sinsarewelcomehere

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(bleeding from my wound) notice anythiung differebt about me ;)

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Its late in the evening. I am staring at my sink, shells of all colors and sizes covered in wet sand.

I reach my hand in

I start washing the shells, theyve sat there, waiting for me.

What do they remind me of?

I cup my hands full of shells, the stream of water purifying them finally. I place them on a towel at the kitchen counter.

I think of the present and how ive gone this way, 22 years old and living alone with two cats, holding onto strings.

Where are my parents, my subconscious arises with every dig through the sink.

Suddenly i am eight years old again wondering when my father will be home from work. I have to wait a little longer.

Longer became days, i wake up and i ignore Mother, she has been sitting on the couch watching her telenovelas, smoking packets of cigarettes. She orders me again to do a chore, and i ignore.

A little later in my life i learn my father convinced my mother to keep the twins, even though financially they would suffer. Is that why She is this way?

After every handful i wash and put aside, i raise the treasures to my nose and i breathe it in. The strong scent of the deep, salty and rich with emotion.

The scent takes me somewhere i shouldve gone on my own, i was fortunate to be guided there.

Something in me breaks as i keep digging and washing my shells off of sand and impurities. The scent of innocence of the soul, the depth of life and the universe.

Im being pulled out of this place, as i move and start to sob.

It hits me and i break down. I look up to the mirror and see my pokered face, green eyes mixed with the red. How can the body remain so stoic when in turmoil? The tears roll down and drop on my hands.

Where is Father?

Somehow the act of cleaning shells reminds me how much i am alone. I clean and care for the shells and handle with gentle hands.

Where are the gentle hands?

I look at the sand pouring away down the drain. I decide the help the sand, as my shells sit on the counter waiting to be dried off, then stored until needed.

I feel like a shell

Father went back to his homeland after divorcing Mother. I am proud he is doing something for himself, but what about me?

Left alone like the shells at the beach. Picked up to be seen, pretty but useless. Thrown aside and taken for granted.

Forgotten

Mother didnt care where i went outside, while Sister loathed sharing her existence with me.

I play with sticks and rocks, i go to my tree at the side of the building, it’s unpleasant and the fruit is rotting on the street. It has a stench to it that ive gotten used to.

The graffiti wall marvelous as always, a statement at the town.

The big second tree behind the building, its like a pretty sister to my tree. I wonder how one got to house green birds and love while the other goes through the stages of existing.

What catches my eye every night, is the owl on the same branch, hooing. I can hear him when i try to sleep.

And perhaps sometimes i am not alone.

So why do i keep feeling this way?

I want my owl back.

[sinsarewelcomehere]

As an alternative to 'sugar, spice, and everything nice'

I present: 'salt, vinegar, and everything sinister'

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“Feminism that welcomes police power is called carceral feminism. The sociologist Elizabeth Bernstein, one of the first to use this phrase, uses it to describe a feminist approach that prioritises a ‘law-and-order agenda’; a shift ‘from the welfare state to the carceral state as the enforcement apparatus for feminist goals’. Carceral feminism focuses on policing and criminalisation as the key ways to deliver justice to women.

Carceral feminism has gained popularity even though the police – and the wider criminal justice system – are key perpetrators of violence against women. In the United States, police officers are disproportionately likely to be violent or abusive to their partners or children. At work, they commit vast numbers of assaults, rapes, or harassment. Sexual assault is the second-most commonly reported form of police violence in the United States (after excessive use of force), and on-duty police commit sexual assaults at more than double the rate of the general US population.

Those are just the assaults that make it into the statistics: many will never dare to make a report to an abuser’s colleague. Meanwhile, the very nature of police work involves perpetrating violence: in arrests or when they collaborate in incarceration, surveillance, or deportation. In 2017, there was outrage in the United Kingdom when it emerged that the Metropolitan Police had arrested a woman on immigration charges after she came to them as a victim of rape. However, it is routine for police to threaten to arrest or deport migrant sex workers, even when the worker in question has come to them as a victim of violence.

Carceral feminism looms large in sex-trade debates. Feminist commentators pronounce that ‘we must strengthen police apparatus’; that criminalisation is ‘the only way’ to end the sex trade; and that some criminalisation can be relatively ‘benign’. Anti-prostitution feminist Catherine MacKinnon even writes with ambivalent approval of ‘brief jail time’ for prostitutes on the basis that jail can be ‘a respite from the pimps and the street’. She quotes like-minded feminists who argue that ‘jail is the closest thing many women in prostitution have to a battered women’s shelter’ and that, ‘considering the absence of any other refuge or shelter, jail provides a temporary safe haven’.”

–Molly Smith & Juno Mac, “Revolting Prostitutes: The Fight for Sex Workers' Rights” (2018)

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elon musk really is a walking parody of "divorced man whose children hate him"

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pain means bread in french

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Love Letters from the 19th century

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