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#seriously though do people actually read this shit #photography #selfportaitphotography #queer artist #cigarettes after sex #cigarette aesthetic #writers and poets #words are my love language #artists on tumblr #ametuer photography #dark acadamia aesthetic

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“So, if you are too tired to speak, sit next to me for I, too, am fluent in silence.”

— R. Arnold 

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I cannot stop the words from pouring from my lips like water bursting through rusted pipes

I love you

I say it over and over and I worry the words will become meaningless when they fall upon your ears

But I simply

Cannot

Stop them

From spilling.

Time and time again.

Like a desperate child

But maybe.

In a way

That is why.

I was a desperate child.

Who begged,

And pleaded,

And folded myself into the neat

Tiny space

So I would not be in the way

Would not take up space

I would have cut out my own tongue

To silence myself

If it meant that he would love me

Would hold me

Would tuck me into my bed

Kiss my forehead

And tell me goodnight.

I went days without food

I went years without love

Living on scraps and convincing myself that the scraps I got

The abuse, I received

Was not just, enough for me

But was

Love.

That the gnawing hunger in my bones

For more,

Was silly

Was a child’s fantasy

And yet

Here you are

Loving me

In this way I do not understand

You do not silence me

You do not shrink me

You watch me dance

You make me laugh

You reached into that dark cramped place and you pulled me into the light

You breathed life into these tired bones and suddenly the fires of my rage

Changed

Softened

And I realized it was never rage

It was grief

The love that you show me

The patience

The kindness

The encouragement

I am in mourning.

You tell me that I do not burden you when I need your love.

That loving me is not a chore.

It is easy.

It was never a silly child’s fantasy.

#word vomit #seriously though do people actually read this shit #spilled poetry #original writing #writers and poets #words are my love language #wannabe poet #spilled thoughts #i'm so fucking tired #love poem #word spill #healing #short poetry #trauma #original poetry #angry poetry #inner child #fallin for you #healing inner child #love me at my worst #childhood abuse #childhood trauma #relationship trauma #some days hurt more than others #this isn’t poetry #this is fine #i deserve to be loved #i deserve to be happy #i deserve nice things

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“I need a father, I need a mother, I need some older, wiser being to cry to. I talk to God but the sky is empty.”

— Sylvia Plath, from The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath  (via plathisms)

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Sorry in advance. Bonus points can you name the others? — view on Instagram https://ift.tt/JZrAvxF

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of all the things you could've been doing, you picked up the phone and you asked for help.

I have lived long enough, to be the person I needed when I was young, for someone else.

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I finished my Rome book and have now begun one about Pompeii. I’m 65 pages in and I already love it: yes, it covers the volcano, but most of the book is about “this is what the town and daily life of it would have been like, actually.” Fascinating stuff. Things I’ve learned so far:

- The streets in Pompeii have sidewalks sometimes a meter higher than the road, with stepping stones to hop across as “crosswalks.” I’d seen some photos before. The book points out that, duh, Pompeii had no underground drainage, was built on a fairly steep incline, and the roads were more or less drainage systems and water channels in the rain.

- Unlike today, where “dining out” is expensive and considered wasteful on a budget, most people in Pompeii straight up didn’t have kitchens. You had to eat out if you were poor; only the wealthy could afford to eat at home.

- Most importantly, and I can’t believe in all the pop culture of Pompeii this had never clicked for me: Pompeii had a population between 6-35,000 people. Perhaps 2,000 died in the volcano. Contemporary sources talk about the bay being full of fleeing ships. Most people got the hell out when the eruption started. The number who died are still a lot, and it’s still gruesome and morbid, but it’s not “an entire town and everyone in it.” This also makes it difficult for archeologists, apparently (and logically): those who remained weren’t acting “normally,” they were sheltering or fleeing a volcano. One famous example is a wealthy woman covered in jewelry found in the bedroom in the glaridator barracks. Scandal! She must have been having an affair and had it immortalized in ash! The book points out that 17 other people and several dogs were also crowded in that one small room: far more likely, they were all trying to shelter together. Another example: Houses are weirdly devoid of furniture, and archeologists find objects in odd places. (Gardening supplies in a formal dining room, for example.) But then you remember that there were several hours of people evacuating, packing their belongings, loading up carts and getting out… maybe the gardening supplies were brought to the dining room to be packed and abandoned, instead of some deeper esoteric meaning. The book argues that this all makes it much harder to get an accurate read on normal life in a Roman town, because while Pompeii is a brilliant snapshot, it’s actually a snapshot of a town undergoing major evacuation and disaster, not an average day.

