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The prodigal daughter never returned,

a continuous disappointment to the father.

There is a hole that’ll never heal and expectations that will never be achieved.

No matter the distance or the age, I continue to ruin myself in my father's eyes, shattering any remnants I see of him in my reflection.

The untameable child who will never please him, the example he’ll never want to set for his other children.

I remain misunderstood, seen as nothing more than misguided and reckless.

I hope for my father's forgiveness one day so that I may forgive myself, and maybe then I will be allowed to move on.

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What will remain?

Or is it too soon to tell?

I remain unsure, careless in my practices, and blissfully unaware of what’s to come.

Maybe I’ve chosen this unawareness for the sake of complacency; after all, things are easier said than done.

My reflection grows tired, irritated by my lack of self-help and inability to remain true to myself.

I fear I hunger for all the wrong things and search for them in misguided places.

My efforts remain fruitless, and my motivation for self-preservation dwindles.

Perhaps I secretly enjoy being lost, the familiarity of discontent being too comfortable for me to leave.

Solitude guides me and, at the same time, frightens me, leaving any notion of peace unreachable.

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Vladimir Nabokov, Letters to Véra

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tis the season

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Slowly, quietly, entirely, wholly,

Towards and against myself.

My entirety is intertwined with the unknown.

For once, everything and nothing are combined, and I hide in the uncertainty of the in-between.

My hand is no longer guided; it has fallen to my side, cold and shaking.

I lace my hands together in an attempt for comfort, to lead myself along this hazy path.

Everything is changing, and I fight to run back to what once was.

I have myself, but I no longer know who that is.

I am a stranger to my reflection and a stranger to my past.

A duality of who I was once and what I am now.

I’m entangled in a web of my creation, becoming my own predator and prey.

I consume myself and hope to reemerge more gently, more intuned with the earth and sky.

I beg for my desire to dwindle, to no longer brand my heart in excruciating flame.

But it threatens to escape, and I can no longer contain the pain in my throat, instead choosing to release what I contain inside.

I rise and fall before myself, a steadiness settling that was never there before.

And I wait for the consequences of what I’ve done, accepting my fate.

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Jeremy Radin, from "Lazar Wolf the Butcher" (poem written during staging of Fiddler on the Roof at Paper Mill Playhouse, shared on his IG page) [ID'd]

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Olive harvest in the West Bank. Photos by Ari Messinis, courtesy of Al Jazeera.

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Yves Olade, from Bloodsport; “When rome falls”

[Text ID: “You can have my heart if you have the stomach to take it.”]

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nothin' quite like how a dog loves

let dead dogs lie - silas denver melvin // red dog - elizabeth frink // how to be a dog - andrew kane // domestication syndrome - dhole b // no origin found // for your own good - leah horlick // pleasure - beth cavener // it will come back - hozier // i am a dog. i have blood all over my teeth. - uhode // same poem as directly previous

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