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@amoxicillin-tangent

abby, 22, poet

"her · it · age"

property that is or may be inherited; an inheritance.

  • i visit my hometown for the first time in a decade. i have never felt more or less like me. before today, i was no one because i had nowhere to remember and nothing that was truly mine. and now i feel like someone again. someone with roots.

i am given birth to by my mother. i am brought home to a falling-apart trailer. i am fed and i am not fed enough. i am aged into a small being with opinions and some semblance of autonomy; my childhood is a video game and i am given three objectives: sit down, stay quiet, and cease to exist. i am made good at the last part; it is a god-like sort of art, and so i do. silence is suited for me as well as i am suited for silence. 

i am told, gently, by my third-grade teacher to stop writing in passive voice. the noun of the sentence should be the actor, the doer, the taker. i am not a taker. never the actor of my own consciousness, of my own unconsciousness, remember, now, i am ceasing to exist. 

i am uprooted like a wilting plant, no sunlight, chipped terracotta pot, placed, never planted. grow, says the sunlight seeping between the drawn shutters, and i deny its case. i am made a masochist at all of eight-years-old, i am made for withering away. i am made mother, made martyr, made clever, made more, made machine. 

i am placed in a foster home and told the new rules. i will sleep at 2130 and wake at 0600. i will eat blueberries and coconut yogurt and i will make good grades. i will behave. i will sit down, i will stay quiet, and i will cease to exist. 

i am told, gently, by my ninth-grade teacher to stop writing in passive voice. like this, you are the subject of the sentence. i am brought home; i am subjected to my sentence. i am taught, i am created, i am embittered, i am disillusioned, i am ceasing. it is all i know how to do.

blurring letters litter the pages before me. maya angelou, oh pray my wings are gonna fit me well. oh, tell the hell-child to return to her cell. mangled beast, worthless mongrel, ceasing. perfect child, perfect victim, passive. the sentences are diagrammed by my expert hand and i am diagrammed as well, pages in a folder, problem child, trouble-maker, mentally unstable. infinitive, preposition, page-break. 

my eleventh-grade teacher is asked why was it okay for maya angelou to write in passive voice? she responds, because to write in active voice would take the focus from the corpse to the crew. i like that. i understand it. the pages aren’t so blurry anymore. i trace them with my fingertips, letter-by-letter. her bones were found//round thirty years later//when they razed//her building to//put up a parking lot. 

i am no longer still, silent, ceasing. i am no longer wilting, and no longer made, i am maker. 

grow, says the sunlight seeping between the drawn shutters. i am neither the corpse nor the crew. i reach forward with trembling hands,

and i pull the cord, and the light floods through.

"my mother's addiction as a list of fallen cities"

-

atlantis

your eyes were bloodshot//hands bright blue//arms tattered up and down//you smelled of sex and grenadine and i was//too young to know what that meant//but even so//i knew i had lost you for good

you told me//do as i say, and not as i do//i tried to save you//how you said you'd save me

your broken promises//flourished like a crocus in the sun//dead within days//i tried to save you//how you said you'd save me

you were a city in ruins//you took me down with you

only now do i wonder why it was me saving you// and not you saving me.

pompeii

in my dreams//my teeth rotted out instead of yours//when i woke, nothing changed

you destroyed you//you took me down with you.

i still wake up//from dreams where you're drowning and the walls come//tumbling down//and i reach for you, frantic.

while i was drowning//you were high//i reached for you, frantic.

i did as you did//and not as you said//this time.

sodom

when you tell me you are//leaving it behind//doing better//trying harder//i don't bother getting my hopes up;

it is no surprise to me//when you disintegrate down//into a pillar of salt.

this time//i don't look back//i just run.

what i said:

good morning, beautiful. did you know that vultures lay their eggs at the edges of cliffs?

what i meant:

every year i fight the urge to reinvent myself, to shed my skin and take a new name. i’ve got a manic flight hidden in my bones somewhere, down to the marrow. i’m scared of needles. i wanna get better but i don’t know how. i’m glad i didn’t know that the last time i saw you was the last time; it was better that i didn’t spend it dreading your absence the way i spent two hours trying to figure out why vultures lay their eggs at the edges of cliffs. 

