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sex
fingers and tongues and flesh against flesh
slick with sweat, saliva
you taste like a heady summer breeze
inside, you in my core, you in your entirety
blinding lights, waves of ecstasy
boy hands cupping my breasts,
calloused, rough, yet so gentle
so gentle, you are so gentle
recalling the spirals your fingertips traced
caressing the petals of my rose garden
zephyrical heat between my legs
your flames do not burn, do not blister
blissful catatonia, i lay on my back
under your tidal waves, immersion
the memory of another faint, uninspiring,
a dingy beach town rock pool
you, you, you,
i am drowning in you, nails
carving my name into the skin stretched over your spine
sex, it’s not just sex
the music of our shared pleasure, rhythmic breathing
harmonised hedonism
it’s not just sex
it is everything
it is the universe
you are the universe
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teenage alien waif bedroom rave
ocean of tears- caroline polachek
bloom for me- pearly drops
violence- grimes
prodigal self- eartheater
fear, sex- magdalena bay
drums of death- fka twigs
image- magdalena bay, grimes
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yahweh yahweh yahweh
yahweh, extraterrestrial girl-bitch
skin and bones, angel offspring,
dryad, selkie, river witch
pull the trigger sweet thing
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the sky is not supposed to be empty
the absence of god is not natural.
the absence of god is the presence of some otherworldly expectation, the presence of an aching, burning desire for more.
what if there isn't any more?
our ancestors walked under a mottled sky of greens and purples, guided by thousands of twinkling pinpricks, holy in their permanence. the mistake was to believe that they led to anything more, to forget that the earth is, after all, a sphere, like a dog chasing it's tail. the mistake was to go out searching with torches, to try and touch a heavenly realm with our glass and concrete monstrosities, to turn up our streetlights so bright, so many, that the resplendent kaleidoscope of our natural sky has been replaced with something so much more comfortably artificial. the mistake is to crawl on your hands and knees, to claw at a marble statue until your fingertips are bloody and raw, to believe the marble is made holy by the chiseling, polishing, buffing.
there is nothing more divine than the magic of creation our planet possesses. this is it- this is the gift, this is the wonder. walk along the sandy beach, feel the fringes of the vast ocean gently licking your feet, see the beauty of the sunset reflected in the geometric seashells that line the shore. bright glowing streaks of orange and pink, the promise it'll happen all over again tomorrow. feel the petals of the wildflowers that grow through the cracks of the concrete sea, their miraculous softness in a place of man-made suffering.
i go out at night and sit under the stars, the ones i can see at least, and i know god is hidden underneath the tangibly artificial beams of light that take up my vision.
to exist and to experience is the purest form of worship.
the sky is not supposed to be empty.
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lovers from the past
a boy with a shaved head, a cheap watermelon vape, a father with fickle fists. my cherry blossom button up, coppery snakes of hair brushing the indent of my waist, i was his antithesis. my love for him was a performance, an exhibition of my stubborn contrarianism and his youthful desperation. when he kissed me i closed my eyes and pictured the girl who played bass. i still see him, but now we pass a mahogany pipe around circles of unconventional characters, appreciative of each other's good company, yet mutually satisfied with nothing more. i love him, i do, i do, the same way i love rain against my window at 10 pm, the way i love the morning walk to the bus stop. to me, he is a keepsake of the headstrong teenage girl i used to be. he is strong, somehow managing to retain the human birth right to tenderness even through all the chalky bedside table lines, the wanton persecution and a childhood overflowing with every invitation to cognitive corruption. he is my friend, i love him.
a girl who played bass. my first kiss, my first real love. she was seashells, warm summer evenings. she wore a silver peace sign around her neck, never took it off. we were only 15, and oh, how i loved her. she sang in a band, and she was incredible, prodigal. every time she spoke, i could hear the profound melodies brewing in her throat. burned into my mind is the memory of us sitting in the school band room while she crooned radiohead into a microphone. i hummed along, under my breath and out of tune. i would hang around an extra half hour after school finished so she could kiss me against a grimy bathroom wall while she was supposed to be practicing her 90's guitar riffs. in the months after she left me, i was hollow. i was so young, i didn't know how to proceed with caution. what do you do, when you've given someone your whole self? when they have your heart in their pocket, when they up and leave without giving it back? i loved her like i had never loved anyone before. and of course, we tried again. it was summer, my skirts swirled in ocean tones around my ankles. i left her, in the end. she wasn't mine anymore. i didn't cry. now, a year later, we laugh about it all, buy each other diet coke once a week. we talk late into the night sometimes. the bitter aftertaste of nostalgia has long disappeared. the warm light of her affection does not fascinate me any longer, i am a moth only to flames of my own making. she is my friend, i love her.
