can someone send me starbucks recs!
can someone send me starbucks recs!
S&B CASTINGMN?? $) 2)#
sygb hits so hard with the beth storyline in little women omg
had a dream last night that the new tumblr discourse was whether or not people deserved their urls and people were getting callouts and anon hate like “I can’t believe you have x in your url when I never see you actually post about them it’s pretty messed up that you’re taking that url away from other people who actually deserve it :/”
This was genuine discourse in 2012 you guys need to remember your history
I already regret deleting tiktok
EVERMORE: A MOVIE
Dorothea Finlay, the-country-sweetheart-turned-to-IT-girl, just had the most devastating week in her life. On Sunday she won an Academy Award, and came Friday, one despicable tabloid ruined it all. The obscenely-worded piece revealed her past - the one she tried so hard to put behind her: The childhood sweethearts. The broken engagement. The runaway.
Her castle crumbled overnight. Headlines flash “MAD WOMAN”. Dorothea’s reputation’s never been worse.
Heart frozen, Dorothea got on the train that led to her hometown: Tupelo, Mississippi. She wandered around, trying to restore peace and found her old self. That’s when she met him again – the man she almost married – William, now a piano player at the school’s Methodist church. In the holiday weekend, they roamed in the old town and went down the memory lane together…
3rd day of school done I’m so powerful
I SURVIVED THE FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL
I think of this new collection as sort of an extended farewell letter. There are lots of poems in this document about loss, and obsession, and pain. It’s about having to say goodbye to someone out of necessity—knowing that they won’t care, that losing you won’t make a difference to them—but having to do it anyway, and in doing so immortalizing what they meant to you. Publishing this (even in such a strange, unconventional way) is a sort of relief, because I feel like it’s letting go. The obsession is gone, but the work remains.
HOW TO FALL FOR HIM
The day was sweeping and abysmally bright; green stalks of promise sending seismic shocks through your soles. Your teeth chattered, voice buoyant with hope, and he was standing only several paces in front of you. Introductions were presumably made on the spot—without much care, or relevance, but this was acceptable precisely because of how little they would come to matter. You took a breath in and tried to make sense of the world. In fact you treated oxygen like an inexhaustible resource, unaware of how much the moment would come to matter, unaware of how much he would come to matter. You didn’t know. You couldn’t have known. And even if you had, the same thing would’ve happened—draw the curtains of your experience. When did he become important to you?
The coalescing shape of the moon
Like a ray of white light where the night was touched
A blush reminiscent of yesterday; his hand falling on the rail next to mine
Our fingers brush, and the ensuing rush comes like starlight, lost in time
The sky is indescribable—
It is November. It is meant to be bleak,
But it is vivid blue; like a prince’s cloak,
Like a shot in the dark. It is blue
Like you are when you say this table’s ours
And he agrees with you—
It can’t be blue at all.
I let the night air crush my chest
Hand to heart like a prayer for deliverance
Distance is no deterrent to desire
It only stands as a fork in the road
Bonnie and Clyde, tongues tied, gas pedal screaming go
I was in my bedroom, all alone, wracked with
Longing for the great unknown
I was wandering by the curl of a darkening lake
The spirit inside reached for me with a ghostly hand
Pressed her lips where I kept his memory enclosed
Only to whisper: you are a prisoner of your own desire
After all these years of bated breath
Exhaling should be a sort of consolation
Longing with the hope of return, with the want of consequence,
Without the fear that hovers behind my ribs
All my newfound daydreams are spilling out blue
But he is indescribable—
It is the beginning. It is a quiet, crushing plea;
Blue-tinged clouds passing through a late autumn night
On the ever-changing path to serenity.
The chance that I could look into the eyes of my dear friend,
Someone I know with a sharpness that bridges on intimacy
There I could find something new—
Find my own want reflected back.
So, it’s the 1st of 2022, and I’m late with this thing but I wanted to return the well wishes and love I’ve received from my lovely mutuals. I’m trying to include everyone, but in case if I forget to mention any of you, you can beat me with a hammer but just know that I equally appreciate each one of you <3
LIGHT, SUBWAYS, AND THE FEAR OF GOD
Brooklyn sank on us like the weight of the reckoning
My fingers tangled in the veins of the city, blood dripping
Down my moon-white wrist. I reached for your shoulder,
And caught it, and caught myself falling forward again.
The engine starts. The car winds through our hometown,
Wind rustling through my unkempt hair, and I realize
I never stopped falling for you.
