#COULD YOU GUESS

[completeoveranalysis]

[4]

OR WE COULD NOT ADDRESS WHAT SHE SAID AT ALL I GUESS

THANK YOU CLAMP I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN MY PLACE. 

But oh oh oh the emotional crescendo of this moment. This is his entire emotional arc since Acid Tokyo all coming out at once - Syaoran struggling with all the actions he (or his body) has committed and what that means for him. 

And I really want to just swim in this idea forever because since Acid Tokyo - Acid Tokyo - we’ve been told that yeah he’s dead his soul is gone don’t worry about it. It was only in Nihon that they finally let us see that this was wrong, that there was some of him in there still, but even then we only got the chance to see it once more before he died again.

BUT NOW we get it. After all this time and all that endless suffering we finally get a quiet moment for him to just exist as himself, without the Evil Wolverine programming, and just come to terms with everything he’s gone through. It’s a magical moment I didn’t think we’d ever get so I’m treasuring it greatly. 

GUYS I FUCKING LOVE SAKURA OK

[knockknockwhosthereartistism]

I was inspired

[icewindandboringhorror]

(also feel free in the tags to clarify Why you made the choice you made!! :0c)

[marlowe-art]

still life disaster

[marklikely]

how it feels to use the word diegetic

[aluminumneedles]

I'm knitting in the corner at a party

and guys my age stop by to tell me I remind them of their aunt, of their grandmother. This is a compliment and I take it as such. They confess to having tried crochet once, and I smile. They get back in line for the bathroom.

I'm knitting in the corner at a party and a queer woman sits on the floor next to me, arranges her skirt, and smiles up at me. (I try not to blush.) She asks me all the questions on her mind about my craft and I answer them, hands still moving. We swap yarn sources. She doesn't stay, but she knows where to find me.

I'm knitting in the corner at a party and everyone knows where to find me when they need a minute, when socializing is too much and the music is too loud and they need to catch their breath. They pretend to be checking in on me, which is sweet, but I can see the relief in their eyes the moment they stop performing for a house full of people. They sit down and tell me things and all the while they never take their eyes off my hands.

The party has wound down and I'm still knitting and the hosts, two guys in their twenties, thank me for "helping to curate the vibe." I had no idea that's what I was doing. I leave the party having forgotten to drink anything and without that woman's number but with many rows added to my top-down raglan sweater. I call it a night, and a good one.

[inbabylontheywept]

I was walking out of the Walmart today, and a car passed me, and I got this incredibly vivid impression. It wasn't really in words, but if I had to put it into words, the two key points would be

a). I needed to watch that car and

b). That I needed to be careful, because the driver of the car was a massive bitch.

It kind of took me by surprise, because I really had no reason to be beefing with that car, and I also hadn't really had an impression like that since I was religious, which was in my teen years. Right? It'd been a decade since I had a little voice whisper in my ear, and I'd basically written it off as nonsense.

Anyway, I watched the car, because The Spirits or whatever were very insistent that I did. Car drove fine, went into the parking spot, inched forward, and right when it should've just stopped, the driver gunned it for some reason and it ran into the curb and cracked its bumper.

So, the driver got out, and she went to the front of the car to check that yes, she had cracked her bumper, and then she turned to look at me. The parking lot wasn't empty, but we were the only two people standing in that row, and I'd probably been staring at her for tenish seconds now.

She demanded very angrily to know why I hadn't warned her of the curb. And I could have said I didn't know you were about to gun it or is it my job to help every stranger park, or even could you have even heard me, inside your car?

And all of those would have been fine, but I was really, really busy digesting that I had somehow communed with Mormon Jesus again for the first time in fifteen years, and that the communion had mostly been there to let me watch someone park badly (?), so what I responded with was:

"Because it was foretold."

And I can't tell which would be funnier, if she went silent because there's not much to be said to that, or if she went silent because in Utah, she might actually believe me, but we parted ways without more words.

I'm still kind of digesting this myself, actually.

