ink fails

i. domesticity

I drink milk every day because my doctor says I need it to grow. Kind of like I need this calcium rush in order to make my bones stronger so I stop cracking them so easily. Preventing them from ever reverting to the weak, knobbly knees of last summer when a boy I had a crush on. Had a crush on, crushed me. Like a pulp. Into grains. Like a spoon grinding up soggy cereal swimming at the bottom of a bowl. I wake up in the middle of the night, remembering I didn’t drink 3 glasses today, and run to the refrigerator in my socks and chug it straight from the gallon, barbaric and yearning like a schoolgirl hitching her skirt up too high, and picture the white flowing through my veins. Softening me. Rounding me out. Giving me curves. I get a brain freeze instead and pray I’ll stop crying over spills and that I can sleep with this cold lurching in my stomach.

ii. vicinity

Maybe one day my hair will stop being so limp in the heat, but I don’t think that kind of thing can be anticipated, so I just have to wait. Girls like me live in the back of an un-air-conditioned convenience store, ratty sweatpants, tight tank tops, and crawl out with week-old receipts bursting from their pockets. Like glued ribcage kind of girls, like elastic hair tie, red marks around the wrist kind of girls. The cashier doesn’t mind when I snag a magazine from the rack and browse through it without paying because no matter how hard I try, I end up looking pre-pubescent anyway. And they let things slide. For a girl like me, at least. I’m saying, lopsided bun, wide eyes, a mouthful of crooked teeth, stars pulling them into their places, I was always too scared to get braces. The cover has some headline about how to enlarge your breasts naturally, which I think might be useful, and another about how to communicate effectively with others without saying hurtful things, which makes me laugh. I flip to the back to check my horoscope and eat that prophetic, adolescent shit catered to the teenage soul up like Eucharist laid under the tongue. Swallow down a spoonful of March’s: “Prepare to face some stress this month, but that’s okay! You’ll be able to get through it and find time to relax.” I want to rip out the page and shove it into my bra, like keeping these soft, meaningless words close to my chest will make them seep into my heart and change me. Stop making me think so much, fill my brain up with Arizona tea and static instead. But I’m cheap, and I shove the magazine back. I think my chest will stay flat forever.

iii. mobilization

I seek healing. Mending. I’m fingernails deep, sitting in the back of a subway at 3 a.m., pressing crescent moons into the leather seat, trying to dig up salvation. You can’t find that here, you can’t find that in the cracks between the tiles, you can’t find comfort in the ground up cigarette butt stamped into the floor. I’m wishing against this fogged up glass I could say anything, anything that would make sense for once, so someone could help me. Like please, my mind is bending in backwards, like please, I don’t think this underdeveloped chest can take any more of this resentment or it’s going to explode through my ribcage, out of my flesh, like please, I don’t want to hurt anymore. And it’s not my fault that I launch myself around like I’m in some sick little competition, pretending I don’t care, like I’m having the time of my life. Of course I’m not, of course I’m not, I don’t think having your hands shake and your brain go fuzzy whenever you think a little too much is fun, something to be documented for the world to see. I guess I’m different from other people that way, I’d rather people think I’m having a good time than actually have one without anyone knowing. I wish I knew how to sew, so I could stitch up my fibrillating heart, no matter how sloppy and crooked, but the needle jabs my finger as the subway lurches left, and I bleed, I bleed, I bleed.

iv. unearthliness

My mom told me not to walk naked in front of the altar. Disrespectful, she called it, and even though I agree, sometimes I test my divinity and emerge from the bathroom, the steam from the shower wafting off smoke like the incense in its pot. Young god, skin tinted green from fake gold. Young god, empty stomach, fruit scooped out of its rind, leaving me seedless. This hatred has roots, and I don’t know whether I want to dig out my insides with my hands or fill myself up until I’m close to bursting. I let people think the scratches on my knees are from a night of alcohol and a boy tugging my hair. Of course, it’s that and not child worship on a scratchy rug, not begging for forgiveness, not praying for glamour and glory, not hoping for. Of course it’s not hoping for something better.

—  this pain lasts in every location

I’m hoping

That you and
Are just another
Case of terrible

That perhaps one day
Maybe six years from now
And many failed loves later,

I’ll find you
In the coffee shop 
We once visited 
When we were 18.

And you’ll be better
And I’ll be stronger

And maybe,
Just maybe

We could give it
Another go.

—  Zienab Hamdan 

Welcome to the BATIM Fandom!

After making my own Bendy blog afew days ago, I realized this fandom has really grown, and to think part 2 isn’t even out yet. What made me draw this is, Is the fact they’re so many Bendy blogs out there, and everyone in this fandom is so sweet and very kind. Everyone has their own interpretation of Bendy and art style. From the littlest ink blob, to the biggest ink monster, Even to the beautiful different genderbents of Bendy! Everyone is so welcoming and friendly.

I can’t even begin to name all the nice people i met so far, It would take too much time and i don’t want to leave anyone out.

Not to mention all the art work is just priceless, You have digital artists, and even
traditional artists that all do a great job. Every Bendy blog should feel welcome and loved. No matter what your portrayal or your art style. I hope this fandom remains to be the welcoming community it is.

Let’s not forget, We all have a little devil inside all of us~

If you knew the real me,
the one that stays up late thinking,
the one that has a hunger that can not be satisfied,
a thirst that can not be quenched,
would you still love me?
The one who’s mind travels anywhere but here at times.
The one that reads lips,
but hears nothing.
The one that wants to love,
but doesn’t want to commit to love.
That doesn’t know how to commit,
to love.
Would you still love the one that tries but fails,
time and time again?
Because they don’t understand?
That’s the real me.
The me you don’t know,

i used to wait.
wait every second for a maybe
wait every day for something uncertain
i used to wait for him.
always waiting for the day
he’ll say “i’m over it”
the day future plans get fullfiled

i hate waiting.
waiting for him to say “let’s go together today”
to make sure he got home safely.
waiting for the day he’s ready.
the day it doesn’t him hurt anymore.
but all i got was “i like you but i’m sorry,”
that turned into “she’s my new dream”

—  something you do that you no longer do
The reason so many relationships fail is because we try to lose ourselves in the other. That is fine and all but instead of trying to lose yourself in the other, try to find yourself through the other

Things I Love About Ink Master
  • Dave: What's it like working with Chris Nunez as your team leader?
  • Kelly: Chris Nunez scares the crap outta me.
  • Dave: Why is he so scary?
  • Kelly: Uh..his eyebrows~
  • Dave: *chuckles* But I mean..I have scary eyebrows too.
  • Kelly: You have eyebrows like bat wings. He has eyebrows like a disappointed father. So there's that..
I feel it when I’m alone,
Late at night and bored,
In the way my fingers move to my phone
Before remembering there’s no one there.
I feel it when I open my laptop
To see your face pop onto my screen
For a split second before I close the window.
It courses through my veins
With a passion unlike ours,
It’s a desperate ache to be wanted
And a desire to be needed
And a wish to be adored.
It’s a settle-because-you’re-here
And a I’ll-use-you-as-I-am-broken
And I wish for you to come back
Just as much as I wish to never see your face again.
I’m getting used to being “just friends.” This month you were distant, but I tired to play it off like you were busy. Distance and being busy are not the same. I still feel pangs of jealousy when I see you on social media liking other girls’ pictures. They don’t know how lovely you are. They don’t deserve you. But it’s no longer my place to be possessive over you. Jealousy is natural. And like I said before, I’m okay.
—  10:18pm thoughts// it’s tougher than I imagined, but I’m okay