I raced through intersections, rang every doorbell in my old apartment,
Drove out to the docks to find the waters crowded with personality—
Humanity was out in abundance, their words echoing through
Flocks of snow-encrusted trees; they were a crowd of potential speech
What was a city to me when I had
A boy with restless, careful hands
His touch an unsung currency
Cascading voice a lawless land
I thought I was good. I wanted to be good. I saw you enter
Shrouded with the light you don’t even know about, and I couldn’t breathe.
Without touching you, I knew not to implode things. You caught my eye across
An orange-coated sidewalk and my chest seized in time to whisper another lie.
It’s an outrage to want you this much. It’s an outrage to be wanted, even a little.
Once in a subway station I asked you to ____.
Fill in the blank however you like. Yesterday I just asked you to hold me,
In this tremulous, aching tone; and you did, you came over; and I wept for
Bearing the brunt of all the things I couldn’t say out loud. This year has surpassed
My expectation: a blooming field cornered by concrete but blanketed by hope.
Everything good in the world, you said
Like a rushing subway in my chest.
I knelt in a cathedral while my knees burned
And I asked God only questions in the name of confession
In return I received the blank stare of a statue that sent me running
Up the stairs to see you this afternoon,
Even though we were both tired, even though we couldn’t say anything worthwhile
There isn’t a prayer for your jacket’s softness against my aching side
Through the eternity of the sun
I glimpsed your face and hands
Drowned by light, as always, and—
The city expands with a colossal want
Because I know you better than almost anyone.
A single golden window in an endless dark apartment;
Here I am, on the street below, chin tilted up in a siren’s song.
TAKE A MOMENT FOR NERO
Rome is burning.
Rome is burning and I am watching from the hill,
My head tilted to the side as if the fires are just
A simple surge of autumn through the air, decor
For the wasteland. A lock of hair comes to
Obscure the city from my gaze as it combusts.
But this is not Rome.
I am not a soldier.
And this is a love story.
You look at me like you’re coming home from the war,
Hands worn down by calluses and chest worn out by
Terrors you won’t even touch. And I am beside you,
Touching the glass door that separates us, writing
Confessions in the fog, reaching to you before the frost.
There we were, in a dark theatre with the only words
Repetitive, unrequited, presumptuous dreams; and
You looked at me as she said ‘I love you’ on the screen,
And I want that to mean something. I want to dance in
Front of the yellow line without my lips burning.
Look. I am the thing that must hold. I am the thing that
Will not hold. I am standing in front of you in front of the
Train tracks, and there are so many things caught in my
Throat that I can’t say anything at all. This is fragile, and
The current of change is hurtling in to the station.
Winter’s chill is coating our skin and bones with maddening
pinpricks of stagnancy that wring their hands as they bite. I am
Escaping the dark room and the knob is burning my hands.
One door to the promised land, one door to the
Slowest disband, one door to a void of—void of—unease.
The truth is I don’t know what the door opens to.
Trembling, I held a rose of safety and grew my own thorns,
Wandered around a maze with the thread you brought me
Tangling in my weary hands. My own affections are the last
Traitor; the eye of the storm that threatens ruin. A long time
Ago I wrote I liked you but that I couldn’t break us. It holds true—
But I light the match anyway.
After all, Rome isn’t burning.
Only I am.
ODYSSEUS AND CASSANDRA (OLD AND NEW)
inspired by this text post
Nobody would believe her.
So Cassandra stood at Odysseus’s door
The weight of her honesty pressing her fist to her side.
She leans away from him, away from the door and the bell
That would sound to bring a hero to her sight, leaving a
Warrior’s future bare before her gaze
If she knocks, she never returns.
And there I was,
My red heels clicking on the pavement as I watched his door.
A listless hand carded through hair filled with static,
My calves whispering a silent torment as I waited for someone
To choose for me; as I waited for the reckoning that would never
Come; as I got over myself and rang the bell.
Odysseus walks down the beach with Cassandra,
His arm brushing hers, just slightly, not close enough for his wife to bother
Close enough for her to wonder what’s happened on his odyssey
The sand slipping between their shoes— sleeves— selves
What happens when someone believes you?
You learn what you can’t say out loud.
Our arms touching as we walk up the hill
Rain falling into our eyes as we trade gazes
His voice saying my name, over and over,
Like he wanted to get used to the sound
What happens when someone cares about you?
You learn what you won’t say aloud.
