newbornthought

[newbornthought]

“I loved you in a way I wished someone would love me.”

— Mahmdou Darwish

[newbornthought]

Weird vent thing i wrote

The woods beyond the farm were steeped in an amber light, the last breath of sunset fading into the blue-black hue of the night. Crickets living softly in the distance, their song hushed and quiet.

Somewhere between shadow and silence, a pair of unblinking eyes searched the darkness.

In a pen no larger than a wheelbarrow sat a duckling, small and pale beneath a layer of mud. Her belly, crusted over with dried dirt and sludge. Her legs, twisted cruelly in opposite directions, kept her from standing upright. She could not swim, could not waddle, could not join the others in the open yard. Her world was the dirt floor of her enclosure, the dented wire walls, and a scattering of corn that always ended half-buried in the muck before she could finish.

Through those walls, she watched what life should have been. The others glided across the shallow pool with ease, dipping their heads beneath the water with such ease... She could only imagine the coolness of it. In the mornings, she saw sunlight turn spiderwebs into strings of glass, dew clinging like jewels. By midday, the air turned heavy and hot, the sun a weight pressing her down, some days she figured that'd be how she'd die. At night, the farm quieted; the ducks settled into their nests, the hens tucked their heads beneath their wings. And she remained, always, in the same patch of earth.

Tonight was different.

The stillness felt unnatural, thick. Even the wind seemed to have stopped moving. No scuffle of rodents in the hay, no shuffle of wings in the barn rafters. And then, something shifted in the air. Not a sound, not yet, but a presence.

From above, a pale shape glided between the tree line and the pen. No flap of wings. No scrape of talons. The creature floated, a shadow with edges touched in silver moonlight. A barn owl, large and fierce, its face a perfect heart framed in soft, yet ghostly feathers. It hovered for a moment, gaze locked on the duckling, assessing her. Deciding.

She stared back.

Somewhere deep inside, instinct should have screamed at her to be afraid. The stories whispered through the farmyard about the owl, how it took chicks in the night, how the rabbits went silent when it passed overhead. That should have filled her with dread. Yet she felt none of it.

Instead.. Instead she saw beauty. Its wings seemed impossibly soft, moving with a grace that looked nothing like death. It was an angel, she thought. Come to lift her from this patch of mud, from the searing afternoons, from the legs that never worked. From the loneliness.

"Oh, you've come to save me. At last."

The owl’s wings opened wider, catching the light as it dropped in a sudden, smooth dive. Talons outstretched, it struck without hesitation. There was no chance to flail, she couldn’t have even if she wanted to. Her eyes stayed fixed on the broad sweep of feathers, the pale curve of its body as it closed the distance between them.

And then, the moment came. Quick. Absolute.

The pen, the mud, the heat, the hunger,

all of it was gone.

There was no pain, only the strange sensation of being lifted, the rush of cool air, and the dizzy thought that for the first time in her life, she was flying.

And in that final instant, she was free.

[newbornthought]

Today I wokeup from a dream, in the dream, I had everything I lost. My family, my belongings, even a room of my own with all my video games and working AC. So I guess it was more like a nightmare.

[newbornthought]

Only one thing can end this.

Prolong it.

[newbornthought]

You Are a Leaf

Green and flowing,

subtle komorebi above the highest tree.

Flowing with the whistled whispers of the wind,

the soft cracking of fallen tree branches.

Vibrant greenery, changing with each season,

a blanket to hide the small nestings of baby birds,

the feedings of new caterpillars,

shelter for squirrels and woodpeckers.

An umbrella for the sun-blazed and weary,

providing sanctuary.

The afternoon peace

of a napping tabby cat.

And connected to firm roots in the ground.

much stronger than one might ever see.

You are a leaf.

Provider of the lost and the living,

sanctuary for the flighted and flightless.

And the life of the world,

offering breath

[newbornthought]

am I supposed to be grateful to have survived this?

[newbornthought]

“I've been trying to go home my whole life”

-Chelsea Dingman

[newbornthought]

𝐈𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞 𝐈’𝐦 𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐝𝐢𝐟𝐟𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐭. 𝐈’𝐦 𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐰𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐞.

excerpts from a book I’ll never write

[newbornthought]

[newbornthought]

Sky splitting in my view,

wet gauze, sinew screaming in violet and brackish fractures.

