#helga floros

[typewriter-worries]

It's world poetry day so here are some (more) of my favorite poems:

What You Missed That Day You Were Absent from Fourth Grade by Brad Aaron Modlin

All Trains Are Going Local by Timothy Liu

Rural Boys Watch the Apocalypse by Keaton St. James (@boykeats)

HOPE YOU’RE WELL. PLEASE DON’T READ THIS. by Lev St. Valentine (@dogrotpdf)

Time of Love by Claribel Alegría

Every Job Has a First Day by Rebecca Gayle Howell

ALL THAT WANTING, RIGHT? by Devin Kelly

Reading by A.R. Ammons

things i want to ask you by Helga Floros

Night Bird by Danusha Laméris

Prayer for Werewolves by Stephanie Burt

The Two Times I Loved You the Most In a Car by Dorothea Grossman

The Yearner by Rachel Long

If I Had Three Lives by Sarah Russell

I Dream on a Crowded Subway Train with My Eyes Open But My Body Swaying by Chen Chen

We Have Not Long to Love by Tennessee Williams

Jesus at the Gay Bar by Jay Hulme

Cracks by Dieu Dinh

and here's part one <3

#already working on next year's list <3 #these are a few of my favorite things #brad aaron modlin #timothy liu #keaton st. james #lev st. valentine #claribel alegría #rebecca gayle howell #devin kelly #a.r. ammons #helga floros #danusha laméris #stephanie burt #dorothea grossman #rachel long #sarah russell #chen chen #tennessee williams #jay hulme #dieu dinh #world poetry day #poetry #literature #poetry recs #not to me not if it's queue

[asoftepiloguemylove]

Could you do one of suffering from an "almost something" relationship.

If thats too difficult, something about heartbreak it's okay ❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹🥺

Helga Floros things i want to ask you. / Audrey Niffenegger The Time Traveler's Wife / unknown / @hamletmaschine unaligned (2016) / Natasha Trethewey Memorial Drive / Jan Heller Levi Writing for This Story to End Before I Begin Another

#on heartbreak #on loss #web weave #web weaving #poetry compilation #poetry parallels #helga floros #things i want to ask you #audrey niffenegger #the time traveler's wife #natasha trethewey #memorial drive #jan heller levi #writing for this story to end before i begin another #poem #writing #spilled poetry #dark academia #spilled ink #dark academia poetry #words #spilled thoughts #poetry #dark academia quote

[atealiers]

Helga Floros — "things i want to ask you"

#words. #musings #literature #poetry #quotes #rp musings #writing #words #poems #poets #helga floros #*mine

[artisticexistential]

No because Clarice Lispector said, “Who has not asked himself at some time or another: am I a monster or is this what it means to be human?” and Florence Welch said, “But you have to satisfy the monster. The monster has loved you for longer than anybody else.” and Ocean Vuong said, “and what I really wanted to say was that a monster isn’t such a terrible thing to be.” and Helga Floros said, “I want to ask you which monster scared you the most as a kid.” and Mary Shelley said, “When I looked around, I saw and heard of none like me. Was I then a monster?” and Fredrich Neitzche said, “Is it better to out-monster the monster or to be quietly devoured?” but he also said, “Throw roses into the abyss and say; ‘here’s my thanks to the monster that didn’t succeed in swallowing me alive.’” and Mark Manson said, “There are still monsters in the back of my mind, and there probably always will be, but they’re getting quieter now.”

#dark academic aesthetic #dark academia #english #literature #english literature #quotes #spilled quotes #spilled ink #romanticism #romantic academia #light academia #Clarice Lispector #florence welch #ocean vuong #helga floros #mary shelley #friedrich nietzsche #mark manson #autumn quotes

[imaginemirage]

i always cry when i grocery shop. lingering in the produce aisle, turning every fruit over in my hands to find the ones unmarked. i want to ask you if you can love damaged goods. i want to ask you if you're scared of your father.

Helga Floros

#helga floros #quote #quotes #poetry #poem #poet

[girlaginggirl]

#helga floros #peach magazine #things I want to ask you #poetry

[anush-a]

things i want to ask you.

