pitynostars2020

[pitynostars2020]

New poem about old stuff.

It’s the only thing for it

I tried everything else first

But the only cure

Is placing you on a shelf and letting you gather dust

Even into antiquity

Like a forgotten, silent, library

Irrelevant

Forgotten

Lost to time

Alone

I can never be the one

Because you don’t want that

You want someone you can use

And then throw away

Like all the rest

A pile of crumpled up pop cans slowly losing their color in an old garage

Forgotten recycling

Because that’s all we are to you

I’m an empty coke can

#how my relationship feels #pop cans #new poem about old things #poetry #poet #queer #gay #lesbian #discarded #trans #maybe unfinished? I’m not quite sure yet #💜 #💔

[pitynostars2020]

💜 and the thrilling sequel; I’m not a man, I love women in a very very gay way, but I’m not a woman and I don’t mind my gf calling me her bf. 😍

me: starting to think i'm probably okay with my future s/o calling me their boyfriend

also me: very sure i'm a woman

???

[pitynostars2020]

💜 oh my gosh. So good. 💜

my arch nemesis cynthia is, of course, at the bank, because we both were sent like clockwork to pick up the checks of our husbands. she is wearing a lovely long green gown, which i know was on behalf of me, because, as my husband will tell you, our house abhors green and glamour. already the tellers look at each other under their little hats, for they love our tirades, i’m sure, although not more than i hate them. 

“oh, is that your knitting?” my arch nemesis cynthia peers her eyes at my hands. “is it some kind of… sock?” everyone knows she and i used to be close before we were married and our husbands, smartly so, have introduced us to the idea of true vengeance.

“it is a scarf,” i say. i want to tell her that when the time comes and the world gets cold it will go over my mouth and i will breathe warm air and it will fill my lungs and i will be able to run around with my love even in the dark night. “it is not,” i say, “over surprising that you should be caught unawares of a scarf,” i say, “as i’m sure enjoying winter festivities are too beneath the handsome qualities your husband prefers.” pompous ass.

the tellers pass each other eyes for now it has started and they are delighted.

my arch nemesis cynthia thrusts out her hand. a white bottle. “rat poison,” she says. “i would expect the whole town knows about your little problem.” stage whisper. “such a shame, my dear.” then she rustles her long green skirts - which i know she wore on behalf of me - and she shimmies herself out of the room like royalty. oh, she floats everywhere she goes, beautiful black hair behind her. the bottle in my palm is cold. i will devise how to get her back starting first thing tomorrow.

the week, as always, is a long week, for there is much to make and do and knit and be. my husband comes home and i love him for who he is; for he never comes home without checking the state of the house up and down. he is the kind who loves his home so completely and sets each room like a stage for a great band to come playing. i am too ashamed to tell him why so many of the rats go missing, only make him a stew the next morning to celebrate. his favorite, although not mine, i’m afraid. plenty left over.

my arch nemesis today - of course - in a green the color of rotting. a bruise is uncarefully covered on her cheekbone, so striking against all of her dainty. her husband would say it was for her ungraceful nature, and i know mine would agree. i strike first, already delighted by my master plan, shoving over our best picnic basket tied with a bow. “i made you and yours a stew,” i say, “for beneath all that you carry” all that horrible wealth of your husband  “it seems you’re getting rather skinny.” i can’t resist one last comment. “i am worried you’re about to waste to nothing.”

She plucks it out of my hand. “yes, if it weren’t for you and your husband’s dwindling wealth,” her sarcasm is biting, “i’m sure i will be nothing in, oh, 5 weeks time.” she arches a brow. “so long from now.”

“i am counting the days,” i tell her. her lips purse. the tellers behind me make a choked titter. perhaps, by their estimation, i have won this round quite completely. i go home to my husband smiling. he asks where i have been and i tell him i’ve been at the bank, but he checks anyway because i like to get up to tricks and he doesn’t like to fall for it. it is a good game we play. at night, when he is asleep, i am so in love that i must convince myself to pull the covers over my nose and practice breathing. how silly to wake him up for a young girl’s feelings. 

the first week of five: she gives me a solid, ugly ring that requires three knuckles to hold. “i feel so badly for your status, and i must remember to practice charity,” she says. “it such a small thing, but do be careful amongst all that thin pine furnishing of your house, which dents so easily.” my husband appears at the bank’s front door. just checking. so lovely to be picked up by him. at night, in a rage, i try it - beneath the table bends easily. i scuff out the scratch with walnut before my husband can see. i pull the covers over my face in bed and breathe.