what i said: 

some things just don’t have an answer, beautiful. vultures were associated with catharsis long before they ever were with death.

what i meant:

some things just don’t have an answer. i never believed in love at first sight until i saw you. the birds are singing and it makes me smile and it makes me sick. 

what i said: 

i’m falling for you, beautiful. did you know that a group of larks is called an exaltation?

what i meant:

i only loved you long enough to set my soul in flight and watch you become my ceiling. i didn’t want what we had to be short but meaningful. i just wanted it to be meaningful.

what i said:

i’ll miss you, beautiful. did you know mourning doves are related to carrier pigeons? did you know they used to send them overseas to sing funeral songs?

what i meant:

maybe there’s another world where i wake you up every day with bird facts but i don’t think it’s this one. 

what i said:

goodbye, beautiful. did you know that nightingales die faster the more they sing?

what i meant:

i would’ve sang myself to death, for you.

"siblinghood, as a series of seasons"

//

[spring]

our father brings you out into the hospital corridor. you are swathed in a linen blanket. i am impressed that you are not crying. 

on the way home, our mother makes some comment, something like i hope you aren’t upset that the baby was born so close to your birthday. i do not respond. i am staring into your eyes, and you are staring back.

-

clocked in; took calls; laughed with my coworkers. 

got so loud my boss had to intervene,

but she was laughing, too. 

made a joke about it being too slow.

took calls. laughed more. 

my callers were human.

i was human. 

clocked in; took calls; changed lives, or so i'm told.

clocked in; took calls; answered the phone. 

felt the fear crackling in static before i even heard the caller speak.

my caller was human.

i was human. 

clocked in; took calls; 

listened to a child narrate his mother's death.

clocked in. took calls. 

did not laugh, after that.

Sweet-hearted, sugar coated annoyance  she is three foot six shades of cinnamon spitfire. it’s dinosaurs for days - which one’s your favorite? I ask her the T. rex she says because if you don’t move they leave 

and I think what I would give for her to never learn that lesson there’s t rexes in people suits and they will eat you whole, baby they will crunch your bones for the sake of the snap and I will always be your stillness I will always hold your silence I will teach you what a violence gentleness can be what a well timed rock in the opposite direction can mean how to leave a room without being seen 

hello friend! just popping in to say hello :) what inspires you to write poetry?

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hiya!!! so sorry for the delayed response, this week has been soooo busy at work!

what inspires me to write poetry is, simply enough, when i have an emotion or an experience and realize i've never heard anyone capture that experience in words before. so i write a poem, and sometimes i post them in case someone else has had the same experience and that way a few people feel a little less alone? if that makes sense?

and also birds. i love a good bird metaphor. nature in general, actually. and Greek mythology, and overheard conversations. weird dreams, and random words in spray paint on the sides of buildings, and just about any encounter i ever have with a stranger.

and nuances, and wishful thinking, and people i love and people i loved once. people in general, too. i feel like being human is such a strange experience and sometimes writing about it is even stranger.

i could go on about this for,,,a long time. this was SUCH a lovely ask, and i appreciate you dropping by to say hi! feel free to do so anytime, friend!

how to leave a cult & stay out (long post)

i know this isn't my usual brand, but i felt the need to make this post given the fact that my poetry journey started as an exploration of emotions after i left the cult i was in. i know a lot of my followers initially followed me for that content, and i wanted to write this in case anyone needs it.

some background: the cult i left was a small evangelical patriarchal cult with a commune-type living situation. i am afab, with little to no family support and no college experience. i live in the US. i have no experience with anything outside this situation, and thus, my advice will not be universal. however, i've left and stayed out of my cult for nearly a year, and i wanted to share what i learned. i remember wishing i'd had a post or a book or anything to help me know what to expect, so here's what i've gathered so far!

tws: religious abuse discussion and addiction/nicotine mentions

Venus and Jupiter Conjunction: Planets to almost touch in night sky

i.

we are supposed to be the gods of this story.

the only problem is that i don't know the first thing about lightning and you don't know the first thing about love, so we end up in this tepid middleground between apotheosis and apostasy instead.

