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Incredible south pole aurora of Saturn

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I want to smell like a swamp snake with dirt and grass clinging to my skin, chilling and sliding across the shore in the midst of a thunderstorm.

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I've mostly known violence through words. The taste of those deafening silences are engraved in my cortex like the laws of physics.

How sweet and unscathed the venom can feel when it's someone you love who's spilling it. Still, it feeds your fears, and the hollow grows deeper the closer you get to oblivion.

There were times I couldn't even face the truth of those nights filled with vespers. Couldn't let myself grow weak, pathetic— hungry.

You can grab your misery from the neck, punch the wall to process your grief. But I can only clench my teeth and wait until it grows cold and bleeds.

My mind still repeats my parents' will like gospel. But they're no different from a false priest— they tell you they love you, then bury you as soon as you learn to use your feet.

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The grass turned dry, but, still, the clouds cry, whimpering loud and hard— leaving the sweet scent of warm petrichor behind.

I love how the sky engulfs us, how the rage of Gods travel across our bodies with trembling hands.

The trees sigh, sore, and the ground keeps score.

It hurts to feel this alive only when the wetness of the weather accentuates the trace of living beings— like lavanda or jasmine.

That's why each thunder, each droplet gives me goosebumps— waiting for all, waiting for the sky's downfall.

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Everything's wrong within me. I hide from the sun until it fades and shower under the rain, washing it all away.

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My love letters are always crimson red.

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One droplet of rain, Landed on my face, And ran freely down my cheek like a tear. The heavens were opening, As my heart was closing, And I found myself cocooned within a botanical sphere.

Part 5/6 - 'The Past: Still Present' Vol. II - Antigonie M. | @anti-the-poet

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when perverts came out it was so funny seeing everyone saying it was scary but i was texting all my friends saying i wanted my back destroyed to it. pummel me to the rhythm of housofpsychoticwomn or leave

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Yes, he cries, too.

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a booty call but make it spiritual decay

When can I reach a point in my life where I can kiss someone without wanting to write a fucking novel about it? Where I allow myself to be horny and indulge in hookups and forget what was said and done after.

Why am I an archive of everything— sensations, soul, sweet nothings. The moan, the thigh touch, the exact angle at which he said “you’re soft” like it meant more than flesh?

Why can’t I just be horny, reckless, easy?

Why must a booty call feel like an existential event? Why must a cuddle read like scripture?

Why can’t a night just be a night? A body just be a body? Desire—brief, blunt, without needing to be divine?

Can someone please connect me with the ambassador of Chill, get me an express visa to Bro Logic Land, where pleasure doesn't mean portal, and skin doesn't mean subtext, and no one writes poems about it the next day?

But I am me and me is already writing a poem before we even touch each other's skin and so me is deciding to write my hunger instead of feed my peace to you on a platter.

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the desire to be desired, to be undone, to be one together:

every movement, every motion, an exultation of death,

we open ourselves to another, to be swallowed whole,

it's an acceptance, an embrace, an awareness of sin,

formed by our innermost repression, we seek solace;

to be taken in, regurgitated, transformed, born again.

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True Becoming

Some seeds rise in warmth and light,

Some wait long through deepest night.

Each soul blooms in its own way,

In storm, in sun, in time, in clay.

I honour now what shaped my path

The love, the loss, the shadowed wrath.

No shame in pause, no guilt in slow

I needed time

to root and grow.

I bless the fire, I bless the rain,

I bless the joy, I bless the pain.

From all I was, I now break free

I grow in truth.

I grow as me.

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i love it when you read multiple works from a writer and you start being able to pick out the things that stick with them. like the themes they keep thinking about, that can’t be satisfied with just one poem or novel or story. or the motifs they like to reuse and recycle throughout their works like an extradiagetic thread. it’s like drawing a map through a writer’s collection of all the things that keep them up at night