A horizon foams at the mouth,

spits static, bites through the skeleton of the sun. Burning.

Breath?

No.

Molasses within lungs, iron filings in veins, weighing heavy.

vision drowns in oilspill light,

Ceiling: inverted throat of some beast-god, pulsing,

I miss it.

the splinter-cradle digging into my back, the lullaby of a child unloved.

half-safe, half-wound, suckling on poison shaped like home.

Throat bursts into splinters,

screams pour out like insects, wingless and burning. Like a dying roach.

language hemorrhages,

calls vanish like dew on asphalt, nothing echoes back, just absorbs.

Mother?

Father?

Names collapse before my tongue can resurrect them.

No fingers to thread through my hair,

no eyes to tether me to soil.

Silence.

crickets rasp their eulogies in molar-grass, it sounds as if its metal scraping against ceramic bowls.

owls chant in low frequencies of the night.

fog presses, moist and unblinking.

Petals rot teeth-first,

Their stems coil like tendons,

earth belches as I gargle,

Heart convulses in static.

Fingertips rake through the fabric of unbeing,

wishing for flesh, or bone, or anything warm, anything familiar.

I want…

anything. For once in my life. For once.

A false god to hold my wrists,

a hallucination to rock me to rot.

Something,

Anything,

before I dissolve into hydrofluoric acid and become one into the soil

I am a dying animal.

[newbornthought]

Whipping Cattle

A hush of lashes fluttering,

and a mind stitched quiet, obedient.

tamed by the gentle chains I was raised beneath.

I do not fight.

I do not rebel.

I only please.

Since girlhood, I was bred this way,

I was shaped this way,

broken this way.

Whipped like cattle.

First by the man whose blood runs in my veins,

then by the woman, my first god-

both teaching me obedience in sermons,

and scar-lined lessons,

until “good” became my only refuge.

So when you’re near,

when your hand is soft, your voice warm,

I exhale,

I let my body untangle,

my chest rise with wonder at the world I was never allowed to adore.

A splintered branch,

The soft whistle of the wind,

the slow pilgrimage of a snail,

the shimmering fractures of river water dancing in my view.

I gather these small holinesses and place them at your feet.

When your tone turns,

when the hint of sharp creeps in,

I crumble. I buckle.

The crackle of a phantom whip in your voice

snaps me into silence.

I shrink, docile, retreated,

becoming what I was made to be.

My body seizes as if pinned,

each muscle remembering, fearing,

the weight of childhood fear.

Though I know your hand will not fall,

the threat coils around my throat,

the subtle chill in your voice bites

and your kindness, once like a soft homely lamp in a world of bright, becomes,

Unpredictable.

Unsteady.

Unfamiliar.

And somewhere inside,

the calf awakens, trembling,

small and shivering and afraid,

bracing for the lash,

aching to be spared,

but knowing too well

I will be whipped like cattle

[newbornthought]

Brine Sermon

Mother, father, brother,

gone.

I cannot touch their faces anymore.

I do not try.

Home is a memory. Washed away.

Pillows I will never press my cheek against.

Rooms that forget me.

I forget them back.

Purple crocs on my feet,

stupid things- silly things.

tapping over dead sand.

The beach does not care.

The sand does not know me.

The sea…

the sea breathes.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Quiet.

No children screaming and laughing

no family singing.

Just me,

and the long mouth of the ocean.

It does not ask who I am.

It only says come closer.

The cold kisses my toes.

It pulls,

tugs my bones into the deep.

It says: I will not spit you back.

I will keep you quiet forever.

I will hold you.

I will pull you under, keep you pressed against my chest,

and I will not let you go.

Not like them.

Not like the ones who left you cold on the shore.

And I listen.

Salt on my lips,

salt in my eyes.

No fight.

Just the soft hush of giving up

And the sea.

the only one who keeps me.

[newbornthought]

“i think i’m going to stop.”

the sky is grey again.

it always is.

even when it's blue

it still feels grey

grey.

to me.

i wake up,

but it doesn’t feel like waking.

it just feels like

not being asleep.

my body moves through rooms.

sits in chairs.

eats things.

but it’s not really me.

just something

that remembers

how to mock the action of being alive.

sometimes i try to cry

but nothing comes out.

my throat is dry.

my heart doesn’t seem to know

how to make noise anymore.

i say “i’m okay”

so many times

that i start to forget

what not-okay even feels like.

maybe this is okay.

maybe?

maybe this is just

what being alive feels like

forever.