[make me a paragon, on my terms. a saint, but my body was never yours to burn. press the kiss of death to my lips and i will fall even more in love with myself. isn't it kind of pointless to evangelize me? isn't there always some sense of non-consent in disenchantment?}

ii.

we are not the gods of this story. 

i know this because you run off my roof like a rainstorm and i keep the scent of our death-marked-love lodged between my teeth, a sacrifice snatched from a burning altar.

everything i've ever loved has left me, burning the same dogshit promises like barbecued birds in their funeral pyre mouths, all charred feathers and maimed incense tumbling up their throats. someone will love you in all you are and i promise it can never be me.

i contemplate what it'd be like to unleash a hellstorm of dopamine and oxytocin on everyone who ever abandoned me but that just sounds a little too tiring so i settle for mortality instead. 

iii.

a news article from 2022 reads "Venus and Jupiter Conjunction: Planets to almost touch in night sky,"

wouldn't you love to be that holy, you ask. so alluring in our failure that everyone gathers around to watch us almost-touch?

i look up at the sky and shake my head.

no. i wouldn't trade our sin for the world.

iv.

how's that for apotheosis? you immortalize me on mondays and wednesdays and during business hours and every other weekend when all my half-truths cave in on each other. how much longer before pathology swallows our pride for us and leaves us both tangled in misgiving?

vi.

we are not gods, you whisper.

and i reply, we were never meant to be.

vii.

we can barely even handle being human.

[@nosebleedclub, march prompt #1, Venus and Jupiter]

"birdbones"

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ever since my mom abandoned me i've felt like a baby bird waiting for its mother to regurgitate a worm into its mouth. she will show back eventually with feathers ruffled in all directions and bloodsquirm tumbling from her beak. she will say it was to feed me and not for the sake of the carnage, and i will let her, for the song of a mother bird is nothing but truth

[even when she lies, it is nothing but truth.]

the motherwound aches like a song for the ages. i am the bird and i am the worm squirming between her teeth. i am swallowing bloodshed and it is fine, because i am told not to fight the hand that feeds me, even if it feeds me poison and rot. even if it feeds me the pieces of myself and tells me it is my fault for leaving them scattered around the house.

[she wanted to erase all traces of my presence; do not leave your lipstick ring on my coffee cups, do not touch the good china. do not break my vases and hide the pieces beneath rotting meat in the garbage. i will find them. a rotting thing is no qualm for me. i will kick you from the nest and say i am teaching you to fly, and it will be a lie, but you will learn to feed yourself this time.]

aren't we all just baby birds squawking in the trees for mothers that will never come? aren't we all abandoned tree-hollows of human beings, inhabiting a set of squalling orphaned birds in our pores. wondering if it's true that life overcomes death in the end. wondering if death and life are just two sides of the same coin.

[my mother collected coins off of sidewalks, and i was the pavement beneath her feet.]

they say it's fine, in the end, because the story has a happy ending. it's like, the unspoken rule of animal movies. you don't kill off the dog. the baby birds live, so it's fine. the baby birds grow into adults who warble their songs from the rooftops, red-winged blackbirds singing themselves to death, still waiting for a mother to come feed them praises, even though her hollow bones are buried in a child's shallow grave somewhere,

[and i knew, i knew when she caught me with my hands on something decomposed she'd huff in disgust at my squalor. what she never understood is that it wasn't just a funeral for the birdmother, it was a funeral for the dreams of mine that died when i looked at her and never saw them glint back off her eyes. ]

and when my grandpa died in 2015, my last words to him were a promise to finish building the birdhouse he left half-done on his workbench in the shed, but what i really said was i will not be like your daughter, and here i am, still building homes out of bird-bones, still sheltering a house of hungry mouths with the sins of their mothers, all laid out around them in a legacy of ivory and hollow, and damn

isn't that something? i watch the next motherbird land on the ledge, feathers ruffled out in all directions, and she sings songs of lies and they sound like lies. 

damn. isn't that something.

damn. isn't that.

something.

