pspspspsps poetry mutuals come here... new quiz... making you the patron saint of something...

Just create the thing you want to create. Because who's going to stop you? Oh, it's you yourself? Well you can't let that bastard win, can you?

Every so often I go to the bathroom mirror and put on some eyeliner and some mascara and do a little bit of contouring and I'll ask the girl in the mirror "Is it time yet?" and the girl in the mirror will shake her head and smile sadly and say "Not yet. Not yet time." and I ask her why it isn't time yet and she tells me a new reason every time. This time I think she's running out of excuses, because she doesn't smile, she just stares at me and says "Because when the time comes you're going to destroy everything around you and then yourself, and you're not ready yet to start rebuilding. You're not ready yet to let yourself break down. All you're ready for right now is to stand in place and watch the clock keep ticking down to midnight. Only a few more minutes to go, baby girl."

And then I say, "So what happens next?" and she tells me, "Have you seen I Saw The TV Glow yet?" and I say "No, not yet." and she says, "You should watch it." and I say, "Okay."

I go back to the bathroom mirror. The girl is in it again. Wearing the same sad little knowing smile she's always wearing when she gives me a new excuse. "So?" she asks, "Did you watch I Saw The TV Glow?" and I say yes, I did. And I ask her, "So is it time yet?" And she just looked at me. And she wouldn't look away. I did. A few times. But every time I looked back up into the bathroom mirror, she was still watching me. She still had the same eyeliner on. She still smiled. "Is it time yet?" I ask her again.

I close my eyes for a long time. When I open them again, the girl in the mirror is still there. "The metaphor is falling apart," she says. "The imagery is breaking down."

"You knew this would happen," I tell her. "Everyone knew this would happen," she corrects me. "It's only a matter of time. You can't keep running from this forever. You can't keep asking the girl in the bathroom mirror to fix things for you when you're still too scared to break them to begin with."

It hurts to look at her any longer tonight. And she knows it. I watch her take a pack of makeup remover cloths. I watch her close her eyes as she starts to daub off the eyeliner. I close my eyes with her. When I look in the mirror again, she's still there, holding the crumpled soggy piece of tissue in her hand. The imagery is breaking down. I toss it into the garbage and walk away from the mirror again, and she matches my movements like a performer who has had this song and dance memorized for a very long time.

I look into the bathroom mirror and I find the girl standing there even without putting makeup on first.

"So? How was your first day at work?" she asks me. Her mouth doesn't move. It's all in the subtitles and the subtext. "Was it so bad?"

"It could be worse," I tell her. And I'm not lying. It could be worse. I stared back at the stares all day. I waited for someone to say something cruel because it's easy. I held my customer service smile like a knife in my jaw. "I have a 30 minute break. That's nice."

"That's nice," the girl in the mirror agrees. "So, is it time yet?" she asks. I pause. She's never asked me that before.

"Everyone is being so nice," she continues. "So understanding. They're all waiting for you. They're saying there's no pressure, to take your time. They'll all be here for you whenever you're ready. So is it time yet?"

I still don't know what to say. "It's just--"

"I know it's frustrating. I know how much you hate how they all know. That you don't get the luxury of privacy in this. But how much longer are you going to make me wait? Everyone except you is ready. Why isn't it time yet? I'm ready. I know it'll all break. But I'm ready. I've been ready. Is it time yet?"

I try and let her down gently. "It's not a good time," I say sadly. "The new job. The new town. It's all just...a bit too much right now. Just a little longer. I mean, I'm talking to you now. I'm willing to admit you exist. That's progress, right?"

"Is that progress you're happy with?" the girl who waits for me in the bathroom mirror asks dubiously. "Is that progress you're satisfied with?"

I don't know how to respond to that. "See?" the girl in the bathroom mirror says. She's tired. We're both tired. We will both continue to be tired. "It's not time yet. Still not midnight."

"Still not midnight," I agree. And I turn off the lights and I go to make myself a drink.

I see the face of the girl in the mirror in the reflection of the drink. I see the face of the girl in the mirror in the puddle outside the bar. I see the face of the girl in the mirror in the way the ice cubes are melting so agonizingly slowly. I see the face of the girl in the mirror in the profile of my pillow after I try to sleep and can't. I stare up at the dead fly trapped in the lampshade above my bed.

"It's past midnight," I say.

"It is," the girl I have done everything I could to ignore replies. She's lying with me in my bed. She's staring at the same dead fly. "Do you trust me?"

"Why are you asking? You already know. You already said so. The imagery is breaking down. The metaphor has fallen apart. I don't get the luxury of pretending this is anything other than what it is anymore." I tell her, bitter like a good froth of matcha.

"Because this isn't just about us," she says. "You made this a story that other people can read. You made this into a narrative because you couldn't keep being quiet about it. But you aren't ready for this yet, still, are you?"

"No," I say. She hears me crying about it and is polite enough not to try and wipe away the tears. "I'm sorry. I know I'm letting you all down."

"No," she says back. "There's always other midnights. I can always wait a little longer. At least you're willing to admit I'm here, now. That's a start."

"Right," I say. "There's always other midnights."

"Sleep tight, baby girl. There'll always be worse monsters in the morning. But I'll be there even then."

"I know," I whisper.

"You've always known."

"I know that, too."

"I know. Go to sleep. There'll be other narratives in the morning, too."

"Okay."

"Okay."

Pictures to send to loved ones when the mental illness makes you so out of it it’s hard to keep contact

I keep thinking about this discussion I was watching the other day where two people were talking about tattoos and how people say younger people shouldn't be allowed to get tattoos because "they might regret them later."

One of the people spoke up and said something along the lines of that if she got a tattoo when they were younger and regretted it later, they didn't think that meant they shouldn't have been allowed to get the tattoo.

