotonous and constant but impossible to tune out as it pollutes every square inch of its surroundings.
Ā
The girlās eyelids feels heavy. She gently squishes around the fat around them, hoping to wake them up. They donāt, how annoying.
Ā
Itās far too hot now but she doesnāt switch the radiator off. Her eyelids still feel heavy. She wonders it if they want to rest. How unfair is it, that some organs can afford the luxury of rest and some cannot. Why is it that the heart must pump away for every waking hour but the feet as rest idly on whatever surface it touches. Its winter break. The time of year for Phi Phi Islands getaways and the downing of countless pineapple flavoured drinks in glasses that have a little umbrella plopped in for those who can afford it.
Ā
She doesnāt know what to do but her to do list is full. She realised now that its not that she was cold but rather it was her bones that were freezing. They donāt do a great job at ventilation, the fats and muscles that is. God made it out to be pink thermal fiberglass when he pitched the idea of the body to the board but really budget was cut that year and the engineering team had massive waves of layoffs. Now they outsourced the labour, but what that really means is that some third-rate deity haphazardly rendered a flimsy flesh suit that will just get the job done. So now the girl must wear this body of hers around for a while. Cest la vie I guess. Cest la vie.
Ā
She begins to peel off her finger nails, then her skin, rolling the epidermis off like a fruit roll. The bone is cold, it hasnāt felt warmth in 20 years. Do you know how that can affect someone. 20 years. Excuse me, excuse me. I must continue the job, the bone is cold.
Ā
Her mother tried to ignore the cries of her bones. Now look at how she ended up. Limp, flaccid. Slack jawed and sloped. Her bones have stopped working. Iām sorry. I have to keep going. I have a job to do, I must continue the job. The bone is cold.
Jun 13, 2024
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Iāve never felt this skin touch air before. Itās pink and raw like fresh meat, like something not meant to see the sun. And here I am, half-naked in a garden that pretends to be Eden, if Eden were lined with thorns and mountain lions instead of angels. The shrubs rustle. I hear it breathing. I know itās there.
Maybe I made it up. Maybe the fear is its own beast.
Tonight, sleep will come with teeth. That I know. You canāt talk to nightmares the way you talk to people, thereās no bargaining, no clever arguments. Just blood and the echo of screams.
There's a cartouche on my wall, etched in gold and dust, staring back at me like a curse I forgot I summoned. I think itās watching. I think itĀ knows. And where the fuck is my shoe? I had it a second ago. Itās absurd, isnāt it? That Iām thinking about footwear while being hunted?
It moves. I move faster.
Thereās a crunch. A scream, mine, maybe. Or maybe the thingās.
I look down. Under my Converse, somethingās twitching. Then itās not. Just a smear, just a stain.
Iāve killed it. I think. I hope.
And I wonder, briefly, stupidly, would Mother Gaia forgive me for snuffing a life because it frightened me? Because it was inconvenient? Because it was there?
Probably not. But itās dead all the same.
Rec
š³once I dreampt I fell in the crack of two pavement slabs. The fall was weak and subtle, but long and extensive. I could only reach the bottom once I braced myself, and I touched ground with my toes. Followed by heels. And I felt no pressure on my knees. But when I looked around it was so expansively dark, so clean and gradual. The floor looked like a gradient of baby blue to deep black in shadow. And the floor had such soft texture, trillions of tiny grooves and crevices to dozens of small gapes and caverns. Feeling it i felt like I was shaking a hand. And the blood of the opposing secreted out of it and into me, to warm me, to extend me. And after putting my palm against its, I felt my souls seep lower to feel it too. I had no shoes, no protection, I was naked. Exposed. But it felt so right when I lay on my back, my arms unparalleled. I felt euphoria like the calmest of deaths. And I lay still until I noticed the shift, I was on my feet again, my back on the wall now. And emerging from the limitless black I saw a glow of orange. Or pink. Or peach. A phosphorescent button held up by two eyes. And then a face. The structure was blue as the palm of my stability, and smooth as the wall behind. It points its fingers above us, and then to me. Where its omnipotent cornia traveled down its jugular to the four tips at my forehead. It left a sclera in its loss. And when it got that close, it burned me, it burned my soul, and it boiled my chemistry. And it pierced my forehead until I was blind. A blindness filled with color, and pattern. A blindness with utter understanding. I knew it all now, that this is my conscience. That this is experience, that this is existence. And I knew every word across each apparition of each tongue. This feeling dichotomizes my previous rest, and my future rest, but paralleled and copied our eternal form and sight. But when I grasped it all, I was lifted back above my concrete, my vision restored. My memory exhaust. In my knees. I see my door before its invert. With my hand still shaking its hand. And I look down to my feet, my toes warm, and the crack on my porch looking so familiar. So welcoming. Like the arms of my favor.
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I lower the veil like a penance. Thin gauze, soaked in sweat and smoke and something older than both, obedience. To live is to bleed for others. My body doesnāt move; itās already behind me, slumped and gray and rotting, bones gnawed clean by expectation. I drag it anyway.