- helga floros

​

​

i want to ask you what god feels like. a dawn-kissed lily or the knife in your back. something to be afraid of. do you cross the road when you see a black cat? throw salt over your shoulder when you catch your own reflection and the mirror breaks? i don’t. how do you like your waffles? i want to ask you about that. i want to ask you about breakfast and honey. sunlight. do you like strawberry smoothies? there are so many things i want to say but don’t know how to. i’m thinking about angels again. i could be one, if i wanted to. like every animal, i was born from blood and shit. i’ll learn to bite my nails. i’ll mutate. mutilate. file my teeth till they’re razor sharp and bite my own fingers off. do you like pasta? i always cry when i grocery shop. lingering in the produce aisle, turning every fruit over in my hands to find the ones unmarked. i want to ask you if you can love damaged goods. i want to ask you if you’re scared of your father. if you could surround yourself in a colour, which would it be? i want to be a warm yellow. i want to be a light blue. i want to be a colour and nothing else. there’s only one mirror in my apartment, it’s the one by the bathroom sink, and i keep it covered by a towel. this is where i’m supposed to make a vampire joke, but i’m not very funny. if i had to live forever, i think i’d kill myself, and yes i get the irony. i want to ask you which monster scared you the most as a kid. do you believe in parallel universes? i think sentience was a mistake. i think this body was a mistake. i want to ask you if you like strawberry ice cream. i want to ask you if you sleep with the lights on

#helga floros #poetry #love

[moon-shower]

how do you like your waffles? i want to ask you about that. i want to ask you about breakfast and honey. sunlight. do you like strawberry smoothies? there are so many things i want to say but don’t know how to.

— helga floros | things i want to ask you

#poetry #poem #spilled words #not mine #helga floros #things i want to ask you #love #love poem #love poetry #light academia #dark academia #poems on tumblr

[nmwritings]

#helga floros #things i want to ask you

[upsidedog]

the islands, victoria chang / birds hover the trampled field, richard siken / post, ojibwa / everything leads to you, nina lacour / illustration, wormbus / i’d have to think about it, leith ross / entropy, beach bunny / post, trista mateer / unknown, veincold / things i want to ask you, helga floros / stranger things throughout

#lucas sinclair #max mayfield #lumax #stranger things #web weaving #all over the place but idgaf i'm sleepy

[taylorjohnson]

you have known that i love you for so long. i love you. why do you torture me? dialogues on love, sue zhao / mean streets, dir. martin scorsese / things i want to ask you, helga floros / sour breath, julien baker / if you're gonna break my heart, inhaler / untitled, @/510315 / nightmare alley, dir. guillermo del toro / evacuation, greg puciato / untitled, sue zhao / the dogs i have kissed, trista mateer; unknown, caitlyn siehl / untitled, _journalsandjunk_ on ig / night shift, lucy dacus / scenes from a marriage, dir. hagai levi; literary sexts, michael cantin / cascando, samuel beckett.

#klaus / au verse(s). #personals dni.

[typewriter-worries]

i want to ask you what god feels like. a dawn-kissed lily or the knife in your back. something to be afraid of.

- things i want to ask you, Helga Floros

#we are all just trying to be holy #things i want to ask you #helga floros #poetry #literature #dark academia #light academia #classic academia

[violetwritess]

“i always cry when i grocery shop. lingering in the produce aisle, turning every fruit over in my hands to find the ones unmarked. i want to ask you if you can love damaged goods. i want to ask you if you're scared of your father.”

- helga floros, from "things i want to ask you"

[agentsketchbook]

The guys I need in my guy squad

Read about some of the squad guys below!

Thistle is the youngest member of Molly's gang, born in 1988, 3 years after our main story begins. Later on in the timeline, she grows up to be spunky, rebellious, and fiery, as seen by her rock throwing.

Cole Manors is a cabbage floro and the oldest member of the gang, somewhere in his 80s. He is a retired architect and former construction worker. He helped renovate the operation's original and new bases in abandoned mine sites.