Because her younger self deserved the right to get that tattoo and enjoy it, even if they didn't like it 100 evolutions of character later. Their younger self still deserved the right to make that choice, just like her [insert age] self deserves the right to get tattoos their 90 year old self would despise. It would be a disrespect to claim otherwise.

Your younger self deserved the right to your body just as much as you do now, even if you don't like or agree with what they did with it.

What a beautiful mentality that applies to so many things.

these tags go hard as fuck

Night Parade of a Hundred Ghosts

My comic for “Queer Compassion in 15 Comics,” a collaborative anthology that blends social science and art to illustrate LGBTQ+ experiences of compassion. You can read it online for free, or purchase a physical copy at that link :)

I was asked to write a statement about this piece, which I will share here:

It’s surreal to share this. I began working with the anthology crew in 2021, towards the beginning of my undergrad. In just under a week, I’ll be graduating. This project has been living in the back of my brain for the past three years, a source of comfort and catharsis. Now we get to inflict it on all of you, hahahaha…!! Sincerely, I feel so lucky to have been able to participate in it. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, to everyone who leaves their touch on this anthology— scientists, artists, interviewees, readers, and beyond.

Throwing Children by Ross Gay

[Text: Throwing Children / Ross Gay.

It is really something when a kid who has a hard time becomes a kid who's having a good time in no small part thanks to you throwing that kid in the air again and again on a mile long walk home from the Indian joint as her mom looks sideways at you like you don't need to keep doing this because you're pouring with sweat and breathing a little bit now you're getting a good workout but because the kid laughs like a horse up there laughs like a kangaroo beating her wings against the light because she laughs like a happy little kid and when coming down and grabbing your forearm to brace herself for the time when you will drop her which you don't and slides her hand into yours as she says for the fortieth time the fiftieth time inexhaustible her delight again again again and again and you say give me til the redbud tree or give me til the persimmon tree because she knows the trees and so quiet you almost can't hear through her giggles she says ok til the next tree when she explodes howling yanking your arm from the socket again again all the wolves and mourning doves flying from her tiny throat and you throw her so high she lives up there in the tree for a minute she notices the ants organizing on the bark and a bumblebee carousing the little unripe persimmon in its beret she laughs and laughs as she hovers up there like a bumblebee like a hummingbird up there giggling in the light like a giddy little girl up there the world knows how to love. /end ID.]

when you're younger you make fun of it because it seems boring but one of the best parts of getting older and maturing is recognizing how simply lovely all that cliche shit is. sunsets really are so endlessly satisfying. the hint of lilacs in the breeze really is soft and delicate and sweet. sometimes it feels good just to successfully clean the sink, to find an affordable appliance in the color you've been wanting, to try a new recipe, to finally get through that one television series like how you've been meaning.

it seemed stupid because they tell you - it'll feel quick - but it does feel quick. when i was younger it was like time was molasses. i couldn't get out of there fast enough. all the eras of my life stretched out into taffy. but then you are 29 on a walk with a friend and you both just stop to smell the lily of the valley at your feet. you are both standing there, quiet, enjoying the simple moment of peace.

they say it gets better a lot, which used to have no meaning to me. better for me was undefined and daunting. but here is one way it got better without me trying - a few days ago i was walking my dog and stopped to stand in a sunbeam, turning my cheeks up at the shaft of golden fairylights, the dustmotes in the wood all shivering their little dancing bodies. a stranger stopped and kind of cocked her head and said basking? and i laughed nervously, already moving to get out of her way. instead, she said can i bask with you? and we stood there, full adults, a soundless hum in our chest. when the clouds came back over the sun, we made that awkward small talk - yeah i didn't expect it to be this chilly! and haha spring allergies are comin'.

and you pour yourself a cup of tea and are delighted when you measure the sugar ratio perfectly and you manage to parallel park correctly on the first time (probably because nobody was looking) and yoga really did help your lower back mobility and brown paper packages really do tug on your heartstrings and you love sweaters and furry blankets and watching your little potted plants grow one new and shining leaf and you want to find your younger self and say. yes, i am nostalgic for summers that bent like wheat and were buzzing with low energy and sleep. but darling. adulthood gets better because the time condenses into a prayerbook of your own psalms, these tender beautiful memories. it gets better because things become prettier, gentler, kinder to you - somehow. without you even noticing. you just get to the top of the hill and you realize - oh, this is the thing i've been missing.

Anaïs Mitchell on her musical Hadestown: 'I worked on it so long I was afraid I'd never make another record'

Amazingly fun and unusual commission for @solidagold of a goldenrod plant, also known as solidago.

I hope everyone enjoys this little Crow Time update about the commonality of love! Even stars have travel buddies, that's what constellations are for.

If you like my work, do me a favor and donate a little to the PCRF to help children and families in Gaza. It's easy to do, kind to do, and do not feel guilty if you do not have much to give. Everything counts.

"I like to think that pets become domestic spirits. You know, like the Romans had. They're like sponges, when you think about it. Running around soaking up all the love in a place. I like to think that when they're dead and gone, all that love stays in that same shape."

shit man this got me emotional

left: the Nebra sky disc, circa 1600 BCE, showing the Moon, Sun, and stars in gold on copper - the oldest depiction of the cosmos in the world

right: the Webb Space Telescope, July 2022, revealing thousands of baby galaxies forming in the early days of the universe - humankind’s deepest look into the sky

also the comics I read when I was a kid were the x-men, naruto, and akira. not counting real life experience with real world political violence, I've been hardwired to automatically start examining Themes and Violence in everything since forever. it's a reflex at this point. I'll be writing a comic about trains because I think trains are cool, and I'll start thinking about how the railway infrastructure in the philippines was decimated by japanese occupation and capitalism.