Babylightningbug - Erin Paige

yeah no you gotta come pick up your man. yeah he’s suffering the mortifying ordeal of being perceived while in front of the hoes.

eveeyones got it wrong your mid 20s arent for going to the club or partying or picking up new crafts. your 20s are for discovering how much more autistic you are than you thought you were in high school

*me plugging in my phone in the dark* dont think about it dont think about it dont think about it dont think abotu it dont thinka botu it donmt think aboiut it dont think about it dont think abotu it dont thihnk about it dont think about it dont think about it dojnt think abtiou it dont thi

Cringe culture is dead. Enjoy what you enjoy friends

I do think the majority of us should strangle the shame that lives inside of us like wringing water from the rag until we are soft and dry and weightless

hi! how are you? ı hope you are having a nice day. do you have a favorite poet? can ı request a poem, if any?

:')

hiii

my favorite poet atm is Richard Siken. It changes a lot, but I adore poetry with strong specific imagery but that doesn't outwardly say anything, you know? I don't want them to tell me they love the person who left them. I want them to describe their overcoat's smell and the sheer hopelessness of life and a stranger's hands, or maybe something fantastical and absurd, and through that I want them to convey their message. Here's your poem, I hope you enjoy it :)

Eucharist

I am opening myself up

again, slowly,

prying my fingers into the dust-lined cracks

at the great cathedral doors of my

being, feeling splinters and soft

old wood meet my fingers like a warning:

you do things this way,

you might get hurt.

The warning never changes

but the outcome sometimes does and so

I dig my nails

in, feel ancient dirt gather

beneath them, and I pull. Wood creaking

like bones shifting, like mountains breathing,

and the light begins to spill in again,

and fear evaporates

the way mist does when the sun

brushes the hills in the morning,

and we are inside once more-

the stained glass still glitters,

the sound still

chatters off of every great stone palisade,

ringing,

a choir of one voice, just mine, crying out:

If I do it, it will be with love.

If I do it, it will be for love.

not enough secret gardens and hidden passageways and bookshelves that open to a mysterious library these days. get working on that girls.