the second week: i wear her ugly ring and give her more stew, this time hearty with meat. her dress is a meadow. my heart each time it sees her collapses on itself. she hands me clothes for my husband, since his wealth continues to go missing, and the charity of her heart is so loving. i am so ashamed i bury them far by the old tree, where all my shames go hiding. again, the covers. it, by now, helps me sleep. i have gotten so good at it that i can simply shimmy my shoulders to be perfectly toasty and buried.

the third week: she asks how comes my knitting. i tell her it’s nearly complete. she asks how comes my husband, whom she must know has been ill recently, and who is doing quite badly. i go home to him, shaking. even sick he is a good housekeeper, who comes home examining for dust and dinge so i do not fall behind on my chores. who checks to be sure i spoke to only him and no one more, for fear a man might snatch me. tell me, who else has a man so involved, in this day and age?

the fourth week she is envy green. i shove a whole heaping of stew at her, for now her husband has gotten it. i say it will return him to spirits, she laughs, a sudden, beautiful sound, even in the quiet of a bank. everyone stares. maybe it is the stress that is making her quite improper. i feel the same way. so much is happening and it always seems she knows. she says she heard he has left me nothing in the will, which everyone already knows. she says she doubts either of us can dig upwards from the hole we’re both in. i look at the bruise on her nose. i tell her to mind her own husband, and be careful where she goes.

the fifth week: so final. her, garishly lime green. and i in black, to pick up a check that hardly seems the effort. it will be enough to cover my husband’s funeral. she smiles at me and hands me a silver bottle. she says quietly: now that i am destitute, there is one thing for it all, and everyone would understand quite completely. it would be quiet, and quick, and complete.

it is the night of the new moon, so dark no man can see in it. i receive notice her husband has died, and i am sorry to say i find a terrible joy in it. the air has changed cold. i have left a note asking to be buried in my scarf, the last thing i have made on this earth. i go through each perfect room, but there is nothing else to take with me, for the house has always been his and his alone, and now aches to be gone of him. i would not serve as a good tender for it. having spent so many nights watched carefully, the silly girlish freedom i’d gain would surely set the house ablaze.

i follow her instructions. quick, quiet, complete.

the horrible rustling is what does it. like a million green skirts. and then it is dark, and i am in my own coffin, eerie with pine. my head hurts but i must be quick and quiet. they have listened and buried me with my scarf. i shimmy my shoulders just-so and get it over my face. bring my arms up, ugly ring heavy, and begin to hit as hard as i can, over and over, the thin wood of my husband’s favorite furniture, the cretin. it would be pine, of course - he left me no money to be buried in any nicer recourse.

the wood splits so horribly, and then it is very hard to breathe, harder than under the covers, and i have to remind myself to be patient and continue to dig upwards, while my throat closes and my heart beats so loudly and the whole thing is so heavy it is a universe. the shifting of gravedirt is loud, and loud, and i feel i will be turned into a worm, and i fear everyone has forgotten about me, or i have gotten the timing wrong, or i will really die down here in the dirt and the cold

but then her hand, and my hand, and we are both digging towards each other, and she lifts me so easily from the ground like a plucked turnip and holds me against her, us both panting and muddied. we can only stay like this for so long, here in my pauper grave, and then we are both running to the old tree where we met, and unburying a second thing; my lovely box of shame, and men’s clothes, and all of my husband’s dwindling fortune i have slowly been squirrelling away.

my love and angel cynthia, who has black hair like a curtain and a mind so fast i sometimes am in frank awe at it, who is, even now and dirty and raw: even now the only sun in my life.

like this, i a man in an almost-dawn, and us cleaned by the river, and her smiling so widely, and only a faint bruise on her, and our pasts behind us in ugly garish colors. and her delicate hand and beautiful nose and when i finally get to kiss her it feels like green feels; my favorite color, all warm and nature and sunny grace and grass and lying awake so filled with love it makes you shake.

i hold her, and she holds me, and our future is a love like a dream unburied.

[pitynostars2020]

one of the most important things, perhaps the most important thing I have learned in my life is that nice people can fuck each other up in monstrous ways. people can be bone deep kind and loving and self reflective and still lash out under pressure. people can be earnestly neighbourly and charitable and hospitable and generous and still find themselves in situations where they become selfish. people can be well meaning and easygoing and gregarious and hold deep seated opinions that turn them into vicious little bullies under the right conditions. nobody is just one thing, and nobody stays one way. every person is a kaleidoscope and they will surprise you. you will surprise yourself. it's not a warning and it's not a judgement and it's not an excuse, and it's certainly not a reason to stop trying or to stop trusting. it is just a fact.

