BumblePie

today – Molly killed a bee. She didn’t mean too. She was on the phone – headphones if you will – with her bestie Abi.
She’s high because she always is and was pacing around outside her favorite coffee shop – current favorite – because they get better connection outside – that’s what he said *high fives herself* – when she stepped on a little leaf that crunched like a bug and thinks ‘oh I think i just killed a wasp.’ Because where she’s from there’s yellow-jackets and ain’t no fucking around with them so in her mind – before picking up her foot – she’d done a good thing; a favor to society and it’s susceptibility to getting stung.
and then she lifted her converse.

THE WORLD IS HAVING A FUCKING HONEY CRISIS AND FUCKING MOLLY IS SMITING BEEESSSSS

She buried it under a tree.

Not a word was spoken. The beehives all were broken.

so bye bye mr. bumble-bee guy i drove my converse over your body so of course you died
the future children are eating plain cheerios
singing all i want is to see the mystic bee-hives

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How Alone They Are

i wanna run until my body withers away

until the ache in my soul goes away

until the pain in my somache is gone

until the muscel spasms stop

until my heart ceases to be

until i’m no longer me

they don’t tell you this, but sometimes all you can do is run. it’s not an act of shame yes it is a loss of control but it’s a loss of something greater the loss of believing that those around you will understand and accept you for who and where you are.

when you’ve done all you can do. to try and love them. to love them. to be there to be what they want to answer their “try me’s” when you say they won’t understand after staring blankly at them and their lies of ‘i understand’ followed by their own life story that has nothing to do with you and who you are and what you’re going through

that’s when you gotta run. it’s not a running away. it’s a getting to a physical space of what you know to spiritually be true. that you are alone and no one sees you. no one can help. and really, they don’t want to. don’t want you. want *you*

she’s not crazy

she’s just the only one who truly knows

yuno_gasai_render_by_ashleytheskitty-dbbomgk.png

how alone they are

house.ghost

there are ghost in this house.ghost of unnamable horror. they drift about like nothing is wrong. one is dying one is not. they’re beautiful the public says they have money the colleagues say look how far they’ve come how far they stepped back how much one has lost one faster than the other stepping into a hole only pal-bearers should fill but not yet

“God I’m so jealous of how skinny she is!” “I know same! That’s like my dream body.”

the clock down the hall.

ticks.

Doll Parts

Doll Parts because that’s what expected of the female body. To fit into an idea – not just body types beyond that there are all KINDS of dolls remember – but the ideal of legs without blemishes and shakes and firm arms of perfect mathematical proportions. And sure, Courtney at 5’10” literally had a carbon breathing copy of a doll body… the only flaw in it that actually made her more sexy because it showed that she was the magical doll brought to life are her veins.

but there are two kinds of dolls.

the beautiful perfect dolls.

brand new

unplayed with

un sullied.

and then the scary dolls

the one left on the floor of a haunted house the kinds that boys bring girls too to feel macho to have the excuse to hold her hold her hold her tight the sweat of your hands dripping off on to her contaminating her sully sully don’t be sullen, doll don’t cry

kept on display and laughed at merely a trophy in the case or a terrifying dream erased $5000 drops to $5.50 three dollars if you’re lucky in a car wondering why

you didn’t go to law school

and there is joy in the breaking for them joy in reflecting on the memories of when she was new when she was fresh when she was something to collect and the best part about dolls is there’s always a new model and fish can die on plastic legs

daughters aren’t safe that doesn’t solve it ‘oh everyone is someone’s duahter’ exactly sicko and ever girl born wanting dolls becoming one

but men fuck dolls

and money fucks men

when the money runs out and the meds aren’t hard enough

the ache will come

and your heart will die.

PRESENTING THE LATEST MODEL

Spider

under a summermoon/ they meet/ toe to toe/ cheek to cheek/ banana spiders are yellow/ it’s true/ but burning love is the color for two/ and his is the hair of a summer breeze/ and hers are the eyes longing to be free/ the carcasses lay all around/ but into her his love he pounds/ physical restraints are useless/ when his is the soul she runs to/ she misses/ small is the time and space before/ together eternal forevermore/ enough is the feeling she holds when held/ wild satisfaction she gives him fulfilled/ together at their base the world stretches/ time disappears when they’re intermeshing/ his are the eyes of the purest blue/ when she fell into them he smiled/ he knew

~Pour Mon Amour

thanks and credit to those who came before… Shakespeare, Poe, and Debbie; naturally.
As always, special thanks to my true love and ever faithful; SummerMoon.

 

BananaWarrior

she stands proud

blood drips from her spine

life blood draining down

on her chest is strapped the breastplate of righteousness

on her feet she stands the boots of truth strapped on

right left right left wrong

on her head Athena’s crown

she will not be conquered anymore

her emerald eyes burn a fire yellow

her hair radiates power

her arms are strong and sure

her sword is the living word

the earth trembles beneath her very breathe

a light weight loaded to the teeth locked

she will not be tarried with any longer

the clouds tremble and flee before her

the oceans burn up in her glory

she opens her mouth and screams the sirens roar

she will not be captured anymore

crack of earth drip of spine

she’s coming for you this time

hers is a wrath righteous and true

Caesar watch out you’re going to be paid your due

before her a shield of knowing what’s real

confidence is her free will

her belt is made of those who naried dared to loose her

at her back is death he laughs

she has met him before and they agreed

the grave is hers but not today

fear is a will she pays

this time she is on her way

she is running a horse made of fluid stone

rolling over the earth a rollicking tidal storm

feel her wrath taste her blood lick your hands you dogs

she draws back her sword for the death blow she crouches

a gentle purr and chatter

twitter twitter little bird

right left right left wrong

listen to the sound of the temple gong

this time you will taste the truth

this time it will be made clear

“Fuck you all! Taste my fear!”

she strikes.

once

twice

right left right left wrong

banana girl yellow song

thanks and credit to the crazy local 16 year old that shared this with me. you know who you are. 🦄

loveConverse

Why don’t we love ourselves like we love our shoes?

My converse… these are shoes that have been places and seen things and carry on…. in my opinion they look more beautiful now that they are worn…. the stains and cracks….

Understandable to be sad when they get too worn. Too old.

But don’t start hating them… continue to love them and want them to last just a little bit longer… till finally you have to let them go.

Stomach Explodes

There’s plenty of cinnamon in the role. when you love them and they don’t love you back… roll. Don’t stick around for them to realize you’re the one. They’re not going to realize that because -to them- you’re not. Sure, I never told them how I felt – but they told everyone how they felt about me. That they weren’t interested and pointed out all my deficiencies.
And now I roll.
The pain won’t end. It builds in my stomach and explodes. But that’s okay. Because I’m on my own. And they’ll find happiness on their own.
They don’t need me as friend or lover. I know. That’s what I love about them …. their strength their beauty even though they don’t see it… but I can never be the one to make them see it. no one can do that; only they can look down and realize their soul their heart shines brighter….

Credit and Thanks to Aston; Maker of the Cinnamon Rolls and tolerator of my #basic photos.