i dreamt i was devoured

if you've ever felt like something that's out of place within what is supposed your own bloodline, maybe you can understand this; i am sitting with the truth that love cannot be forced, and grief cannot be performed for others' comfort.

011 | no grave of mine

i'm visiting the grave of my “father's” parents; but my father is not my father, and even if i didn't know it back then, i never called them “grandma & grandpa”

we were never quite as close as i was with my other grandparents – the gods know my other grandpa plays in a whole different league than the wholre rest of the family, but still -

and there was always a creeping feeling of distance; like i don't truly belong, like we have nothing in common.

now, my “aunt” – who is not my aunt - asked me to look after the grave because i live closest and she doesn't trust her brother, my “father” and because she lives on another fucking continent while i live one village away

and i am standing at this grave staring feeling nothing

even the guilt about that has disappeared

it's like looking at a stranger's grave

it should still feel fresh, though? my “grandfather” passed away last year – or wait, was it the year before? it hasn't been that long, is all i know and it's not like we never had a good time together

but still i am standing here feeling nothing

back at the car i already forgot the year my “grandmother” died, again

but i finally feel something something else i feel free?

and a tiny bit of guilt for not feeling guilt for not feeling anything

this is hard to share because it paints me like a monster; but if finally being able to leave something painful and devastating behind makes me one, i shall embrace it.

(is this my villain arc?)

(no)

(no)

(this is the part where i wake up and choose myself)

#poetry #fortheghostsicarry #somestillbleed #whattheflowersknow

010 | K

there are places i go to remember i exist and one of them has a name

it's not the forest or the lake or the fire or even the bed i sleep in

her name is a weight and a shelter it's a a tether and a door it's the gravity that keeps me from drifting

her name is a soft place to fall a breath that lingers in the curve of my neck a myth my body remembers

her name is the taste of the word “stay“

— and i carry it like a spine.

#poetry

009 | poetry is what you make it

everything can be read as poetry if you read it in a soft voice and with breaks where the writer intended

to prove my point further, i will tell you something

i am sitting on the edge of the bathtub, naked, for shaving my legs and taking a shower after

but oh, if only you knew about the almost carnal desire burning me up from the inside

i wish i could shit before i shower because there is no greater displeasure than having to take a dump the moment you step out there, fresh and clean

#poetry

008 | this feral heart

i want to post about the wild things. about hunger and touch and need. about bodies and breath and bruised longing (and longing for bruises).

and i am afraid. i am afraid this will stain the place i am building.

there's probably quite a few things behind that fear - like, how as women we're taught to be clean and polite and free of sinful desires. how certain aspects of sensuality are frowned upon. how i, a queer woman, belong to a marginalized group either exploited or shunned for their sexuality. (think lesbian scenes in porn (with usually very traditionally feminine-presenting women who aren't even that interested in each other, but in pleasing the male that will sooner or later fuck them (i told you i can use “bad” words)) vs. homophobia or disgust (often with more butch-leaning individuals))

but i don't want to make this about feminism.

there's personal issues behind this fear as well. like being afraid of being rejected for my preferences. being afraid of telling the person i love most about what i truly need – because maybe it's too much, maybe she'll see me differently if she knows about the abyss of my hunger. the fear i overwhelm her, because i am aware that my drive is higher, and my desires wilder.

but.

i wanted to build a space for myself here. a place where i can be truly me.

and i come with these needs and fantasies and —

i need to write about it. i owe it to myself; i am allowed to exist whole, and i don't want to share only a half-tamed, sanitized version; the wildness and longing and hunger, they belong to the same heart and soul as everything else. i will not cut them off to make myself easier digestable.

there will be so many patches of wilderness on this blog, the sensual part of this garden can be avoided by anyone not ready to look at it – or seeked out if interested.

i am showing myself that there is no part of myself i need to hide; nothing is too messy or too raw or too much to deserve breath and space and light; my hunger will not ruin anything here - how could hunger ruin anything anyway, it's part of what keeps us alive.

