Pshycing yourself up to leave a toxic family is full of little griefs. You have your big grief of realizing that the people that you love were never there in the first place. But then you have the little non-senseical, inconsequential griefs.
Some of them are bigger than others, like grieving that you have to say goodbye to your younger brother as well as your parents, or like realizing that you're going to have to learn to be an adult all by yourself if you want to be able to live a life that is truly yours.
But most of them are smaller, like grieving that you may have to leave behind furniture you've grown attached to, or like grieving that you're going to most likely have to cut out extended family too, even if you like them.
It doesn't make sense. It's irrational. These things are inconsequential, surface level. You should have no reason to grieve them. And yet you do. Because at the end of the day, these things were fundamentally yours. You knew what they meant, you knew how the fit into your life. Even if they were a mark and symbol of the very toxicity you are trying so hard to leave.
And it is because fundamentally, you understand them. And in that understanding, there is safety. It's scary to go somewhere where you don't understand, even if you know that it will be inherently safer. You grieve because you are losing a fundamental piece of yourself.
And that's okay.
You will grieve. You will find be scared. You will have long nights and hard days. But you will heal. You will find your courage. You will have nights filled with laughter and days filled with people who love you.
You will get through it. I promise.
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at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"
like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.
"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."
... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.
and i'd still keep writing.
i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.
i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley
"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"
and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.
it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.
you create because you're greedy.
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Clone
~
Danny has heard about Superman's dislike for his clone,
Dead men do tell tales.
Danny grows angry with Superman,
There he was showing hate to his clone, his flesh, his blood,
Conner wasn't in the wrong,
He was just a child
He didn't ask to be created this way.
Danny hated Clark Kent
More and more with each story he heard from the ghosts around him, Danny knew what it was like to be cloned to feel that violation of his person, but he could never hate Ellie,
His clone
His cousin
His sister
His daughter
His family
She was precious to him and her being a clone would never lower the amount of love he held towards her.
So to see this hero, this adult, not give two shits about Conner?
Oh that burned
So he decided to do something about it, If Superman didn't want Conner then he would take him, show him the love and care that should have been his from the very beginning from what should have been his own family.
Danny could teach him more about Krypton than Superman could ever wish to know, show him his birthright.
~
Danny & Ellie on their way to surprise adopt Conner: "New family, new family~!"
Connor: "Why do I feel like something very important is going to happen?"
~
Superman feeling like he's being followed
The Krypton ghosts following him around being disappointed in him, and going back to the King to tell him all the things he's done.
~
The Justice League summoning King Phantom
Danny takes one look at Superman and is ready to give him the beating of his life
Danny: "You want a deal? Sure! In return for it I want 20 minutes alone with Supes over there, no reason why!
~
Danny seeing Superman after another ghost told him how bad he's been treating Conner:
~
Just an Idea
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i got my isbn today for the book. 8 months to go. my mom and i were talking about what the next steps are. i was eating trail mix, standing on one foot, phone tucked into my ear.
"yeah," i said. "the problem is that tumblr as a market is like, not something that can be studied." there's this weird wave of nostalgia and affection for this place that came up over me: how lovely we avoid consumerism. okay, it sucks as a creator. but also? keep stickin' it to 'em.
my mother made the sound at the back of her throat that i also make, the one that means i've got an idea. "you should figure out some kind of reward for presale amounts. maybe you give out poems or a mug or a signed book or something. would your followers like that?" my mother is sweet, and kind, and i have no idea how to explain on this website you can buy someone crabs.
i put more m&ms down the hatch. i had to speak through peanuts and almonds. "if it passes 25 thousand i will print the book out in its entirety and eat it live on camera."
"oh god. no, you don't have to do that." she was anguished. "just tell them that you'd love them to read it, and that they've inspired you to write. you got started on that site, and they helped you keep going. raquel, you love these people. the community? you talk all the time about the other writers and artists and whatever else. tell them that you're hoping for their support, they'll come through."
"no," i assured her. i discovered i had dropped an m&m, but an ant had already found it, so it belonged to him now. i will let his little life have a surprise blue treasure in it, too. "i'm gonna fuckin' eat the book."