Alli Oops is a life loving yoga instructor and one of the first ones to get behind anything exciting. Their unamity is an allium floro. They are highly flexible, but accident prone! Pictured with Amata Gemoule, who is fumbling with their moves.

Helly (Helga) Faer is the very 40 year old pharmaceutical engineer who created the sun drug all the buzz is about in ITR. Smart, practical, and methodical. She is stubborn and a little hard headed, and that's not mentioning her literally thick viral skin.

Detroit Agate is an exciting artificial petraphine. He relies on car paint to supplement his diet to maintain his body's form and appearance rather than natural minerals, explaining the artificial. He loves to lecture and tell stories of his life to those who will listen. He's got a can do attitude and energy for days. Pictured are Pinku Usagi, Amata, and Pigeon Wing spectating a yarn he's spinning.

Sunshine Waters is the 32 year old 12 foot tall giant sunflower floro who is a part of things. He was a former mine worker like Amata, and currently trying to write novels with the help of his partner, Dazey Will Do.

Dazey Will Do is the 43 year old 4 foot tall powerhouse behind the gang who manages things alongside the two female founders and Heliotrope's advising. He is a quick thinker, light on his feet, and just as nervous. Polite to his detriment at times.

Sakana Furikake is the 28 year old cherry tree floro who fills the room with his flashiness whether he likes it or not. He's an artist, model, you name it who lives with his business partner and ex, Rose Buddy. He is a funny mix of both maternal and childish at the same time.

Oleander is a reader floro who works as a prep cook by day and was a former hitman. He prizes his gun collection, which he can fire with accuracy despite having no eyes using his reading senses. He knows when to lay low and when to stir some chaos. Or so we think.

Molly Mandrake is the 28 year old leader of the pack. She founded this whole gang alongside Helly back in 1976 to make a difference for floro sapiens affected by the steep pricing of the sun drug. The method ended up being to illegally create and distribute it under everybody's noses. She's calm, friendly, and smiles through it all.

Hansa Geoluhread is a yellow rose type floro who spends his time doing yard work for the elderly and disabled population in his neighborhood. A massive fan of cartoons and anime, he is caught up on his mangas to the right to left reading letter.

#Thistle Hoenn #Cole Manors #Alli Oops #Amata Gemoule #Helly Faer #Detroit Agate #Pinku Usagi #Pigeon Wing #Sunshine Waters #Dazey Will Do #Sakana Furikake #Oleander #Molly Mandrake #Hansa Geoluhread #gallery

[wholesomequotess]

how do you like your waffles? I want to ask you about that. I want to ask you about breakfast and honey. sunlight. do you like strawberry smoothies? there are so many things I want to say but don't know how to.

(excerpted from Helga Floros' things i want to ask you, published in Peach Magazine)

#books and coffee

[iicarusflew]

Lonely Aisles

Midnight at a grocery store, walking a mile in rusted shoes, finding angels in lonely aisles.

Modern AU. Pansy’s an ex cult member and Harry’s a war veteran.

Inspired by this amazing quote from “things i want to ask you” by Helga Floros.

“i always cry when i grocery shop. lingering in the produce aisle, turning every fruit over in my hands to find the ones unmarked. i want to ask you if you can love damaged goods. i want to ask you if you’re scared of your father.”

The gummy bears inside the packets look absolutely inviting. Ruby red, berry pink, ocean blue little figures stashed up against each other. Pansy tilts her head, inspects the little indentations on the figures, counts the number of colors in her head. Six in total, she picks up the packet to turn it back. Thirty gummy bears in total. Five in each color. But Pansy turns the packet again and counts—the insipid, lonely voice in her head tusks with each number—one, two, three, four, five, six. Six pink gummy bears, a neon, wildberry pink. She purses her lips, wonders about the missing color, returning the bundle to the shelf. Her hands are steady, at this moment. She can’t bet about the next, and the next and the hundred ones after them.

She picks up another packet and drops it almost instantly as a man slides beside her.

“Hey,” he says, and she gasps. Lets go off the candies. Trembles.

