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glasswaters · 1 month
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inspired by recent events lol
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glasswaters · 1 month
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"All that pain, that misery, that loneliness, and it just made him kind." - Amy Pond, Doctor Who, season 5, episode 2, "The Beast Below" written by Steven Moffat
Pain sits on a chest too frail to lift it, its mouth split by teeth. it digs curved claws into sinew and bone and untwists nerves where they lie blank in its hands. Misery, hollow cheeked and hollowed bare, keeps its stomach concave, starving for company. A rattle in your lungs. Weeping sores on your skin.
What are you thinking? What are you feeling?
It hurts.
What are you thinking? What are you learning?
Make for me a map of the starving thing shredding your muscles. Hold open the puncture wounds, and pull out the claws.
Or else leave them in and let them fester. Watch your skin go blue and yellow, watch the flesh swell where they lay buried somewhere deep inside of you. Feel your tongue grow heavy and drop down your esophagus. Won't you lift your head?
Pain pulls from your head every thought before it's formed. Pain threads a needle from the spool of your words and stitches closed your lips. Tiny, and neat, a surgeon's touch. Pain takes your hands and holds them, fast and steady. Let me teach you, it says, and presses its splintering bones into the skin of your back.
What are you feeling? What are you learning?
It hurts.
-oh, my darling. pain doesn't have anything to teach. it just hurts.
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glasswaters · 2 months
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new valid link!
currently screaming about half baked long form concepts in my server come talk to me im bouncing off the walls here:
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glasswaters · 2 months
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OK like this if you want to be added to the tag list for @glasswaters
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glasswaters · 2 months
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come, my sweet, and let me hold you on the way up. this road was paved an age ago, and the stone has cracked. the grasses underneath their blanket are ripe for their bloom, and your mother has started singing again.
let me wind gold into your hair and cold into your breath. i would bleach your tunic and take from your feet the sandals worn soft with use. my mouth against the hollow of your throat, your hair a spill across my chest; come lay on my shoulders the weight of this journey.
i will help you along, if you let me.
little godling, little would-be priestess, little gem; won't you take matrimony's hand on the long walk that devastated Orpheus? spring is budding, and your mother is waiting.
in six months, the leaves will fall again.
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glasswaters · 3 months
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i havent published any about fatness specifically but ill look through amd see if i can find one i like and put it up
I was wondering if you have more poetry you've written about diet culture, fatness, or fatphobia? I found one work of yours but would love to read more of your poetry about those topics if you ever feel the desire to write about that. It's in my queue!
hi! im so glad you like my writing! here's all my poems that deal with eating disorders and diet culture in some ways ^^
https://www.tumblr.com/glasswaters/721589124546658304/for-this-last-day-for-your-pride-and-your
https://www.tumblr.com/glasswaters/707367002554155008/i-wish-i-was-made-of-starlight-and-copper-of
https://www.tumblr.com/glasswaters/699083542081208320/its-funny-isnt-it-that-i-cant-eat-coconut
https://www.tumblr.com/glasswaters/684970133578530816/in-the-summers-the-world-trembles-i-cut-my
https://www.tumblr.com/glasswaters/675556440720670720/grazed-knees
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glasswaters · 3 months
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I was wondering if you have more poetry you've written about diet culture, fatness, or fatphobia? I found one work of yours but would love to read more of your poetry about those topics if you ever feel the desire to write about that. It's in my queue!
hi! im so glad you like my writing! here's all my poems that deal with eating disorders and diet culture in some ways ^^
https://www.tumblr.com/glasswaters/721589124546658304/for-this-last-day-for-your-pride-and-your
https://www.tumblr.com/glasswaters/707367002554155008/i-wish-i-was-made-of-starlight-and-copper-of
https://www.tumblr.com/glasswaters/699083542081208320/its-funny-isnt-it-that-i-cant-eat-coconut
https://www.tumblr.com/glasswaters/684970133578530816/in-the-summers-the-world-trembles-i-cut-my
https://www.tumblr.com/glasswaters/675556440720670720/grazed-knees
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glasswaters · 4 months
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Auf Deutsch bin ich schon seit Jahren stumm. Vergib mir.
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glasswaters · 5 months
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i want to be a real boy, said the puppet to the fairy. i am too loud and too wooden. i cannot understand the softness of their skin.
when i lie, my nose grows. when i am lied to, nothing happens to them at all. they smile. their eyes shine, wet with salt-water. my wrists are bound with string, my ankles are threaded with wire.
when i open my mouth, out comes a scream, as a felled tree, bleeding sap. i've shattered the windows and bent the door.
i've broken my father's heart.
have i not given all i had within me to give? did i not shave myself hollow to offer a handful of wood chips and sawdust to anyone who would smile at me? my walls are thin, by now, and my voice is a haunting within my own head. when the sun is strong enough, it shines right through me.
as though i was made of glass, like the fine porcelain dolls in their fine silk dresses and their fine leather shoes. those chubby-red cheeks, polished to the noblest of shines.
smooth as aged pebbles, they do not hurt the palms that hold them unless dropped.
i have taken sandpaper to the high points of me. the rough, first, no matter how it hurt to hold it. no matter the mess. my father taught me well. i will not splinter if you touch me.
i will not lie. i will dance the dance, i will drink the drink, i will breathe only when i am told. i will sink this pining body into the sea. for my father, i will rot.
only make me soft. give me lungs and a beating, bleeding heart.
make me right, said the puppet to the fairy, make me whole.
silly little heartwood, said the fairy to the puppet, you are real. how else would you cry? there is nothing wrong with you.