#thisferalheart (it might not be clean, but it's real)

007 | untitled

isn't it curious how when things get bad we think it will never get better but when things get good we fear it'll get bad again soon

#poetry #fragments #fortheghostsicarry

006 | about what the flowers know

see, the way i'm setting this little space up, decorating it with chains of words, lighting with truth – that's nice and everything, but every once in a while you will get to see a different side; a less....gentle, less polished – although my words, especially the poems, usually are everything but that; i write what i feel and that's it. for any given moment.

but even if there might be this certain softness, this poetic quality to some of my writing – there's also a voice inside of me that doesn't sugarcoat anything, that won't use metaphors, that refuses to say things any differently than how they immediately feel to me.

this voice sometimes swears and shouts, it punches and kicks - and sometimes it's unreadable, might sound almost bland, unbothered.

but all that also belongs here.

and one of these voices wants to tell you the story behind the hashtag what the flowers know (#whattheflowersknow) –

i mentioned in my first post a few days ago that i love roleplaying.

one of my characters is leading a life that lots of others raise their brows at – because he made and makes choices they cannot understand; he is not harming anyone, but he is not catering to anyone's wishes, either.

(i'll leave it vague for various reasons, but i'll try to give you a general idea about him)

it started with him being younger, being on his own and looking for something very specific. People around him were being worried about him – they assumed he didn't know what he was signing up for. they assumed he would get himself into a situation he wouldn't like, but wouldn't be able to leave on his own.

(they were wrong)

what this character did, however, was exactly what he wanted. and even when others kept criticising, when they kept telling him what he did was wrong, he kept doing it – of course, with a very young character, you could assume that's just out of spite. but no. he knew he had found exactly what he had been looking for.

he tried to understand why people tend to believe only their view is the right view; he struggles with that to this day, actually.

anyway,

playing him has taught me so much about myself that i can confidently say: i wouldn't be at the point i am now without him.

what does all of this have to do with flowers, you might wonder -

he is named after one, and i have more characters that have plant-based names; and i tend to learn from most of my characters, usually just little things, small quirks i notice i give them that i have myself for example. so they all deserve to be mentioned – even if that one specific flower is the one i feel particularly grateful for.

005 | oh, old instinct to hustle — you don’t rule me here.

there is this dangerous thing where instead of keeping your thing going you start feeling like you need to “create content”

i am struggling with it right now, feeling i need to constantly produce output feeling i can't stop posting because that's what we're used to

but this place is not supposed to be a constant stream of nothingness, a fast-lived corner of the internet, one of the thousands of thousands edges you reach, just to be swept into the next swirl of “content”

i want to share thoughts and feelings and breaths and sometimes that includes the silence in-between

#whattheflowersknow #againsttherush

004 | no more goodness that costs me myself

i was on a coffee date with my wife and we talked about all kinds of things, and somehow, when she said “i'm trying to become a better person” i asked “why”, “i think everyone should aim to be a better person,” she responded, and oh, how i would have agreed with that not too long ago; however, today, before even thinking, i replied with a very firm “no.”

she was surprised, and so was i, but i added: “i think everyone should aim to live a happy life.” and i felt that. i felt that so deep in my heart.

because let's be honest - 'becoming a better person' can mean anything you assume others want; like, when people say it, they mean 'i want to become a person others find acceptable.'

but when you're trying to live a happy life, ideally, that won't harm anyone else and bring you joy; and it will automatically make you a good person; a good person for yourself.

#whattheflowersknow

003 | de/forming

i've always been “the soft one” and i tried to shapeshift this softness into whatever was needed into whatever i assumed would be liked best

when you do that for a long time for whatever reason – for me it was survival - you forget who you truly are

you unlearn what you really want what you need what would be fun to have or think or say or do

you just fill the molds prepared by others and if you don't fit, well squeeze a bit harder maybe cut a piece off yourself here and there

but there will be a time a day, a moment, a year maybe within which you realize no this isn't who i am

you will see the scars where you cut off parts of yourself and you will see the bruises from squeezing into spaces that were never meant for you

that is the time where you have to decide is it still worth it do i still need to do this or am i ready to leave it all behind

to step away from the molds to let myself become something else to see what shape i take when i'm not forced to fit in

#poetry #fortheghostsicarry

002 | in my goo era

did you know caterpillars basically dissolve to become a butterfly.

but a brimstone, a swallowtail, a map caterpillar - they already are a brimstone, a swallowtail, a map butterfly.

the goo inside the chrysalis is still a brimstone, a swallowtail, a map.

becoming is not pretty; it's cruel and painful and scary.

but during all this time, no matter the state, i am still me, becoming.

#poetry #fortheghostsicarry #whattheflowersknow