She turns back, heart rate picking up, stumbling, gasping in itself as she sees him. And she can’t say if it feels like a surprise or a premonition. Exhilarating or exasperating. Both. Maybe, both.

He bends down to pick it up. “I’m sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s OK.” She takes the package, places it back on the shelf.

He offers a smile she only partly offers back, heart rate taking a break, taking time to settle.

The guy awkwardly coughs, his shoulders—broad, athletic—ripples as he settles back, settles into his skin a little. He almost looks as surprised as she. He is Harry Potter. She wishes she didn’t know. She wishes she could bat her eyes and sport a pout and ask if they knew each other. Because they don’t know each other. They share a look, a stare across the basement of the shopping mall of her neighborhood. Support Group. Trauma sharing. Wound healing.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, glad that her voice is not all over the place, all over him . She had waited for him to talk to her—irrationally, blithely—many times. And felt idiotic, borderline dumb when the meetings end and they walk out, avoiding each other, pretending they didn’t belong there. They didn’t belong there.

“Oh, just browsing.”

Liar . And he doesn’t hide it. He smiles, lopsided, mischievous now. He follows her to the Canned Goods aisle. He hovers like a moon as she checks the plums and the pineapples and mangoes. Checks the expiry date, checks for ingredients she doesn’t really know much about.

He’s a veteran. A war hero. Survived by sheer luck. A local paper referred to him as the Boy Who Lived. Had to kill a man with his bare hands before his mind gave up. Snapped, they say. He brought medals back home. He can’t sleep.

“I think we like to dwell on tragedies because it makes us feel… well, not worthless,” he said, the first time anyone asked him anything about his nightmares. The first and last time he answered. “I don’t know,” he added, shrugged, brushed it off. “Maybe it’s a trick of the mind, I don’t know. Maybe we like being miserable because it makes us feel worthy of happiness.”

Not profound, what he said, how he said. But Pansy’s heart had stuttered, stopped in motion and her own mind backtracked, memories of herself getting tattooed on the wrist, how she trips back, how the memory of that hour makes her feel that she can resist days . She didn’t know what to think, or how, but as soon as he said it, he looked at her. And it was only a moment in real time, in real life, but for Pansy it stretched for hours. The look, after all the previous looks, was different, a cry for help, it seemed. Wistful, it seemed. Pansy was stuck on her chair.

They stand in front of the fruits on baskets and she wonders if he gets this, too. Why she’s here, checking all the dates in the cans and packets that contain symmetry, fresh fruits without blots, without dark spots that let the rot in easily. One black dot diverging into the bright colors, spoiling it, ruining it. He doesn’t miss locking her gaze and smiling once a week, every time they sit at opposite ends because it’s better to stare that way. Better to roll eyes or give a miniscule nod and a shrug. He has dark dents under his eyes but his eyes are bright, messy, clear green. He helps the old Mrs. McGonagall into her car and he has a careless, easy kindness in him that leaks out to strangers, sometimes—the caretaker of the basement, new members like scared Neville Longbottom. She wonders if he knows that she hasn’t really experienced that in a long long time. She wonders if he’ll understand that she likes to hover at these lonely aisles and look for meaning in grocery stores.

“How are you today? Now?” he asks, and she commends him on his choice of words. Because for them it’s today, or this moment, or this tiny scrap of time. Always improbable. Mind, healing, trauma. Always at a risk.

“Nice. Fine,” she answers, only a little surprised to find it the truth. She picks up an orange. “You?”

“Good.”

Aside from his one-time-occurance outburst, none of them really talk at meetings— god , no—but words float. A new person comes and it takes just about a week to know everything about them. Whispering before and during and after. Whispers float to her about him and his issues and the doctors he went to, and the therapies that didn’t work. Mild substance abuse issue. Panic attacks. Basket case.

Pretty basket case, someone had corrected it.

“I’m sorry it took me so long to—” He turns at the basket of oranges she is inspecting. Gulps before he dips his own hand on the fruits.

“To what?”

“To do this. Talk to you. It’s just… been messy. Uncertain. Eveything’s so shit all the time that I—I can’t…” He sighs. “I’m not good with words.”