a girl with blue hair, a silver nose ring, a pretty face. we met at a halloween party, in our friend's garage. we went out for a month. i remember she adored oasis, i remember she was a very sad girl. i really did try to be good, but i wasn't. all i could find in her cerulean rockpool eyes was vague affection, suppressed echoes of thom yorke's bass line lullabies. she was beautiful, so beautiful, in her own right, but i my vision was shrouded by a haze of yearning for what i had lost. she was my friend, she was not meant to be my lover. i see her sometimes, in the hallways between classes, and we smile at each other, but don't talk. i left her a november ago, i did not cry.
a girl made of stardust and unequivocal loveliness, who was shy but dazzlingly clever. she was pretty, so pretty. i badly wanted to love her- she was the sort of girl i should have adored. she was written in verse, tasted like cherries. i remember she had a document on her busted-up laptop covered in stickers, page after page of poetry i couldn't quite understand, no matter how earnestly i tried. our souls spoke in different tongues. an emotional language barrier, one i couldn't for the life of me overcome. i did like her, how could i not? she was inexplicably pleasant. it confused me and my ferocious passion. i discovered, through her and her unfaltering niceties, that i cannot force myself into indiscriminate understanding. i left her soon after i found her. i did not cry. she was sad, so sad, and the guilt of it consumed me, but i do not have the willpower to linger where i know i do not belong. time has passed, she is my friend. i love her. she is so different now- still beautiful, achingly so, but unrecognisable. she has come to know the power of pretty. there is a boy she loves, who rides a motorcycle and loves her back. now, she is bewitching, an enchantress in distressed denim and oversized t shirts that hang from her willowy form like babylon. gone is the timid flower fairy who was a question mark inscribed in shimmering coral ink in the margins of my classics notes. she is my friend, i gaze at her spellbinding smiles with loving indifference. she is my friend, i love her.
a boy with sea glass eyes. from the second i met him, i was infatuated. his quick (yet somewhat dim-witted in retrospect) humour, his reckless nights out, his slender frame and the hollows of his cheekbones. i would have given him anything he asked. i believed without a doubt that i loved him. i met him by mistake, and that same night us and an assortment of others slept awkwardly tangled up in my twin sized bed. i slept with my head on his chest, my body cramped and compressed, butterflies in my stomach while i counted his heartbeat and memorised the rhythms of his breathing. three weeks later, he kissed me in a primary school playground. i still remember it all in meticulous detail. his clumsy professions of affection that i took as gospel, the soft bite of the night air, the way my organs flipped upside down when our lips touched. for a month and a half, i was devoted to him completely. i thought the world of him. he was so casually cool, so undeniably beautiful. we spent friday nights drinking and smoking ourselves half to death, and then crashing at his best friend's house, bodies knotted together, interlocked. he would wrap his arms around me as tight as he could, as if i could have flown away. as if i would. i had the biggest crush on him. but to him, i was a metaphor. once the novelty wore off, once my tempestuous outbursts weren't exciting anymore, he was mean. once he had stripped back layers of beauty and gumption he found a storm he was not willing to brave. he made me cry, and i left him. it felt like hell. i missed him terribly. i had been heartbroken before, but this was different. i felt the pain physically, like he had ripped out my heart, gently kissed my still pulsating arteries, and haphazardly shoved it back between my blackened lungs. i went a little insane. i ripped up our pictures, i took a pair of scissors to the stickers he asked me to adorn the filthy city walls with, i lay on my bedroom floor gasping for air between sobs and dry retching over my mother's favourite stainless steel pot. i went back. of course i went back. he had made me feel like i was somebody that mattered, somebody that was beautiful and worthy of adoration, of respect, he let me believe that he loved me. it only happened twice, when alcohol had clouded his judgement enough for him to forget his inability to stomach my affections. the last time, he passed out drunk with his hands on my ass. i stayed up until the sun rose, laying on my back, and crept out the sliding door before he stirred from his stupor. my eyes stayed dry as i walked down to the bus stop. glorious indifference had overcome me, and i found my sympathy for his unfeeling apathy had run dry. we don't speak anymore. sometimes i think about him, but i don't miss him. he is not the boy with the sea glass eyes anymore. i often see him- small town, mutual friends, shared pot habits- but i don't see him. it's okay. truly, it is. i am almost grateful. i have learnt, and i will never let a person hold that much power over me again.
