how rotten this inheritance

59 posts1, 2, 3, 4
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the art of maintaining dormancy (4/16/25) in collaboration with @eulogy
the soft cloudline wisps in synchronicity with the moonlight;
it is oddly clear for a night so clandestine in nature---
you wanted simplicity but i told you i wanted complexity,
wistful as always. i ruminate in the occupied memory;
memorializing the footprints you left in the grooves of my mind,
fossilized and solidified into frail nimbus-particles.
you are the fleeting aspect of my daydreams, the epiphany behind the imminence.
you say that we are only finite, but what about the constellations
we wove together and named?
i gently caress their blazing victories with a brittle
paling hand, moon soaked and dying a thousand deaths.
every star we see is burning, their deaths inevitable.
i cannot help but wonder if we have always been already-dead.

solidifying the transience of life, i am tracing the constellation
of the lovers(us) into your spine and ribs---let me hold
us together before we die like the stars you are pointing to.
it is only befitting that someone like you(cartographic romanticist)
is the one doing this. otherwise i think the subtitles of the
pearly white beads would stay blemished and diminished.
it is always another hand that guides me.




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the order of heartbreak (i am an observer) (4/16/25)
you asked to talk, and, in your words (not mine),
dropped a bomb on our foundation. now everything
we have ever-been and ever-will be is ever-changing,
no longer a consistency to burrow between the cracks of.

the fire brought clarity in the aftermath---
an ugly beast rearing its fat head, hidden behind
smiles and muttered praises. there is no winning
this war, only chaos after enlightenment.

i will never look at him again, i have decided.
he will leave and there will be no gaping wound
in my heart, only bitter contempt and a sharedness
with you in this female rage (i'll scream until i can't).
it is always another hand that guides me.




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the snow melts (4/17/25)
and one day it's all green,
saturated.
i have to wonder
how i could ever feel disdain
for the world so vibrant.
it is always another hand that guides me.




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someone/something (4/17/25)
i know a day will come when
i can't remember your name.
today is not that day, because
the syllables of you still linger
in my mouth, the empty spaces
filled with longing; i want you
to take me by the hips, hold
me steady. i want the trembling
to cease, i want the ache of
yearning for more to be fleeting,
not lingering. we exist in parallels,
where i want you and you want
someone/something/anything else.
it is always another hand that guides me.




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do you know the language of my silence? (4/18/25)
i.
((my voice has always been silenced
by those who speak louder than me.
i will stay quiet. for the sake of conformity.
i am framed by sound encroaching upon me,
pressing & pressing but never inviting.))

ii.
((




here for formatting, ignore it please.))

iii.
((here i am holding bluebells, drooping
& vibrant. here i am still & silent &
seeking for something to speak on.
here i am, ears perked & head tilted
with the obedience of a leashed dog.))
it is always another hand that guides me.




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to be known (4/19/25)
one day i will be known implicitly and one day
i will not have to twist the vowels in your mouth
into correction---you will already know and
i will already be known. "understand" holds
three syllables and so do i; hold me
like you carry my name between your lips.
it is always another hand that guides me.




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foxgloves in your teeth (4/19/25)
i.
we festered something rotting to fill
the gaps between our ribs. foxglove bloomed,
radiant and toxic. i gave them to you and
told you they were roses, knowing you couldn’t
tell the difference. we coalesced in our emptiness,
analogous vines wrapping around each other until
we couldn’t breathe. still, we remain.

ii.
we spoke in sweet nothings and sweeter cravings—
i smiled against the thorns and pulled you in closer.
“you’re a real person,” you said. i nodded tight-lipped
and choking because i knew everything we were
built on was fabricated from dying petals and
noxious air from our breath; foxgloves in your teeth.
it is always another hand that guides me.




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thoughts after i showed you a poem (4/20/25)
i.
you press every insistence into my neck
like a knife, clawing at my hip for attention.
you want to be something that is cherished,
held like you are made of precious metal.

i have cradled you between my fingers enough
times to know that you will always beg for more.
won't you just hold me? i want to sneer and
drop you dead on the floor, brittle and bitter.

ii.
you preach love and fairness and ask me
about my day but never remember the things
that matter. i am left eating dust and rocks while
you are precariously balanced between deciding

if you will silence me with sadness or elation.
i am not allowed to talk about myself without
scathing jealousy and suddenly i am
wiping your tears with the back of my hand.

iii.
i will conform for you as i so often do.
you do not take interest in who i am or
who i want to be. i will eat my own words so
i do not receive another "um...okay," text.

nothing is ever reciprocated.
it is always another hand that guides me.




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Spoiler
Avian wrote:yearn (are you real?) (4/2/25)
i am reaching out my hands farther than you can reciprocate.

just popping in real quick to say i was reading through the earlier poems in this thread and i adore this line




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you and me (and her) (4/20/25)
there's this photo of us (and her) where
you are holding onto my side like you want me
closer but your head is tilted the other way (to her).

i can imagine you are guided by your hands,
but you are a seeker---someone who follows your head
and heart and i know you will never hold me to your chest.

we will always travel in threes---me and you
and her, though i will be the one to linger behind. we were
never destined to coalesce. we are unanimous in our distance.
it is always another hand that guides me.




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Spoiler
Hi Avian! I love the theme of this thread, all your poems have been amazing so far, I've really enjoyed reading them!

I like how you describe syllables and saying someone's name, it seems like a recurring theme, like in someone/something, or the idea of being silent in the next poem, along with being something lingering behind, in your last poem.

Awesome work, I can't wait to read more!
Good is not a thing you are. It's a thing you do.
- Ms. Marvel

LuminescentAnt ~ Lum ~ Ant
(she/her)




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how mid-april is starting to feel (4/21/25)
i had this idea for a poem, but it faded
as quickly as it was conjured. i wonder where
i will find it again---perhaps in between the
pomegranate seeds bursting under your tongue.
how poetically cliche. maybe i'll write something better tomorrow.
it is always another hand that guides me.




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Spoiler

or if it had always been
a dead mother.


I mean this in the best way, but ouch.

***Under the Responsibility of S.P.E.W.***
(Sadistic Perplexion of Everyone's Wits)

Medieval Lit! Come here to find out who Chaucer plagiarized and translated - and why and how it worked in the late 1300s.

I <3 Rydia




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anxious wonderings (4/22/25)
my shoulders are in a constant state of
aching---i roll them back to alleviate the pressure.

sometimes i wonder if i am carrying something
infinite or infinitesimal, analogous but not parallel.
i have nothing to hold and yet i could empty
everything i have ever been into words and
fragments of flesh. i am tired of writing about this,

tired of writing about writing, tired of waiting for
this season to pass. the grass is green, the deer is dead,
the engine roars and i go silent. and i go [...]

sometimes i wonder if my silence will escape someday,
an all-consuming whisper of consumption---i have never
put a name to the face of oppression. it is all obscurity.
it is always another hand that guides me.



huh. didn't realize santa was a batman fan-
— Mageheart