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i was born into a world on fire, while spaghetti sauce dripped from the ceiling, ceramic lay shattered on the floor. watching bodies crumple to the concrete, spines contorted, flesh ripped open, seeping puss. daily fodder for an internet sensation, sheer virality.
your hopes and dreams picked apart by culvert vultures.
misfired shotgun shells lay quiet around surrounding glass, like a silvered mirror peeking back at you with a sick sycophantic smile. glaring as gore fills the gaps like a kintsugi amphora. yet they’d rather bite my tongue off for me than hear a hiss of dissent. hear the wail of a mother and you’ll spit back too.
my blood sweat and tears help fund the war on terror. my minimum wage pays for crack cocaine and veuve cliquot and ballistic missiles at 8 cents on the dollar.
a warfare bargain.
a shein regime.
finance your state sanctioned genocide for 4 monthly installments!
i’m tired of choking on ash and tire smoke and deductibles, yet, we are the sacrificial lamb. so heave yourself upon the pedestal, and wither and rot upon their cake.
2d ago
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i remember wondering what they must have been thinking. while the bombs were being dropped, while their high school crush was sent to fight a war he didn't want. i wondered what they spent their days doing. what their older coworkers were whispering about in break rooms. what the best cook in their friend group was thinking as they fed dinner parties with ritz pies and canned vegetable casseroles. i wondered how it felt to keep spinning when the world was falling apart, surely the citizens knew better, surely they spoke up, surely their bones were alight with rage and confidence and desperation! surely it felt cataclyismic. that's how it's always been taught. looking back, we see the patterns. looking forward, we just see another day.
these days, as my rights are being taken from me every morning, as the farmers are scared to farm and the reporters cannot report and the people are stirring unsteadily- these days i know all too well. i cut my strawberries in fours wondering if next week there will be any left. i listen to conversations in break rooms and elevators, making a tally of who's husband has a red hat and who talks about lowering taxes and whos eyes shift to the floor whenever someone says the word immigrant. i savor, save, and wonder. i worry, don't we all worry?
i hold my lover tight and blanket us in gratitude, praying it is enough that we never discover how lucky and rare this moment is.
when i was young i signed myself up for the revolution because it was exciting. then because it was necessary, and now because it is all there is. we expected songbirds and battle cries and passion, instead we carry casual, mundane grief. maybe there is no better future. maybe all there is is the hope of one.
so i no longer wonder. i know what it is to be one of the unlucky ones. i know the lack of glory in living through the next generations 'never again'. we are not revolutionaries. we are not martyrs. we are people just getting through the day. no one will write me a biography when i am gone, my diary will not be published. but my hands will be dirty and my soul will be light when they accuse me of the crime of being human. i lived, despite it all, during it all. isn't that what it's all about?
Jan 28, 2025
My room is a corridor of doorways. Not a space, not a shelter, but a network of half-thoughts and abandoned exits. The floors reek of piss, like some wild dog marked its territory and then left me to rot in it. The walls pulse with memory. Or maybe delusion. Either way, it’s loud in here. Thoughts swarm like ants — frantic, mindless, pathetic — all scrabbling for something to hold on to. Information. Meaning. But there’s nothing. Just famine. Starvation of sense. A thousand tiny legs searching for crumbs in a house that hasn’t been fed in years.
And every day the sky breaks open again. Not metaphorically. The rain here isn’t poetic. It hammers. It devours. It doesn’t cleanse; it drowns. The ants drown, but they don’t die. They keep moving, twitching, twitching, twitching. Not alive. Not dead. Just full of guts and nerves and the viscera that keep them twitching. That hard carapace we all grow when the storm doesn’t stop. That’s all they are. That’s all I am.
Sometimes I think I’ll dig my way in. Crawl through the iris of my own eye — molecular, meticulous — and enter the network of my brain like a savior. A surgeon. Maybe a god. Maybe I’ll find the ants and teach them how to be more than twitching muscle and damp despair. Maybe I’ll name them. Maybe I’ll give them something like hope.
But dry drowning is real. No matter what they say. And the terrifying thing is — there’s no evidence it isn’t.
May 27, 2025
😃
Poem I wrote a bit ago when I was loathing LOL🕺
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Im spectating myself,
on the screen distorted and displaced
I’m half rendered,
crude and unfinished
his hands repeat the same motions
playing a mortal game with himself
entranced by a saccharine glow
his body corrupts and transmutes into thread and dead skin
it’s silken fingers clutching and restraining his appendages
he stares at me, with deliverance inscribed in his pupils
I’m a doll in its embrace
I don’t want to leave its breast
but I know I’ll wake up tomorrow with concrete in my lungs and ribs of rebar.
May 8, 2025
Top Recs from @cheese333
2d ago
its an in your face slap stick style ignorant. it knows what is has and what it doesn't (money). its kitschy, repeats scenes, ridiculous ,and cinematic. also ninjas and dinosaurs.
2d ago