The thread cinched around my pinky is baby pink, deceptive in its softness. It cuts deep. Double-knotted, like a pact I never signed, a debt I inherited. I pull. It resists.
My spine folds. A knot blooms in my back, vertebrae twisted, swelling like a beastās hump, monstrous and obscene. Then, rupture. Skin tears. A cactus erupts, wet and thorned and trembling. The monsoon follows. Iām drenched. It hurts. It hurts in the open air.
No one sees it. They only see the veil, and thank me for being polite.
The thread cinched around my pinky is baby pink, deceptive in its softness. It cuts deep. Double-knotted, like a pact I never signed, a debt I inherited. I pull. It resists.
My spine folds. A knot blooms in my back, vertebrae twisted, swelling like a beastās hump, monstrous and obscene. Then, rupture. Skin tears. A cactus erupts, wet and thorned and trembling. The monsoon follows. Iām drenched. It hurts. It hurts in the open air.
No one sees it. They only see the veil, and thank me for being polite.
9h ago
Top Recs from @cupofboiledwater
Rec
šone should treat smoking with the same temperment as eating meat, grotesquely decadent if done daily. sumptuous and graceful if they are intaken sporatically with intent.
this of course excludes railway workers, who should huff and puff to their hearts content.
Apr 10, 2024
Rec
šItās easy to condemn the world of QR code menus, HR talk, and big-box stores as bleak. Itās a reflex to be revolted by the sterile dust that now seemingly coats every corner of the Western World. Blue pill or Red Pill, I guess. When the only alternative seems to be outright populism. There seems to be a lethargic and sneering shadow that nips the heels of every passer-by. Isnāt easy to be ironic. Isnāt it easy to hold an air of apathetic sardonicism. Isnāt it easy to curse the cage we are locked in, only to tighten the bars in fear of what lies beyond. If Emily Dickson claims that āhopeā is the thing with feathers, I wonder what she will make of the bird who clipped its own wings. Be brave, I think. Take courage to revolt against the programmed norm to hate and to despise. See beauty in the perfect cubes of Chocolate Milk cartons, find humour in the abrupt slopes of beer bellies. You havenāt even lost your skin elasticity yet, maybe you should just go fly a kite.
Apr 17, 2024
Rec
ā5ā6
19
Melbourne
East Asian
Drinks sometimes
Smokes sometimes
Ā
Photo 1:
Me, at the beach. Hands shielding my eyes from the Bondi sun. Maroon-stained lips pursed into a slight smile. Iām wearing a black camisole with a lace trim here. Hereās my body. Itās ok right. Iām not flaunting too hard either, its not sterile nor promiscuous. Not prudent nor slutty. Maybe an 8 on a good day.
Ā
Prompt 1:
Looking for the Q to my Anon.
Ā
Iām funny arenāt I. Iām curt, though not really. Get it, get it, get it?
Ā
Look
Photo 2:
Casino
If anything, itās a critique of our opulent hungry society. One more drink, one more bump, one more spin. Jesus Christ youāre so insufferable.
Ā
Prompt 2:
Ā
Ā
Photo 3:
Blah, blah, blah
Prompt 3:
Blah, blah, blah
Ā
I hope you want me. I hope you need me. I hope you think that Iām different. Though not that different to be strictly unapproachable. Iām self-aware, I think. I donāt know what I think, I just hope you like me.
Ā
Iām commodifying myself to be diced and served in 3 courses. I think about you thinking about me. Gay son or thought daughter. Thought the thot daughter.
Ā
I can be the answer to the male loneliness epidemic. I can fix you, make you whole.
Ā
You like Kaufman? Pynchon?
Haha. Youāre such a loser. God, youāre so fucking annoying. God, I need you. Though I can find another one of you in less than 10 swipes.
Ā
Weāre so different from everyone else, arenāt we.
We are just like everyone else.
You. Me.
Ā
Tu.
Ā
Are you scared of silence? Did you feel the temperature dropping 10 degrees when the sun kissed the moon? Iām scared of silence too. Not because Iām such a tortured genius that Iām too small of a vessel to hold all of my erudite neuroticism. Not, really. In fact, Iām more like a birthing mother.
Ā
Not much lactation going on. No milk for my baby. My baby who was so snug and warm in my womb of noises. Of Colgate ads and affirmation reels, of the James Joyce that Iāll never finish, of the refrigeratorās vibration of the āI just cleared my to do list but youāre added to itā. The comforting cacophony of nothingness is gone now. Here comes the silence.
Ā
Iām worried. I worry you; you worry me. I worry that Iāll never know what the difference between fear and anxiety is.
Ā
Iām pressing my nose against the window now; my breath is fogging up everything. I think I see my profile popping up in your discovery page. Like me please. Please. Please. Please.
Ā
I donāt know. Maybe Iāll give this sincerity thing a shot.
Ā
Words I like:
Salacious. Itās scandalous and juicy
Apr 9, 2024