“I know.” She purses her lips. “Me either.”

“So this support group sounded like torture.” He smiles, snorts, chuckles. “Until I saw you.”

There’s an undercurrent of wistfulness in his voice, not unlike the one she heard on his outburst. It blazes her neck.

“You could’ve talked too, you know,” he says softly, like he’s afraid she’ll run away.

“I’m uh—not good with… people. Myself, too. So.” She gulps. “I’m sorry, too.”

She wonders what else had floated. How many words about her and her issues and her therapies that didn’t work. Court cases and police raids. Dirty money washing out crimes done in secret. Panic attacks. Claustrophobia.

“I used to be part of a cult,” she says—breaths, really—as if the words have been stuck between them this entire time. As if they were frozen in the space—between space-time—and before she uttered, breathed, pushed them into the open air she was also stuck in the coils of syllables. A cult . Cult. Mother and father and friends and a powerful, immortal man who believed she was special.

“I know, Pansy,” he says, quiet, serene. The first time he calls her name and it’s electric, the shudder she feels, it’s exhilarating.

“Do you?”

It’s a one letter syllable—cult. His name was three. And some days it feels as if she’s cemented between these two. Stuck. Congealed. There is no her without the sect, she doubts there ever will be.

So whatever Harry Potter wants—with his sunken eyes, pretty, green eyes behind the nerdy specs, a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead and the audacious, borderline exuberant smile—whoever he wants to talk to is the girl Pansy, mean and snippy, whisked away in her entitlement. 

“Do you, Harry?” she asks again. Her voice breaks at his name, cracks like thin ice blunted by the force of a skate.

Whisked away in dark chambers and secret meetings and blood rituals to take over the world. She shivers. It all feels like a dream sometimes. Life feels like a dream.

But the light shines brightly, almost obscenely bright in its intensity and surety. Life and life and life and whatever is left for her—whatever she can feel. Harry Potter raises his hands instead of answering. She glances down and he is holding an orange, a perfect, round orange. She picks it up, chewing on the inside of her cheeks and runs her finger around the fruit, marvels at its color and the absence of spots, blotches, imperfections.

“I do,” he says, and it sounds like a promise. It sounds like hope.

She nods, drops the citrus on her cart and wheels it forwards. It screeches on the tiles only a little, she heads slowly to the baking aisle. Harry follows, she sees him in her periphery—faded denim stretched to his biceps, the split of his colour showing off the blood red flannel underneath—and she feels his presence like the dark side of the sun, or a melting candle, burning, touched.

Pansy stares at the food colours, powdered sugar, nuts. She’s been meaning to bake a cake. She’s been meaning to eat it whole and not throw up. She checks the icings, wondering what he’s favourite flavour is, wondering if she should brave the unnecessary—tantalizing, borderline asinine—stiffness and ask .

“So what’s your story?” is what comes out of her mouth instead, like it’s an afterthought.

He runs his hand through his hair, he straightens his specs, he fidgets . “It’s a long story.”

Vanilla, she picks. When you aren’t sure you start from the basics—but you start . Period. You drag through insomnia and anxiety and you talk to the boy you like. She checks the expiry date. Long story. Boy Who Lived. War Hero. Veteran. Former Addict.

Potential Love Interest. Potential Another Thing She Has To Run From.

Pansy places the packet into the cart. She turns to look at him straight. And it’s… nice, surefooted, something annihilating about it. He fidgets, but he also holds her gaze, he stares back. It’s different from staring across a basement and sending a terse smile, sending the message that they would rather be anywhere than here. She’d rather be here. She’d rather be here. The light reflects on his glasses, it glints on his forest-green eyes and his stubbles have a purpose, gives him a rugged look, worn out and tired and like her. Pansy gulps the stiff doubt and says—

Says—

“I have time.”

Harry smiles.

#harry potter #angst and comfort #angst #one shot #fanfiction #hp fanfic #hansy #pansy parkinson #harry potter×pansy parkinson #harry potter and pansy parkinson #harry x pansy #hurt/comfort