a boy with coal coloured curls and not much else. he was handsome, or at least tolerably so. i met him at a skate park piss up. he sat up by the water towers with me and showed me his second hand camera collection, played cheesy 80's music from his tinny phone speaker. i don't think he asked me a single question. i told him i wasn't cold but he insisted on draping his jacket around my shoulders. he was glaringly unremarkable, but i thought that was what i needed. it never crossed my mind that i could find contentment in solitude. the second time i ever saw him, he asked me to be his girlfriend with a jolly rancher and a buttercup he had picked from my neighbour's lawn. i said yes, but i didn't mean it. before he left my house, he grabbed my wrist and slid my hand down his torso and under his waistband. it was three weeks, i think, of sweaty sex and clunky small talk until i left him. the day before i told him i was done, i kissed the girl who played bass, drunk out of my mind at some party somewhere. i felt guilty, i really did, but there is a limit to how much you can feel for someone you never really knew. i haven't spoken to him since, and i never think of it. i could never love him. he was so painfully boring, and the sex was bad. oh well.
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cellophane- fka twigs
doll parts- hole
shard- michael brook
agony- yung lean
asleep- the smiths
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girlsgirlsgirls
i have a friend who is dappled sunlight on carpets of moss. she lives an hour out of town, by the ocean. the summer i was 15 we would stay out late, collecting sea glass, racing against the tide and more often that not walking home with soggy shoes. it was us against the world, and i wouldn't have had it any other way. in her back garden, an inky black kitten lies under the soil, peacefully sleeping in a shoebox full of his favourite hay and pansy bouquets. her eyes are hot coffee, amber in the sunlight. she lines her lips with dusty pink and her eyes with deep brown from her mother's busted up palettes, but when her face is bare it glows like a forest nymph. i half expect her to unveil a pair of iridescent dragonfly wings and flutter away. her silver jewellery clatters when she moves, a beautiful teardrop pendant resting on her chest. when she is sad, she is a wilted flower. i wish with my whole soul that i could rent a room in one of her lungs, that i could climb up through her veins into her mind and show her what i cannot put into words- the way she illuminates a room with warm yellow light, the effortless jokes that never fail to make me double over laughing, the stop-motion 3 am memories of her nose-crinkling grins i replay when i feel lonely. my friend is a poised polka-dot doe, she is crispy pepsi max on the school field, she is spiralling plumes of incense and windowsill crystals and the plum coloured mandela tapestry that hangs from her ceiling.
i have a friend who is a warm summer evening. a slight breeze, the tangerine hues radiating from the horizon, a beautifully rolled joint hanging from golden brown fingers and embellished press-on nails. every time my heart has been broken, she has opened her patchwork heart to me, let me curl up and cry on the sandy shores of her soul. we argue over everything- who gets to roll, how late is fashionable, who didn't text back and why. after a bad one, i buy two diet cokes, and sit with her, and whisper my apologies with tenderness and verity into her ears. i adore her. she is my love. she is a bewitching mare with a glossy chestnut coat, she is a girl hewn from gold and steel, she is strong yet she is soft. boys drool over my friend like street hounds. they want and they want and they want. they do not understand how to love her. they cannot love her like i love her. my friend holds hurricanes within her. she holds divine rage and oceans of sadness. sometimes, the anger leaks through the gaps in her ribs and singes my fingertips. she kisses my blistering wounds, leaving lipstick marks i want to tattoo on my heart.
i have a friend who is cherry blossom trees, soft pink smudges of cloud just after sunrise. she dyes her hair ruby red, and the stains adorn the waistband of my favourite jeans like a divinely jewelled belt. to love and be loved by her is intense, it is so precious. it is fierce, unconditional. one night, at one in the morning, we snuck out of the back door of her dad's house and ran to the playground by the beach. we smoked a joint lying side by side on our backs, in a comedically large wooden hamster wheel. our arms intertwined, cackling like witches, i could have stayed there forever. i could live off the love i found in that moment for a lifetime. my friend has beautiful upturned eyes in shades of green, an enchanted forest i get lost in when we smile at each other. my sweet darling girl, she wears her heart on her sleeve. she feels everything to her core, and she is passionate in her pain, but also in her affection. when she weeps, i see shards of her soul in the tears that run down her freckled cheeks. her laugh chimes like a bell, and i swear she is a flower fairy. she is lily of the valley, she is my little sister, she is my love.