[pitynostars2020]

Oh, so we've got armed police raiding schools to remove LGBTQ books. Cool. Coolcoolcool. Very normal society.

[pitynostars2020]

Y’all are monsters. Shuffle? Really?

[pitynostars2020]

I hate this particular friend i just wanna rip them to shreds a little over something they said if I'm being honest just venting here

Actually i want to tear anyone to shreds i actually hate everyone around me 😢😢

[pitynostars2020]

pictures of masc girls wearing jacket+no shirt & you like cant quite see the whole titty but you see enough to know theyre swangin under there. wjhoa nelly

[pitynostars2020]

realising i'm a masochist did actually make me better at getting out of my comfort zone because now i can just reframe it as microdosing on getting off

[pitynostars2020]

💜

if this gets 1000 notes by March I'll uh. get a therapist. and y'all aren't allowed to reblog more than three times, I know what my friends would do

edit: to 1000 because my friends will try to get to 100 in the comments

[pitynostars2020]

This is what I love about this site. Because this is a description I fully fit. I’m a dyke. I love women in a gay way. I’m not a man. But I absolutely hate she/her for myself. I’m in what I consider a sapphic relationship, but I’m not a woman, sometimes I feel like a guy in the way Cavetown is, or in the of old books and leather bound pages. I’m a guy in that I sometimes like to refer to myself as having a T d*ck, and I want top surgery, but I want reduction, not the whole nine yards. I want to be in a gay relationship with a woman, but I am not a woman. I love women in as queer a way as humanly possible. I Donte nat to be invisible. 💜

people on tiktok would never survive a day on tumblr

[pitynostars2020]

Compulsive apologies drop from my lips

Like that story about the girl who spoke and jewels came out

Or her sister who spoke and bugs came out

I don’t know if my whispered I’m sorry’s are diamonds or beetles

I do know I love you past all the thorns in your rose bushes

Apologies fall from my lips like rubies

Red like blood and they taste of it

The bitter metal of losing and losing again

Of going to sleep

Believing you are not enough

And waking up

Going to sleep and believing you’d be better off gone or better yet dead

And waking up and forgetting for another day

But only temporarily

Apologies drip from my lips like rubies

But no one is around to see them

So what are they worth?

If a tree falls in the forest and no one is there, does it even make a noise?

If no one hears it, does it even matter?

If no one sees and there is no one to remember, did it even really happen?

God remembers.

#maybe unfinsished #this started rambling in the middle #I also got interrupted in the middle of writing it and this went off topic cuz I lost my train of thought #poem #poetry #gay #queer #another ode (wrong word but close enough) to inkskinned 💜

[pitynostars2020]

All I need is for someone to gently cup my face and tell me I'm not as doomed as I feel.

#you’re not doomed love #you’re just out of steam

[pitynostars2020]

Where’s a nice evil wizard to stab you when you need them to? Not around here. What am I the sidekick? Not important enough to kill off? Okay then. Guess I’ll just have to be insulted now. 😤

[pitynostars2020]

Alright now it’s 8. Bestie wtf changed? What is this character development shit? What 3 foods am I now willing to eat? Was I being extra picky before?

I’m at 3

[pitynostars2020]

Got inspired from @inkskinned so I wrote a poem.

Here goes.

The silence stretches like silly putty and breaks

You don’t respond

I know you’ve cried yourself to sleep again

I don’t feel any particular way about it

But—

Hang on

That’s a lie

I do feel some way about it

I feel like I wish we’d never made each other cry

I wish this had been everything I’d hoped and wished and expected

I remember when the crying was rare

The fights were rare

The pain was rare

But now we hold it in our hands like mangoes dripping juice

And it doesn’t taste the way it used to

I thought it would get better after that muggy day in July when you left and I found out what you did later and I cried

I thought it would get better when your uncle let you go again

I thought we could be best friends again

You came to me in blue at 10pm

We went to Starbucks

I thought it would never end

We went through September October November December

It was bumpy but I thought we’d pull through but I kept thinking about it

Again and again

Any time we ate mangoes I thought of him

Recently I told my therapist about it

The session ended before she could tell me what to do

#idk what I’m doing y’all #help me lol #here have this brain dump #✌️ :)

[pitynostars2020]

i know we’re both just messing around pretending to be whole but look at me. if the train was coming would you move. if the ground was falling from under your feet would you even notice or would it just be another tuesday for you. if somebody stabbed you could it hurt worse than you already do. what i’m saying is that i love you but i think we both drive over the speed limit when it’s raining. what i’m saying is that i want to hold your hand and i understand about how you sometimes have to sit down in the shower. what i’m saying is that i’m here for you and if the train comes please move.

#💜 #💔