- a.a.s.
Game of Thrones Daily

★
Misplaced Lens Cap

Love Begins
dirt enthusiast
Acquired Stardust
Today's Document
Cosmic Funnies
Sweet Seals For You, Always
Stranger Things
we're not kids anymore.
Monterey Bay Aquarium
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH

titsay
i don't do bad sauce passes

@theartofmadeline

shark vs the universe
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
hello vonnie
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@thereisntenoughspace
- a.a.s.

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also a poem from the new, unreleased collection. very possibly my own all-time favourite.
— February 1, 1922 | Franz Kafka diaries
I want you to know that every time I’ve ever wanted to be loved you’ve shown me more genuine love & friendship than I could have dreamed I’d know.
I am forever grateful for you.
Because of you I never seem to go looking for love in places that will hurt me.
Because of you I will always be safe.
“[after a half-hearted suicide attempt at age 13] When Daddy comes in, he carries you to bed. Is there anything you feel like you could eat, Pokey? Anything at all? All you can imagine putting in your mouth is a cold plum, one with really tight skin on the outside but gum-shocking sweetness inside. And he and your mother discuss where he might find some this late in the season. Mother says hell I don’t know. Further north, I’d guess. The next morning, you wake up in your bed and sit up. Mother says, Pete, I think she’s up. He hollers in, You ready for breakfast, Pokey. Then he comes in grinning, still in his work clothes from the night before. He’s holding a farm bushel. The plums he empties onto the bed river toward you through folds in the quilt. If you stacked them up, they’d fill the deepest bin at the Piggly Wiggly. Damned if I didn’t get the urge to drive to Arkansas last night, he says. Your mother stands behind him saying he’s pure USDA crazy. Fort Smith, Arkansas. Found a roadside stand out there with a feller selling plums. And I says, Buddy, I got a little girl sick back in Texas. She’s got a hanker for plums and ain’t nothing else gonna do. It’s when you sink your teeth into the plum that you make a promise. The skin is still warm from riding in the sun in Daddy’s truck, and the nectar runs down your chin. And you snap out of it. Or are snapped out of it. Never again will you lay a hand against yourself, not so long as there are plums to eat and somebody-anybody-who gives enough of a damn to haul them to you. So long as you bear the least nibblet of love for any other creature in this dark world, though in love portions are never stingy. There are no smidgens or pinches, only rolling abundance. That’s how you acquire the resolution for survival that the coming years are about to demand. You don’t earn it. It’s given.”
— Mary Karr, from Cherry

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i have no intention of being someone you love.
i am not something to be soft or held in warm lighting and golden memory
i am someone who is fought for, hands dirty, heart open, mind wild.
you won’t love me until after you’ve hated what loving me cost you. and then it will not be love for me.
it will be the adoration of something you’ve won.
i mean to be the searing light that pulls you from your bed each morning as something to win back every day.
you’ll be exhausted of the hunting but you’ll never wish to lose.
i mean to be the race, the joust, the battle, and the crown.
i intend to be more than just costly to lose. i am meant to be costly to earn.
but i promise it’ll be worth it
a.a.s.
i’m so angry but there’s nowhere to put it. yes im angry at you, but it’s not you, it’s that im angry everywhere, it’s all that’s in my body and it’s at me and it’s at my sister and it’s at my brother and it’s at my job and it’s at my managers and it’s at my life and it’s at the bugs in my house and it’s at my bed and it’s at my couch and it’s at everyone who looked at me and asked if i was ok today, and it’s at my car and it’s at the guy from the tire place and it’s at my bank account and it’s at my knees and my hands and it’s how long i’ve been acting like a fucking doormat and it’s every apology i’ve uttered in the last 6 months and it’s this town and it’s everyone on my street at 2am and it’s my parking lot situation from months ago and it’s how i can’t clean my car because it gets dark so early and it’s that it gets so dark so so early and it’s that nobody ever calls me and it’s that i want that so much and it’s you but it’s not because it’s everything. i’m so so angry and my head hurts so much and i’m so tired.
phoebe bridgers singing waiting room is exactly how it sounds when i scream in my head in the shower when everything is nothing that i wanted and nothing is how i meant it to be
everyone’s falling in love
and they’re having ugly little babies
that they’ll teach to be beautiful
and weddings they can’t afford;
shoving everything they are into tiny little houses they’ll never pay off
just to be together
and to say forever like it means more now than it did before
and me
no not me
i’m just here in my apartment alone
wondering if the $300 in my account can make it two full weeks,
and thinking about the beach;
i’m going to church on sundays
and starving myself so gently i don’t even realize
until i’m pitching up bile in the olive garden bathroom an hour into my shift.
but God’s still around here somewhere
ollie’s wrapped in grief and another 8 battles she didn’t ask for.
she might go off the grid and
i’d like to go with her but she won’t let me
so i’ll pack her suitcase for her out of love
not me.
no i’m halfway home by now.
i left while you were reading.
there’s some juice in the fridge and maybe chicken nuggets in the freezer?
i can’t offer much.
but you see i also cannot stay.
i need to be asleep or i need to be dead
and if i cannot have one
i will force the other.
a.a.s.
on the phone with my mom today and through bitter sobs i accidentally somehow admitted that i wished i would die.
she’ll never forget this about me.
this will haunt us for the rest of our lives together.
short hours later i’ll still be sucking on my breath right before i have to present data in a meeting of people who i could not care less to see ever again.
life is moving in waves of dirty water and the only salt is coming from me.
nothing will ever be clean again.
i want to go home.
a.a.s.

