Related Recs

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TRANSLATE

They said ink was forever, but no one told me how it would feel to wear history under your skin, how it brands you not as a person, but as a relic. I want it out. Carve it from me, slice the memory from flesh, gouge each symbol until there is nothing left but blood and the sound of breathing through gritted teeth. Translate every line, every curve and cruel little mark, into agony, a night of reckoning beneath a sky that doesn’t look away. Melt the gold. Let it burn. Pour it over my spine until it finds the fault lines in me, seeps into the fractures and remakes me. Not soft. Not forgivable. A statue, maybe. Something radiant and cruel, something you look at and flinch from because it gleams too brightly to be alive. I would rather be beautiful in my ruin than pitied in my suffering. And still, beneath the gold, the river runs. The Styx coils in my veins, ancient and slow, and where it touches my soul, the skin splits open. He asks for penance. I have none. I have only these hands, these scars, this rage. So I march with the rest of them. The dead who were never buried properly, the mourned and unmourned alike. We rot together in the open air, no prayers, no justice. Only the endless shuffling forward, bone against bone, ghost against ghost, hoping that pain might, someday, become something more than just pain.

@baixwar

4d ago

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A poem I wrote

As my answer to the two latest posts by @KLORIZZA_XPLAINZ_ALL (I) Unsay the pieties. No mother, this. No altar for your filial tears. This Earth: furnace heart, blind alchemist. Suns to sediment. Silence to screams. (Value: your brief, fevered invention.) Did the Permian scream? Did Chicxulub weep? Energy. Eruption. Our equation: more complex. Same indifferent sum. (II) Not pathogen. But Earth's OWN mind, ignited. A fever-dream of magma, now self-aware. Cities: new crystals. Webs: planetary nerve, raw, sparking. This is not un-nature. This is nature, waking up inside one of its compounds. Geode cracked: not amethyst. A thinking void. We are nature run its course. (III) Then, the refrain, stage-whispered: “Oh, the children! Won't somebody PLEASE think of the children!” Ancient code. Gene-song. Echo-lust. Not for Earth, this future-fret. For your own face, reflected. The planet absorbs suns. And dynasties. Our care? For our continuance. This too, this fierce, specific love— we are nature run its course. (IV) Temples to the devoured. Anthems fueled by the very fire that consumed. Hypocrisy? Or the engine hum of consciousness wrestling instinct? The jaguar: clean kill. No manifesto. Our shame: a novel organ, grown too large. Too late. (V) The truth: a detonation. We are nature run its course. Not its gardeners. Not its curse. The thinking wildfire. The accelerated continental plate. Universe: no ethics. Only transformation. Our "destruction"— its metabolic rate. This experiment in sentience. Through us. We are nature run its course. (VI) Mother Nature's son, daughter, and other— you, charting ephemeral borders under manufactured constellations. Your kin: earthquake. Glacier. Virus. The storm, not the meadow. The jellyfish, brainless, endures. Five apocalypses. No future tense. Our gift, our agony: to know. And knowing, burn. (VII) Earth will take our steel. Our stories. Grind them to silence. Not justice. Chemistry. Time. The question isn't "save." The planet saves itself. Or doesn't. The question is: a conscious geological force— what does it do? The mountain, knowing it is mountain, and will erode? No solace from the void. Only the arena. Our reign: brief. Incandescent. Terrifying. Through our eyes, the void, for one breath, sees. The next act? Ours. (For we are, and can be nothing else but, nature run its course.)

@mehdi

May 19, 2025

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After the Fire, We Remain

“To exist in this body is war,” she whispered, her voice so soft it nearly escaped me, as if she recoiled from the weight of the words that had slipped past her lips. “Every day, I am dissected as if I am the anomaly in this world, not the systems they built upon the backs of those who came before,” she chuckled, as if this truth — this burden — had been her constant companion. “Looking at her then, perhaps truly seeing her for the first time, the enormity of it struck me. Somewhere between then and now, life’s weariness had etched itself onto her face. Lines I had once interpreted as joy and laughter now seemed more like scars, healed over with a stubborn refusal to be erased, a silent declaration: “This will not break me.” And for a fleeting moment, I had believed it. But now, beneath the willow, where sunlight once filtered through the leaves in a warm embrace, a sense of her depleted fight hung heavy in the air. The light itself felt different now, thin and frail, mirroring how all the blood she had shed seemed to have cost her more than if she had never bled at all…. After the Fire, We Remain, page 30 — P.N.G