- Oh, another great one. Outside of a random laundry place in Pompeii, someone painted a mural with two scenes. One of them referenced Virgil’s Aeneid. Underneath that scene, someone graffiti’d a reference to a famous line from that play, except tweaked it to be about laundry. This is really cool, the book points out, because it implies that a) literacy and education was high enough that one could paint a reference and have it recognized, and b) that someone else could recognize it and make a dumb play on words about it and c) the whole thing, again, means that there’s a certain amount of literacy and familiarity with “Roman pop culture” even among fairly normal people at the time.

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I need something beautiful

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I think authors underestimate how many people reread their works/chapters.

That’s why, when I’m rereading WIPs or old works, I always leave a comment. Just a little hey, I’m rereading this and it is still great goes so far, actually

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…

@mazeirons

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my_tiny_jungalow

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i wish i was the version of myself that wasnt fucked up

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everything I thought I couldn’t handle, I kept handling.

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“I still remember you as a little girl who overwaters plants because she doesn’t know when to stop giving.”

― Trista Mateer

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Samhain | 2022

It is that time of year again. When I light my candles and decorate my alter with fresh fall leaves, cards, mementos, and photos of dead loved ones. When my kitchen is filled with the smell of favorite recipes, cider, rosemary and for a moment- I can hear my grandmother’s laughter when I steal a green bean from the can before it can make it into the casserole. I can picture my childhood dog, Katie herding me around the kitchen hoping I’ll drop a piece of food for her to snag. I can feel my childhood friend, James rolling his eyes when I say something kind for him when lighting his candle. The tears roll down my cheek when Ziggy curls herself around Callisto’s urn and purrs. Today is Samhain. The veil is thinner- and that means everyone I’ve lost is a little closer today. I may be the only person in this apartment tonight, but I have never been alone here.

“Do you have a magic spell to return someone to life?”

“No.” Said the witch. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh”

“Why don’t you tell me about them?”

“Will that bring them back?”

“For us. For a little while. Stories are the best kind of magic.”

On my alter,

Scattered among the photos of my dead loved ones,

And all of their familiar trinkets,

There is a small yellow tea pot,

And a photo of a little blonde girl.

There was no funeral for her.

No crowd,

No flowers,

No tombstone,

No eulogy.

She was here one day,

And the next she was gone.

Buried under the rubble

Of a story never told.

Blood spilled like ink

On the pages of a book no one would ever read.

All her pain,

Her hopes,

Her dreams,

Her ambitions,&

Her potential,

Laid to rest there with her.

Forgotten.

Like a whisper

You hear on a fall breeze.

The secret that dances between the leaves.

I still hear her.

I still mourn her.

And the childhood she had taken from her.

The innocence someone violated.

This is the time I mourn the person I was.

The person I would’ve been.

Could’ve been.

This is the time i honor the person I did become.

The person who survived.

The name that I chose,

To honor the journey,

The transitioning,

The acceptance.

The person I’ve yet to become.

- no one talks about how even in the wonderful bliss of coming out and accepting yourself as you are, you will still mourn the person you were told to be.

#word vomit #samhain #Samhain alter #reflections #coping with grief #witchy shit #witchy rants #nonbinary writer #nonbinary witch #seriously though do people actually read this shit #pinterest pics #pls don’t make fun of my alter thanks #writers and poets #original writing #spilled poetry #spilled thoughts