Rec
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How fortunate am I, how unfortunate am I, that again I bathe under the sun. I derive no pleasures from my womanly pain, grief felt deepest, the steel boot on my hand. The ending sun continues boiling the pavement; It chews me up, rarely swallows.
No one makes me feel crazier than other women. No one spits on my fallen trough more than men. Constantly rejected by those who object me, those who ogle, those who take screenshots of my body like passing thoughts through their minds. The outsider .
I’m on flight F9396 and the sun burnt my hand raw.
I’m on flight F9396 and the sun burnt my hand raw.
Mar 17, 2025
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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 doesn’t move; it’s 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 beast’s hump, monstrous and obscene. Then, rupture. Skin tears. A cactus erupts, wet and thorned and trembling. The monsoon follows. I’m 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 beast’s hump, monstrous and obscene. Then, rupture. Skin tears. A cactus erupts, wet and thorned and trembling. The monsoon follows. I’m drenched. It hurts. It hurts in the open air.
No one sees it. They only see the veil, and thank me for being polite.
Just now
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😃Really i am coarsing through your veins. Bleeding you out. Striking a cord. Relinquishing my spine. Relegating autonomy to the massive misogyny. Reckless. unstable and a brat. Something to say at the least appropriate moment, It was us all along. The flute stayed in tune. I decided long ago I would stay. Only to let go of who I actually was. Be there when you can. You never were. Bribe your way to my heart. Lend a helping hand. Decide to be yourself. The glass shatters and I reflect on myself and who I used to be. Bad bad bad. All the same to me, I don’t care if you die of thirst. Your green with envy and it shows. Quite the pussy cat. The elixer is mid greatfuly so. I take my bath and lay myself bare. It shows. Just where have you been. All the while I have been searching and finding no release as to who I want to be. I choose this time. I decide where to put it. Wide awake and endlessly falling asleep.
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How important is it that the sun, and its gravity, allow for the revolvement of the earth? Not forcing but allowing the earth to dance. For if there were no sun to be in relation to, the earth would not be able to spin. Because of the sun there is movement of the earth, and it is this that I blame for there also being movement in me.
It's strange though, because there is movement within me only because I possess its idea. Sometimes I yearn to see. If I can only witness something it allows, where can I find this sun? Suppose I need the sun. It's even more strange how the sun lives. It knows no one can miss it and that its presence is undeniable, yet secretly it holds a joke from us: that it is actually everybody who must miss it. Its rays graze my back often knowing I am incapable of turning around.
Since I am incapable of finding the sun I'm left to search for it it in what's tangible. A painting can very easily show me what the sun could look like. Because of this I will frantically search for light within art. Music could effortlessly tell me the rhythm in which the sun's heart beats. Because of this I will drown the fact I cannot come into contact with its actual heartbeat with only human interpretations of it. Finding hints of yellow emerging from man's cheeks, mocking me once more of its existence, and its intangibility. Because of this I will force myself to blush so that maybe I will know what it's like to be lit. But I cannot blame the sun as the enabler of my perception; he is too good. He is good.
The sun is not beautiful, for it is beauty, as it makes others beautiful.
It's strange though, because there is movement within me only because I possess its idea. Sometimes I yearn to see. If I can only witness something it allows, where can I find this sun? Suppose I need the sun. It's even more strange how the sun lives. It knows no one can miss it and that its presence is undeniable, yet secretly it holds a joke from us: that it is actually everybody who must miss it. Its rays graze my back often knowing I am incapable of turning around.
Since I am incapable of finding the sun I'm left to search for it it in what's tangible. A painting can very easily show me what the sun could look like. Because of this I will frantically search for light within art. Music could effortlessly tell me the rhythm in which the sun's heart beats. Because of this I will drown the fact I cannot come into contact with its actual heartbeat with only human interpretations of it. Finding hints of yellow emerging from man's cheeks, mocking me once more of its existence, and its intangibility. Because of this I will force myself to blush so that maybe I will know what it's like to be lit. But I cannot blame the sun as the enabler of my perception; he is too good. He is good.
The sun is not beautiful, for it is beauty, as it makes others beautiful.
Feb 2, 2025
Top Recs from @pleasersjunkie
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⭐would love to b able to have music playing when ppl visit my profile-- its cliche but it rocks. also, like ppl have said below: the ability to add more than 1 photo in a post. u tempt us yet force us into monk-like pensive states trying to figure out what singular photo gets chosen. it's a blessing & a curse
Feb 25, 2025
Feb 25, 2025
Mar 17, 2025