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enough
late into a night (or early in a morning) like any other but much more plagued by things i haven’t identified,
i wrote a poem about my grandmother who is dead
and then i thought about you until i came.
then i slept.
i am not a good person
i barely cut a good woman
but god when im dead, no one will ever be able to say that i was without passion.
every moment
every pen i picked up
every movie i saw
every person i wanted
every boy i loved
every thing i ever baked
every laugh i breathed
every argument i made
every concession i caved
every friend i made
everything i touched i touched passionately and with intent.
and couldn’t that be enough?
a.a.s.
i used to write like my bones were on fire.
there used to be words and stories falling from my fingertips so fast and so full of life and potential you might have guessed it was my only passion.
for a long time it was.
now it’s slower. the words leak from me like my parents basement faucet; slow, out of order, unclean, and too lazy to be worth saving.
i wonder, lately, if it’s a sign of something. if i’m healing or if i’m on the edge of something far worse.
i wonder how to tell the difference before it happens to me.
i live alone now and my house creaks and clicks and has cracks in the walls but it’s all mine and i love her for it.
i could be happy i think. i wonder also if i’m allowed to be.
my mother sent me valentines chocolates from 1000 miles away, and her sweater that i love like a hug from across the world.
i wonder what happens next.
a.a.s.
• a message i’ll never send (in spite of myself) •
sometimes i want to love you so badly i can’t find my footing. like something heavy has replaced my bones and i have to hold my chest up with my hands to make sure my blood still pumps properly. but there are all these uncanny tuesdays and things that i can’t go back on. things i said id never do again because where would we be then but treading water in separate oceans. the point is i miss you more often lately and it’s not the distance. you love me in your friendship and i crave even that like i crave every sweet thing i’ve ever tasted. like the first time my mother made pana cotta, or the first time i successfully made lemon poppy seed muffins. i’ll never tell you this of course. and like the other tuesdays, this will fade to a low hum beneath our laughter and our long talks of music and books and life and love and hopes and dreams. and for a long time (maybe) i’ll be as content in your friendship as i ever was before. but let’s be honest, since we’re here… we both know i’ve never been as content as i seem.
a.a.s.
the crawl

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For those of you who dont get to see fireflies. Yes they are real and yes they are gentle
absolutely fucking wild to me that there's a bug that glows. like it's a real thing that is just Outside.
if you live somewhere where they're a thing, maybe it's unremarkable, but the concept is mindblowing to me lol
The wonderful thing is that even if you live where they are a thing, they're still magical. They really are that wonderful. I promise we do appreciate them so so much!
i’m terrified it won’t be as fulfilling for someone to love me as it will be for me to love them
i have to keep reminding myself to unclench my jaw.