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fuck my stupid baka life
when i was 15, i took a blade to my thighs. i carved out valleys and let ruby rivers run down to my ankles unflinching. the day before, i had gone to the supermarket and bought the cheapest razor they sold and an artificial raspberry energy drink. i went home and disassembled the pink plastic, a composed and clinical dissection that i’m sure someone better could spin into a metaphor. i can’t. i can’t see anything but me, so sad i had lost my mind, only 15 and wanting to die. no matter how hard i try, i can’t find poetry in the fact that i hated myself so much that i hurt myself. a year later, i haven’t picked up a blade in months but the hatred burns brighter than ever. i do not make myself bleed, i feel sick at the memory of the deep gorges of flesh i slashed into my skin dry eyed and stone faced. the morbid pride i felt is long gone. all i feel now is disgust, shame burning hot in my veins. the purple pearlescent grooves that adorn my limbs a constant reminder of who i am, who i was. i cannot escape who i used to be. i have made sure of that. i oscillate between sorrow, pity for the little girl who saw no way out of her misery besides cutting and cutting and cutting, and anger, loathing for my preordained destiny of suffering at my own abhorrent hands.
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media escapism
i capture the castle- dodie smith
pride and prejudice 2005
preacher's daughter- ethel cain
anne of green gables- l.m. montgomery
abyss- pastel ghost
the priory of the orange tree- samantha shannon
jane eyre- charlotte brontë
marie antoinette 2006
the bell jar- sylvia plath
god turn me into a flower- weyes blood
ultraviolence- lana del rey
circe- madeline miller
derry girls
bushel hyde- jessica pratt
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YAHWEH INDIGO
(fuck me i'm dead)
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okay baddie 😛
girl-woman-something-or-other. in that sickly sweet stage where you’ve forgotten how to be a child but you don’t quite know yet how to be an adult. girl-woman-person i say to myself as i feel my skin contort and stretch over the new length of my bones. girl-woman-someone i whisper as i caress the valleys between my ribs and obsessively press at my collarbones. girl-woman-being i think as i swipe imperfect liquid lines over the mottled nebulas of my black eyes.
15 punched me in the gut, left me doubled over and hard pressed for air, but i’m slowly remembering how to smile with teeth, starting to find comfort instead of fear in the curves of my hips, in sewing up the torn-apart seams of my love for my mother. girl-woman-nothing. i almost recognise that steel-jawed girl who stares at me with probing blue eyes in my bedroom mirror, identity on the tip of my tongue yet somehow slipping away every time i nearly see someone real, someone tangible. girl-woman-everything. i’m no longer frightened by the deep, twisting spirals of my mind and when god speaks to me it’s in the palpitating rhythms of my favourite rap music and the spirals traced by my best friend’s french tip nails in the roots of my hair. girl-woman-window. i go out on the weekends and drink and dance and believe for a second that i am not afraid of anything besides taxes and indifference. girl-woman-song. i am young enough to wear my heart on my sleeve and my lungs around my neck but old enough to have them torn away, tossed in the gutter, by men with the eyes of a starving stray and heavy hands that greedily grapple at the supple flesh of youth.
girl. i weep wounded animal on my bedroom floor, my arms banded in scar tissue hues of fuchsia and pale lavender and wrapped tight around the milky way bruises on my knees, my innocence pockmarked and tattered. woman. i wipe the salty dewdrops from my cheeks and square my jaw and know that there is no use in trying to piece it back together. something-or-other. i get to my feet and scowl at my reflection and repeat to myself “I am fragile like a bomb, not a flower” until it is true.
girl-woman-implosion. i have been hurt, an amphetamine arrow softly slipped under layers of muscle and dermis, and so i will let my girlfriends braid my hair into labyrinths and coils, let them clean my room while i try to breathe through the sharp sobriety of the moment until i can smell magnolias without wanting to sink back into the summer I was 12. girl-woman-ocean. i have realised that i am not a caretaker for heartless boys or girls with their eyes sunken in and their nails as razor-sharp as their words. girl-woman-nymph. my sensuality perceived by others leaves grease stains on my soul, tarnished by the callous cravings of man.
girl-woman-something-or-other. i have lost my voice, i sit stupid and stoned repeating meaningless apologies. madwoman, female hysteria, who do i pray to now? girl-woman-something-or-other and i am sorry that i owe myself forgiveness. i am sorry i cannot love myself in my essence, i am sorry i cannot be good.
