sullenload
sorry, my dear
im ryn and i spill my guts into stories and poetry. queer writer.
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i've got seven missed calls and eight apologies in drafts and the thought of anyone wanting me makes me so afraid that i ask them to leave even when i want them to stay.
inside my mind i am begging; please don't go— please love me anyways
grit, a poetry collection/ in image/ mayakovsky by frank o'hara/ sue zhao/ unknown / Ruth Madievsky, All-Night Pharmacy / gone girl, gillian flyn/ Cotton Candy on a Rainy Day, Nikki Giovanni / supernatural?? (someone confirm this) / I Put The Coffin Out To Sea by Lisa Marie Basile/ Sorry by Halsey/ Sorry by Halsey / unknown
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Anthony Thomas Lombardi, from "self-portrait as murmuration"
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““dear self, for the times i didn’t show you enough love, for the times i didn’t love you at all, i forgive you.” - sabina laura”
—
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i love you. i love you and the way your mouth curls up when you won’t admit i’m funny. you hate smiling with all of your teeth, but when i see it, my body melts into the shape of waking up next to you on a sunny morning.
you kept me afloat and didn't even let me know you were drowning. it still hurts knowing how well you hid it but i guess it’s too late now.
what do i do with this? what do i do with this emptiness that has an underlying scent of your clothes?
my ribs crack every time i pass you and take in that loving scent. one that feels like holding me when i’m at my worst.
i’m sorry. i’m sorry you had to feel like you were at the bottom of the ladder, having to feel like you need to help everyone else up and by the time it’s your turn, you’re already back on the ground trying to catch your breath.
i’m sorry you didn’t feel like i could be there for you. and maybe that’s my fault.
#keep words#writing#writeblr#writers of tumblr#poetsandwriters#sad love poetry#love posts#poetry spilled ink#spilled prose#spilled ink#original poetry#slam poetry#poets on tumblr
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the fact that i'm no longer the same age as the protagonists of novels and films i once connected to is so heartbreaking. there was a time when I looked forward to turning their age. i did. and i also outgrew them. i continue to age, but they don't; never will. the immortality of fiction is beautiful, but cruel.
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Between the veil III - Lara Cobden , 2023.
British , b. 1971 -
Oil and ink on panel, 29.5 x 21 cm.
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Anne Carson, from “The Glass Essay”, Glass, Irony, and God
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Hanif Abdurraqib, A Little Devil in America: Notes in Praise of Black Performance
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