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oranges
gojo knows how to peel oranges
a/n: just something simple inspired by the poem oranges by jean little, i cried the first time i read it, hope you guys enjoy <3
wordcount: 843
masterlist
there was a lot you did for satoru.
you helped ground him, reminded him to drink water, made him food, taught him how to fold clothes and do laundry, showed him all your favorites- from places to eat and videos to play.
you reminded him what love felt like, your tender touches late at night, gentle thumb pads wiping away hot tears, soft whispers and proclamations of love.
satoru always wondered what he did for you.
he didn’t think much of the quality time he’d spend with you, he thought that was a given. he often brushed past the shower of compliments he gave you daily, figuring that was the standard. the little gestures of holding doors open, buying you flowers, remembering your favorite candle scent and buying your shampoo seemed too natural to him for it to be considered and outward act of love.
“you want some oranges?” you asked, looking at him with a smile from the kitchen.
“i could go for some oranges” he replies, getting up from the couch and joining you in the kitchen, taking an orange in his hand.
his thumbs easily tear into through the peel, gently digging his finger and separating it seamlessly from the sweet fruit, continuing his motion until the peel comes completely off, all in one piece.
you on the other hand, are putting too much force into your thumb, your finger piercing straight into the flesh of the fruit, shrieking when the juice gets on your face a bit.
“how do you always peel it so neatly? i have never once been able to” you huff, setting the now punctured Orange on a towel, washing your hands in the sink before drying them off.
“cmon sweetheart it really isn’t that hard!” satoru grins, taking your orange and easily peeling it apart neatly. “you have to do this, and then… get it there and boom!” his smile widening as he stares at you, a pout on your lips and an annoyed look in your eyes.
“yeah yeah mr. ‘I’m so good at everything’” you tease, tasking the orange from his hand and munching on a piece. “they’re sweet today” you smile, putting both your pieces and satoru’s in a bowl, heading back to the couch the two of you were on.
two weeks later the two of you are cooking dinner, reading off the recipe and realizing the dish called for an orange.
“can you hand me an orange?” you ask, turning around and thanking him as he hands it to you. you were determined to not make a mess this time, it’s just an orange after all.
but as gentle as you were, the peel wouldn’t budge, and the little force you applied proved to be just a little too much as your fingers pierced through the flesh again. you groaned in frustrations satoru already taking it from his hands, a smile on his face as he so easily peeled it.
“coulda just asked” he hums, handing you the orange, you’re glaring at him, giggling when he misses your nose.
“thank you angel boy,” you mumble, chopping the orange and adding it in.
one year later you’re sitting together in a grassy field, the wild blowing past the two of you, your laughter and love filled gazes scattered in the wind.
“i got some oranges from the market today!” you grin, taking them out of the wicker basket and showing them to your snowy haired lover. “you owe me breakfast in bed if i can finally peel this damn citrus fruit” you wager, satoru easily sitting back, a small smirk on his face as he nodded.
“I’ll do so breakfast in bed for a month if you peel it in one piece” your eyes widen at his proposition, nodding before looking at the fruit in your hands.
it’s only ten seconds later that you’re throwing yourself back, saying the fruit was obviously defective because ‘there’s no way the peel was that easy to cut through!’
satoru takes the oranges from you, peeling them perfectly and separating them into neat sections.
“I’m glad i have you to peel my citrus” you smile one night, taking the mandarin slices from his hand and humming in delight as the sweet taste hits your tastebuds.
“I’ll always peel your oranges for you” he replies, voice soft, his blue eyes seem a little lighter and his face a bit more relaxed as he looks at you.
it’s been years since then, and you never learned to peel oranges, the times you’d attempt to, juice would get everywhere and the peel coming off in chunks, the aftermath looked like an orange massacre.
satoru’s heart flutters when he sees the citrus fruit, knowing you’ll hand it to him, for him to peel for you. he knows you’ll always ask him to do this for you.
satoru is grateful everyday that you can’t peel oranges, because with the boundless things you do for him, he knows this is the one thing he’ll always be able to do for you.
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