A sort of,

Dullness. Lately.

i wait for messages.

i wait for someone to call.

i wait for something

to change.

but the waiting

turns into days.

and the days

turn into nothing.

there’s a version of me

in another world

who is happy.

who made it out.

who was held

and held

and held.

but not here.

not this me.

this me is

quiet.

this me is

so very tired.

this me is

starting to disappear

one memory

at a time.

and no one is noticing.

which is maybe

the worst part.

or maybe

that is

the best.

i’m not going to leave a note.

i already wrote it

a thousand times

in the way,

the way i stopped hoping,

the way i stopped asking

maybe

this is the note.

maybe

this is the end.

or maybe

this is just

another tuesday

[newbornthought]

Smell the flowers

Take a deep breath now,

Unclench your jaw and rest your eyes,

You're doing just fine,

This journey is all that we have,

And all that we have is the journey,

One day it will end all by itself,

No need to rush it.

[newbornthought]

I like birds

[newbornthought]

Iteration spiral

(Trigger warning, harm references.)

an ache

A paroxysm that haunts

a low one

gut-rot and ghost-flesh

a feeling curling like smoke,

Filling my senses

Almost with delirium

to grab-

anything

everything

myself

to splinter

just to feel the crack

and know I can still break

to draw lines

delicate

violent

ritual

sacred

ugly

sting me

scar me

erase me, briefly

in the dopamine hiss

the soft chemical kiss

of something that feels like control

i want to forget

but forgetting looks a lot like remembering, reversed

i become the wound

and the wounding,

i repeat their hands

on my own skin

because comfort

is for someone softer

someone cleaner

deserving.

not me

never me.

i barter rest for harm,

stillness paid in debt with a bleeding silence

when the rush absconds

I am left alone

Choking in shame

and guilt’s mute clogs at my throat’s breath.

a child weeps inside me,

Seasalt and skin,

Pain and sin

And deep anguish and transgression,

Clutching the sheets,

i weep-

until somnolence wraps its arms around me, and lets me rest sweetly

[newbornthought]

Careful Enrapture, Careful Suffocation

I spin my webs with love

each strand a silver thread of longing,

shimmering beneath the hushes of the moonlight.

My eight limbs crawl with a purpose-

not to trap,

but to trace.

Oh, to trace...

the edges of everything I find beautiful, the curvature of all I enjoy. The details none other will notice.

The moon spills a soft gleam across my silken pattern,

and it shines- oh, it shines-

like an invitation.

Like a whispered promise:

"Come to me. Let me hold you."

Yes, I am a predator-

but only because I was born with too many arms

and not enough understanding of gentle.

I do not know how to let things go.

I only know how to reach,

to cradle,

to keep.

What I grasp, I grieve.

I do not kill…

I keep too tightly.

Each trembling limb doesn't ache to harm

it aches to love.

To wrap warmth around something soft.

To feel someone flutter against my chest.

The first moth stumbles into my web,

tiny wings beating like a fragile heart.

Its body trembles, twitching,

trying to flee.

But,

But I-

I'm enchanted.

Completely taken by its glory,

its gentleness,

its painted pattern like poetry written in a dust.

So I crawl closer.

Eyes wide, limbs reaching,

already spinning faster.

Already dreaming.

Already preparing a home it never asked for.

A cradle

A coffin.

Both.

I wrap it in silks of affection,

limbs curling around its form like vines,

I press my face into the cocoon,

longing for warmth, for connection.

"Stay." I whisper.

"Please stay. I’ll keep you safe."

I just want to protect.

I just want to love.

But love has weight,

and mine is heavy.

Too heavy.

The moth goes still.

Its wings no longer twitch beneath the silk.

I’m holding it--

but it’s gone.

Gone like the others.

Gone like everything I tried too hard to keep.

And I can’t tell the difference

between a hug

and a strangling.

I want its love.

But I’m killing it.

I’m killing it.

That’s all I do.

Is kill.

Is hurt.

With love too strong

and hands that never learned to loosen.