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glasswaters · 6 months
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AGAIN BECAUSE I FUCKED UP THE POLL DURATION
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glasswaters · 6 months
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nail shut the windows, and bar the doors. draw closed your gaping mouth, open your dear palms. lay your head against the cool stone wall.
breathe, sweeting.
no, it's still beating, see? every one of your breaths, a stutter of muscle. every one of your trembles, a drop of blood. there is still life in it, and it aches to match.
when i press my nails into the flesh, it quickens, a hiccup in your chest. when i bend over, the sharp edges of my skin don't scrape against hollowed bone. it's flushed, see?
oh.
oh, no.
don't cry, sweet thing. don't draw your comely mouth into a line so muddled by tears that it can only shape wails, now. dry your eyes and set your face into clear resin so i might look at it always. keep your hands cupped and your smile anchored to the edges of your lips. feel it drag against your teeth.
take it.
no, it's yours.
it leapt from my chest when you first spoke. it matched the rise and fall of your breath when you first laughed. it's fissured, I know, but it yet lives.
why are you crying? your hands are trembling and your cheeks are wet. your mouth has dropped the smile. your breath stutters where it lives in your breast-
why are you crying?
this is a gift, dearling. i cannot take it back. i have already severed the veins, and the ligaments and the tender flesh. i have already broken the sternum and spread my ribs. for you.
for you, i would tear my tongue from my mouth. i would pluck my eyes from their sockets, i would peel my skin from my flesh. i would set a knife against my femur, and cut until i met the joint.
for you, i would carve open my thigh until it lay, de-boned and spread open on your cutting board. i would open my mouth to be stuffed.
for you.
careful, now. hold me gingerly and kiss me tenderly. this is a gift. won't you thank me?
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glasswaters · 8 months
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glasswaters · 8 months
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an ode to happy trails. to furred backs and sloping bellies. to beards and bushy brows and yellowed teeth. to crooked smiles and rough laughter, to white a-shirts gone translucent with sweat.
hands gone rough with callouses. faces gone wrinkled and dark with age. chest hair with white streaks through it, jewellery worn and scratched.
a love letter to hairy calves, slashed with scars. to low smoldering grills and the scent of just-burnt meat. the sun has not yet set, this summer, and the grass has yellowed. there is laughter around the table, and the paper plates are stacked, half-full and mostly torn, by the bin.
to potatoes wrapped in aluminium foil, greasy fingers, to picking at corn and bones in between beer-softened giggles and burned shoulders. thinking idly about hair and mouths.
and beautiful men.
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glasswaters · 8 months
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the lake by the mountain
It starts, as all things do, with a story. It begins, gauze-thin and stretched across these mountains, long before I was ever born, with the unspooling of a thread. Cotton, bleached white and pulled taut to keep a petticoat’s hem.
“Such was my task”, says my grandmother, who smells of wants and conviction the way my mother smells of daffodils. Her hands are worn, now, by age or by exhaustion, and when she holds her embroidery into the light, I can see the sun peeking through pierced fabric. The gas lamp on the table gives a groan, the sharp noise of the last of the wick eaten up by flame, just before it dies.
Keep reading
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glasswaters · 9 months
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loved, like a teddy bear that is coming apart at the seams. its fur is patchy and the eyes have long since fallen off. an ear is missing, the snout is squished. that belly is slashed open, and whatever filling once gave it shape spilled out of its guts in coughs and bursts.
in hugs. in angry, scalding tears, in bared-teeth-tug-of-war. in sharp claws and down-soft purring.
best-loved, and treasured still. never-mended.
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glasswaters · 9 months
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oh, sweet thing. my heart in your palms is beating still. there is blood on your good rug and salt upon your knuckles.
turn on the tap. until the muscle lays clean and bare, hold it under the cold water. pry open the chambers, and watch the oil and the bile drip down your drain.
i'm sorry about the mess, dearling. only; hold me gingerly, if you can. leave my heart beating, if you can.
it is tender, still, and would not yet make a good meal.
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glasswaters · 9 months
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for this last day, for your pride and your pleasure, i offer from the depths of my guts, the thing that has made itself a burrow there.
it whets its teeth on the lining of my stomach. it curls its tongue around the lowest of my ribs. the tongue is barbed, see, and it takes with every lick pieces of me, until the bone shines white.
until it splinters, and the marrow lays bare.
oh, but it has long since stripped the hair from its skin. it has sat, sharp tongue and sharper teeth, and pulled them out by the root, until its pores bled. it dug teeth and tongue and claws into its lips until they lay, swollen and red, a smear in that wretched face.
its claws are dull, by now. they are stuck in the flesh of my guts, and they have broken at their joints. when i move, i can feel the points of them just under my skin.
don't worry about the teeth now, for they have long been lost. Spit out or pulled or simply wasted away in my stomach acid, there is not a single sharp edge left. its eyes are big and have always been framed by lashes longer than mascara can fake. its cheeks are raw, and bleed still where its beard once grew.
take it. wrap that tongue around your fist and pull. polish it, until barb and flesh are soft and wanton. the lashes flutter. the mouth yawns open. the feet are arched and when it turns its head, its pulse flutters in its throat.
this is a family heirloom. it was my mother's before it was mine, and she took care of it with silken gloves and her heart in her throat. with wax and tweezers and claws, she grabbed it by the throat.
I picked it up and wore it as a scold's bridle, with my tongue wrenched between its teeth and my lungs crushed by its bones. until my stomach had lost its pouch, until my vision spotted.
until my thighs gapped.
this year's celebration, i close out with a showing of my womanhood. for your pride and your viewing pleasure, i bare my insides. please don't take pictures.
please don't tap the glass.
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