#inkflowsnetwork

TEXT ID

I think of you

Pastoral

Summersweetened thicket,

Wildflower rose

My home lays low

Cypress bodies, oaken hands

Cyanobacteria ripples the sun. I wonder ’bout your fences

If they’re hewn from the same dark root holding up my spring shore

We’ve got no lambs here. None in the swamp

Cows, nanny goats & gopher tortoise munch slow

Alay in the field a muted and stormy vista.

I wonder if the hills turn purple, slate into gray.

Can you see for miles?

Do aspen spike the same twisted shape? How stubborn

Is your green? When hay comes dust it all?

Late day

On the western shore the sun sinks

Cordgrass burns

Pink and the egret’s white shadow

[alt text: an excerpt of tumblr user humaintain’s substack newsletter, titled “I dont think anyone is unloveable u r spending a lot of time alone in ur room”. It was published on March 10th 2022, and has 3 likes at the time of screen capture. The content reads:

I spent a long time in high school thinking that I would forever be an observer. That I would be allowed merely to glimpse those intense-bright-volatile moments of life — heartbreak/fury/joy to be some of them — but that I would never be involved, be inside, be the subject of those situations. But it wasn’t that. It was that I never allowed myself to be vulnerable when[where it mattered. I ate my heart out in front of a comparatively, punily-sized “audience”, silent enough I thought they were just wisps, and hid the gore from my family and friends. They would never want to see any of this, was my thought. And they would never understand, anyway. Foolish girl. Why didn’t I believe them when they said they would be there for me? I believed in the world’s kindness — an abstract conception — yet their extended hands could never fully grasp mine because I recoiled the last second. Thought it was kind, but fleeting. Then they left before I could push through those layers of excuses and hold their hands back. What was I thinking?