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happy (belated) 5th birthday pipe dreams
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silence lay steadily.
things haunt, joshua jennifer espinoza // giovanni’s room, james baldwin // through me (the flood), hozier // flowers in the attic, v.c. andrews // i am in eskew, jon ware // anatomy, kitty horrorshow // the haunting of hill house, shirley jackson
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Dale Bailey, American Nightmares: The Haunted House Formula in American Popular Fiction
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rest in peace, lolo. we all miss you so much already. i wrote something for you.
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Please look at me
When you buy my book, I want you to read only the words I crossed out along the way. When you listen to my album, I want you to hear all the songs that didn’t make it. When I draw you a picture, I want you to look at the eraser shavings. When I write this list, I want you to crawl into my brain and come up with all the things I couldn’t think of. When I tell you “I love you,” please
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Please look at me
When you buy my book, I want you to read only the words I crossed out along the way. When you listen to my album, I want you to hear all the songs that didn’t make it. When I draw you a picture, I want you to look at the eraser shavings. When I write this list, I want you to crawl into my brain and come up with all the things I couldn’t think of. When I tell you “I love you,” please
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a "cooked" tv dinner
combining this with the prompt from @hiphopocliedes because they felt like they went together ,,, also sorry that this turned out not so appetizing ehehehe
tw for gore / body horror
Preheat the oven to 350°F. Open the freezer by making a Y-shaped incision into the chest, the two branches of the Y starting at each shoulder and meeting in the chest for a bad handshake, and the stem of the Y running down to the pubic area. The corpse is indeed like a freezer with an ice-chest. Remove the internal organs, then remove the plastic wrapping and place in an oven-safe dish. Bake for 14-17 minutes or until warm throughout and the heart ventricles become crisp. Remember what that feeling of warmth is like. You can be warm but your organs will never breathe or beat again. Remember what feeling is like. You can be warm but you will never find someone like me again.
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hot asphalt
there’s a reason i don’t leave the apartment these months.
the asphalt singes my toes as if they were made of paper;
i can sniff out the burning tissue (paper) in my body
by the smell of smoke and barbecue ribs
but i can’t snuff out the blaze without a drink,
no, nothing flammable. water instead, maybe.
there’s enough gasoline in this parking lot already, and at this point
you’re a walking matchstick.
this feels like it could turn into a longer poem one of these days... this could be a stanza
anyways send me a word or phrase and i'll write a short poem / prose poem based on it!
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chlorine: silky, sweet, and divine; cold to the touch but warms your insides. toxic, delusional, dizzying, dream-drenched d-word after d-slur after slurred words and u-turns i thought i’d write about swimming pools today but i have found something at the bottom of the 10 ft area. there’s life here, little microbes dancing in the wake of the ripples i make. but who’s left behind me, who’s left with a burning infection tingling in the back of the throat like a scream restrained by an electric fence teetering over the edge of the water? who’s left with a dirty cough distorting.
drink. drank. drunk. drought. drink drank drunk drought drink drank drunk drought because if i drink the whole pool there’s no way. if i drink the whole pool there’s no way she can swim up behind me. if i drink the whole pool i can keep all of my clothes on in here. if i drink the whole pool i might not be thirsty anymore. if i drink the whole pool the electric fence won’t win. if i drink the whole pool maybe i will drown in it, maybe my lungs will flood, maybe i’ll drown on solid ground staring up at the big blue sky.
the ripples in the water distort your face from down under here. i never seem to be correct. maybe i’m just dizzy. maybe these eyes are molding and rotting. maybe it’s the muffled effect of the water. maybe it’s my fault. maybe i should stop with these uncertainties and figure it out. maybe if i finish drinking this pool it will kill me, maybe i’ll be belly-up fish tank dead.
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June again,
the A/C is a dead horse and I’m holding the whip with a broken humerus. She’s laughing. The sun is trying to open my window, she’s trying to burn everything inside. The blinds are a slotted shield and the curtain is a safety blanket, a safety measure for when the bedsheets get too hot. Things start to trickle down from the ceiling like water — first the clutch of an increasingly unsettled disposition; the shaky blades of the ceiling fan; head filling and heating up like high sodium supersaturated soup; crickets croaking for comfort; the imagined scent of chlorine clogging airways; the water is up to my knees now. I shouldn’t open my bedroom door. She’s trying to pry the blinds open from outside the window, photons like burning fingertips trying to touch my skin and maybe something else. As it turns out, once the A/C exhales its shaky lungs into my own, I will be able to breathe a little easier. The sun will set, then she will come back tomorrow and ask for more.
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