[oldmanpusspuss]

Gay as hell to be another man's groomsman like what are you gonna do? Stand there and wish he was marrying you instead? Gayass.

[crickit-song]

Jesus CHRIST

[lazylittledragon]

i hope the person who made the romeo and juliet uquiz never deletes it and also knows that i think about it at least once a month

[egophiliac]

the moral of the story is not to waste time angsting when you could be drawing Kamui instead

extra shitty art goooooo

[dinoserious]

a few shadow gira sketches

[morganbritton132]

Robin: *fighting a goon*

Goon: Stop! Stop, I quit. I give up.

Robin: Really?

Goon: Yes. Just tie me up for the police.

Robin:

Robin: Give me six dollars.

Goon: What?

Robin, in a fighting stance: Give me six dollars for the book fair or I’ll beat you up. Again.

Goon: *can’t believe they were just getting their ass kicked by a toddler in go-go boots*

Goon: I only got a ten

Robin: Deal.

Batman: *makes him give the money back*

[little-mari-on-a-roof]

the symbolism of Nathalie having her hair in a bun again while talking to the council... she was seemingly finally able to regain control over her life after Gabriel's death only for it to be revealed that she is under the yoke of a much greater, more threatening and controlling threat and has been ever since her birth

[inkskinned]

she had taken all of the pronouns in my poems and turned them masculine. every she was he. every her was him. i wrote about women dipping their hands into the honey of my chest and she had changed it in this stark, violent way. men now, in my work. in my ribs, i guess. how odd, to stare at it.

i write a lot about worshipping at the knees of my girl. what sapphic can resist the allure of chapel-talk, the divine nature of what is ours and ours alone. her hair in your shower. her chapstick melting in your car. when we say holy here, it is a different meaning. it is the smithing of our own haloes from mix-tape cds. no hammer to the anvil - only our own palms, skin scorching. forging every astral ray with the prayer please don't leave. our bible a history that is never taught in high school. we shape a church from the tent of her arched back. what other word for hymn but her voice. her moaning.

a poem can be stripped of its component parts, maybe, but can it still breathe? is it still the same ship? the words this woman changed, biting and spiraling up at me: my man is holy. i worship at his feet. he is the divinity of saturdays and the wheat of my communion and he is the hushed summer's glorious release.

it's common knowledge that you can say a word too-many times, and then it loses meaning. but here was something new: it wasn't that the words had lost meaning, but rather that they had shifted in the air somehow and turned radioactive to me. all of my words were otherwise unchanged, except for the unkind and glowing eye of him.

ivory-tower glowing in my aorta, i thought about talking to her on the sanctimonious and erudite level. telling her: a poem can be changed, can be erased or added to or demolished or reconfigured; but we do try to respect the original author. i would tell her i would have preferred her not change only the pronouns; that her actions felt like censorship rather than collaboration.

in front of me: you cannot cut him out of me, i was made to love him. no scrubbing, no penance. i will always come back to this house, come back to loving men.

i thought about telling her why her actions were cannibalism, not care. i would tell her about being 18 and pressured by my catholic family to accept a man as a partner; how i'd dated him for 5 years before being able to escape. how abusive he had been. how he had made me kneel in front of him - that i wasn't using the word worship idly, but rather as a reclamation. how i had to be re-taught even the concept of faith. how when i learned peace again, it was by the hand of a woman.

i thought about telling her about the wound behind it, the unceasing loneliness. i thought about telling her shape of the small and quiet hours; the fear; the endless and unpretty nature of just being queer. i thought about saying: all of my work comes from a place of pain.

i thought about telling her everything. when i finally found the words, it was only one: why? in that was the summary of all i felt: why not write her own poem? why change it so violently? and why choose my work, if she disliked it so much? why me?

i imagine she shrugged when she responded. all i got was a single sentence: "i really like your work but i want to be able to enjoy it without being made uncomfortable."

on her insta, her pinned post is of her boyfriend - now husband - proposing. they were married in 2023. congratulations. i really do hope she's happy.

i hope one day it stops hurting.

[eveningrainstorm]

take responsibility.