-

[@nosebleedclub, march prompt #10, red-winged blackbird]

Nosebleed Club Interview

Introduce yourself to your fellow writers / artists in the community (everyone can do this)! This can be a good way to discover other writers / artists as well. Please reblog with your responses

1. Name / Pronouns? 2. How would you describe your approach to writing / creating art? 3. Literature / art / films you’d recommend? 4. What are some themes / imageries you like to explore in your work? 5. What type of art did you make during your childhood? 6. What are you currently working on? 7. Where do you like to write / create art? 8. Which writers / artists (dead or alive) would you like to get coffee / brunch / dinner with?

i. my name is abby, and my pronouns are she/her & they/them!

ii. my approach to writing is very...chaotic! i write when inspiration hits, and i don't really plan out anything i write, yet it somehow ends up coming together into something beautiful at the end. well, most of the time, anyways.

iii. poems: the mother by gwendolyn brooks, tulips by sylvia plath, i died for beauty but was scarce by emily dickinson, two-headed calf by laura gilpin, landscape with the fall of icarus by william carlos williams, how do i love thee [sonnet 43] by elizabeth barrett browning, many in aftertimes will say of you by christina rossetti, sonnet 130 by shakespeare, i found orpheus levitating by nick carbo, even before your elbow knocked over the glass by emily rosko, remote disjunctions by mónica de la torre, aspiration by tian-ai, "the animal that is most vulnerable is usually the most cruel / it is impossible to separate it from what it remembers" by precious okoyomon, born. living. will. die. by camonghne felix, what he thought belly down, when I was 8 years old by duriel e. harris, glossolalia by eugenia leigh, farnaz by farnaz fatemi, lion by tina chang, the dark night (xviii) by may sinclair, [since feeling is first] by e.e. cummings, the city by nathalie handal, good grief by kb brookins, for the bird singing before dawn by kim stafford, [subterranean / dreaming grace roots] by nat raha, not by stephanie cawley

^so sorry for all of that, i've been needing to get these out of my system for a minute now.

iv. i like to explore topics of deep and varied and nuanced emotion, of mental illness and the complications of human interaction, and of what it means to be a lesbian in our world as it stands. my favorite specific imageries are flowers, birds, architecture, human anatomy, war as a metaphor for emotion, and nature as a reflection of humanity.

v. i wrote a lot of [very rudimentary attempts at] poetry, some prose/fiction, and occasionally dabbled in visual art but found i had no real penchant for that, haha.

vi. i have a WHOLE bunch of prose in progress, but most of it is fanfic. i'm trying to regain some passion for my original novels, but so far that's been pretty hit-or-miss. i'm also attempting to write a poem every day, and to be more open to sharing my writing.

vii. poetry, i create anywhere that inspiration strikes me. i've written poems on restaurant napkins, candy wrappers, receipts, even on my own hand if i truly don't have a writing surface nearby. digitally, i keep all my poetry on evernote and transfer it over to google docs if i'm sharing it with someone.

for prose, i mainly write at home in bed, on my couch, or at work. oddly enough, inspiration tends to strike me at work and i always keep a google doc open on the other screen in case i have an idea while i'm working on a call.

viii. i'd KILL to have tea with sappho of lesbos. i'd have to learn greek first, but i'm up for the challenge. or: literally ANY of my online writer friends, they're all so talented.

hello! i came across this post and it was so well-written that i wanted to say something even though it's so personal. but the way you wrote it just made me feel it so well and the way you've written about everything in it just has so much color and personality. i have a similar relationship with some of my family members and it's very bittersweet. second-guessed sending this ask because it seems so personal that commenting on it felt invasive, hell even reading felt that way. but i suppose that's just a testament to how well you wrote it :)

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hello friend!!

thank you so much for sending this ask my way, i appreciate it more than words can say! i am so glad the bittersweet aspect came through, because family can be such a...nuanced thing, and writing about it can be so cathartic. all the better if i share it and people understand!

i am so glad you ended up sending the ask, it made me smile so much. i love knowing my writing is read and my experiences are understood. and honestly: up-close, personal, and a little self-evocative is my general writing style, & i love hearing people's thoughts on the things i write. once again, thank you so much! i hope you're having a wonderful day!