Hera planted a marriage bed
Immovable but for Cassandra’s touch
Although when Odysseus spoke of Penelope,
She knew there were things greater than her love
Her pale hand falls down the bark
And mine clicks leave call when he wants to meet another girl
I scrub dishes until I can see my reflection in them, dripping soap-tears
In my absence, he solicits: come back, I don’t want her.
Within the glass I traced a breakable heart and began to
Wonder whether there were things above both of us.
Even the wanderer goes home.
So Odysseus packs his bags while Cassandra stands
With her back against the wall of a cave,
The sharp stone chill leaching the fight from her bones
And someone is watching (someone is always watching a woman)
They change the perspective, so—
I am standing in the hallway outside biology
Watching his retreating back become another silhouette in the day
The bricks behind me clamour to send shooting pains down my spine
Somehow I am always watching him leave, even when he’s next to me
I think I can see the ending, it’s a fire on the tip of my tongue
Her omniscience when no one would believe her,
And my stubborn, rotten faith that no one stays.
Loss is inevitable, grief is unshakeable,
And Nobody believes Cassandra.
He always knew he would return home, and so did she.
Odysseus makes his victory march,
Charging toward the gates of Ithaca as the clouds part
(Perhaps in welcome, perhaps in fear)
And Cassandra’s shoes slap screams over her calls
As she runs, just for one more second, just believe me
For one more second, because no one ever will again—
But he doesn’t look back.
And the oracle knows, she did from the beginning,
She could see herself running after him even as she preached caution,
But she knocked on that door because she wanted to be known.
(She saw her own suffering and thought it would soften.)
We were at a subway station,
And he goes west, I go north, I go with him the wrong way
I am not Cassandra—I don’t know how this ends;
But I trust him despite my uncertainty.
I say his name, like a prayer I’ve never forgotten
My quiet hand extended,
And his arms, reaching back to keep me.
Say what you will,
But I won’t let this be a tragedy.
THE AMERICAN DREAM
Gatsby believed in the green light.
I stood on the docks the night before last,
Alone with the lake and my thoughts and
The mere memory of light. I threw a rock
With love buried in it and let it sink to the bottom.
My eye is constantly drawn down to the small green light
Underneath your name, the broad bright signal that
You are there should I wish; the signal for electricity
Bounding through my chest. If I had the courage to
Say what I wanted to. The problem with you is that
There is not a paucity of words that need to be said.
Rather there is an abundance of them, rather they
Revolve around the single unsayable thing,
The thing where I am writing these poems for
Thousands of people but really they are all for you.
After all, Gatsby threw those lavish, degenerate parties
In the hopes a flower would break through from the
Rocks of his past. All those people at lunch, but I was
Just hoping that you would show up. And we could
Get out of here, if you wanted to, me with my feet
On the dashboard of a cherry red convertible and
You with a single careless hand on the steering wheel.
Come with me and I won’t make you take the fall
I’d sooner turn myself in with a confession stuck in my mouth
Drowning out the sirens with a sharp exhale.
We might be reckless but you always ask if I’m okay,
And I reach for you more often than I care to admit,
But that redeems us. The hedonism of these twenties
Has us in its crosshairs; mutually assured
Destruction half a century early. You looked at me like you
wanted something to change and I still can’t breathe because
of it. Promise me this, even if you can’t give us anything else—
Remember this fondly. Keep a daisy in your wallet for me.
Keep the green light on.
DREAMING OF AN EASIER YEAR
What did Nationalism ever do for the people?
My country’s profile came drifting into focus at the peak of autumn’s light
His grin was like a flag, its shadow cast over a wave of torn grass
When I gaze at him I’m looking out to sea, off to war, and
I suppose our country begins again
But not like this
Not like you do
And Tolstoy might have conquered philosophy
Eaten twelve egg dishes on rotation
And waxed poetic about poached pears
But I guarantee he never looked out a dark window as Saturday broke into evening
Only to let his breath lose purchase within his aching body
Great men are never rendered wordless by the breadth of feeling
But I am, I am, I am
I caught a martyr in my hands
His arms were thick with down and damp with light
There was something that remained unsaid between us
With a vast and beating heart of its own
Even though the bird was wounded
It cried out and took flight
The lofty stoop of my front porch was an avenue to call to the world
To race into the street with my arms open wide
Armour down, shouting down love, cursing my own faith
So the country whispered to me, a roiling course of patriotism
Beneath my tired and aching feet
What matters? Certainly not the end of the world
Not when I saw him at the end of the road
What a cruel winter at the end of love—
A maddening hope waiting to unfold.