@idkman

May 8, 2025

Top Recs from @baixwar

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KNOW

I unblocked him today. Stupid, really. A gesture that meant nothing and everything at once—flick of a finger, avalanche of consequence. I don’t love him. I know this the way I know fire burns and poison kills. But there was a time I did. Or at least, I believed I did, which might be the same thing. And now, in the pit of night, he comes back. Not in memory, which I could handle. In dreams. Those cursed, wretched dreams where love feels like a trick played on me by some malevolent god. We are soft together, whole together. It feels real. Worse: it feels good. I wake up gagging on it. That intimacy, that false safety. My brain taunts me with what could have been, and I can’t even scream back. So I dissociate. That’s the clinical word for it. But really, I haunt myself. I float through the day like a ghost freshly exhumed, skin buzzing with sleep that clings to my body like mold. Am I still dreaming? Has waking up ever felt this fake? I ask myself: Do I still love him? Then a worse question: Did I ever? And the worst of all: Did I make it up, the whole damn thing? Because if I did—if I built it all out of nothing, like straw houses and paper people—then maybe I am what he always said I was. A liar. A little girl who makes up stories and calls it truth. My father’s daughter. And that’s the most disgusting thing of all.

@baixwar

Jun 7, 2025

👗

DREAM

Last night, I dreamed—though I can’t tell you what of, not exactly. There were fragments. A lawn, half-mown, or cats—dozens of them, maybe. Their shapes flicker now at the edge of memory, insubstantial. That’s how it always goes. I dream every night, I know this, but each one slips through my fingers by morning, evaporating like steam before I can grasp it. It wasn’t always this way. As a child, I kept a dream journal. Religious about it. Woke up, wrote it down. And something about that changed me. Sharpened the recall, made dreams more solid. Realer. And then, over time, something turned. Now they vanish even faster. Like the act of remembering too hard wore out the muscle. I’ve thought about starting again. Journaling. Documenting. Not just the dreams, but the moments around them—the texture of waking, the taste of forgetting. Because vivid dreams begin with remembering, don’t they? But I hate recollection. The way it drags old feelings back up, stale and bitter. The way it stains the present with shadows of things that never happened. There’s something foul in remembering too much. Still. Maybe I’ll try.

@baixwar

Jun 7, 2025

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PLANT

I plant catnip and potatoes on the rooftops of the city that lives in my chest—two small pots per ledge, their roots cramped, curling inward like fists. I force them to suffocate. I watch as their leaves yellow and curl, not out of malice, but out of necessity. There’s something about watching something struggle to live that feels honest. The skyline here isn’t real, not exactly. It's built from memory, scaffolding of places I loved once and forgot twice. Still, I look out from the edge, eyes scouring the metal bones and glass spines of buildings I invented. And I wonder: Can anyone see me? Would they, if I let one toe slip past the ledge? Would the silhouette mean anything to anyone but me? I tell myself you’ll visit. That you’ll stand beside me, close enough to breathe in the scent of dying herbs and know what I meant by planting them. Maybe you’ll even pretend to like the catnip. But the world, the world—you know how it is. Men ruin everything. They turn good things into threats, into warnings. And because of them, I can't see you like I want to. Not without caution. Not without fear. I hate them for it. For ruining us before we even began. For taking my access to you and replacing it with conditions. So I wait. I wait for your knock on my door like prayer, and every time you come, I open. I always open. I don’t say it, but you should know—I would burn the whole city for you if you asked. I would uproot every pot and split the sky open just to hand you the sun in shards. But I only have two pots. I want three. I want a hundred. But sometimes two is already too many, and no one else knows that. Come to the rooftop. Even if it’s just to see the wilting leaves. Even if it’s just to say goodbye.

@baixwar

Jun 24, 2025