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SERAPH SERAPH SERAPH
scar tissue
pot smoke
white monster, artificial ambrosia
cloying perversion
red nails, reminiscent of the blood of cruxificion
silver adornments pushed through my flesh, elven ornaments
collarbones
long hair, braided and looped in echoes of those before us
spiders, eight-eyed and unlovely
indigo and sage bruised knees and necks
ivory lace and ribbons
prescription medication
negative space, the gap between legs, between lips
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IMPURITY
hey pretty seraph, the rot has infested your soul
shameful seraph, cleanse yourself, your iridescence is perverted by your repulsive indulgence in worldly pleasures
indolent seraph, impurity.

control yourself, angel girl.
impurity.
you have besmirched your divinity. impurity. idle seraph, do not let your wings decay.
impurity.
sweet seraph, remember you are dust. little lamb, you cannot conceal the putrid stench of sin once you have allowed in the rot.
her generosity will not last forever.

GUILTY!!!
you have consumed the flesh of another beast. impurity. may she have mercy on your soul.
GUILTY!!!
you glutton, sacrilegious seraph. impurity.
GUILTY!!!
you have forsaken the privilege of martyrdom, rapturous endurance in the name of our lady. impurity.
GUILTY!!!
stupid seraph. see the stars? bright white, unblemished, pure. this is what you turn your back on, godless girl.
impurity.

control yourself, mourning dove.
your righteous restraint will be rewarded.
she will love you, satin seraph. there is no greater virtue than that found in her immaculate arms.
IMPURITY.
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gravestone baby
homesickness, the cancer of longing
incurable, chronic, olympus is long gone yet the stars whisper my name too loud and google maps robotically denies my requests for astral planes, or summer 10 years ago. my bones ache and my mother doesn’t know me anymore and my boyfriends never knew me at all. home isn’t a person or a brain-melting high and i have everything i wanted when i was 12 but i’m stuck yearning for something I’m not sure exists. i wonder, do the dandelions born from the breath of my selfish desires reproach me? do they despise me, my ungrateful, festering stagnation? i’m smart enough to cling onto a wild hope, to believe in something above all of the sugar-free shit congealing in my stomach, in something more than boners and exit wounds and convenience stores. i’m stupid enough to search for it in smoke and liquor and starvation.
what a strange feeling- to have my feet firmly planted on the ground, to feel my unbelonging in the creak of my joints, but to be bound to take one step after another until i collapse. until i'm back in the pulse. recovering lover, i can’t drop the act, i can’t stop this intolerable humanity that runs through my veins, hot and red, persistent through all the chemtrails and meaningless media. filthy, i am repulsed by my desire to fuck, to laugh, to love boys with slippery hearts and sticky eyes.
oh god, the longing makes me nauseous.
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a homosexual devotional
i cannot kneel at the feet of a god that denies my offerings. my sacred offerings of devotion, devotion to the divine beings of muscle and marrow carved by his own celestial chisel. devotion to the fierce, sensitive, consecrated institution of womanhood. devotion to a girl. my girl. how could he create this girl, this girl with a soul of dappled moonbeams and stardust yet decree my love for her an abomination? i adore his art, i adore his gifts, his blessings. the string of women i have loved, each one a prayer. each bus stop kiss goodbye a holy act, an seraphic display of nothing but sincere faithfulness to this universe and the love to be found and reciprocated. i cannot and should not deny myself happiness by averting my eyes to the gaze of the girl that sits across from me at a party, cigarette hanging from her rosy lips, the earthy fragrance of her spiralling smoke a hint at what’s to come once i am gently laid to sleep in the soil. isn't love the point? i love and am loved in return, and that is my worship. what kind of god thinks such beauty abhorrent?
a god that shaped me this way, a god that made girls in their enchanting, silvery form, yet curses me for the desire that prickles at my fingertips, is not a loving god. i will not beg my forgiveness, for i cannot deceive my creator. i will not pray to anyone but the girl that lies next to me tonight. god is an arrogant man if he thinks i would give up my crystallised visions of syrupy femininity for an eternity in his sorry company. pride is a sin, doesn't he know?
if i go to hell, so be it. the scent of burning flesh will fill my nose, the roaring fire only serving to remind me of the heat that consumed me within the rose garden between her legs. i will feel the flames on my skin, let my hair be set ablaze, and think of nothing but how sorry i am for the girls in heaven, the girls with their knees bruised from the endless praying, begging to be different. the girls sensibly married, three children and a nondescript husband in a button up, the girls who look at the women that glow from the tv screen, radiant in their miniskirts and their tank tops and contemplate how it could have been, if their god didn’t hate them, if they didn’t know that he did.
what if she didn't know?
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