I’m A Raging Bisexual.

angels, deciding what shape to take when interacting with The Humans: well….eye contact is important to humans, right? they find it reassuring when they can see the eyes of the person they’re talking to. so if we have LOTS of eyes, in very visible places, that’ll be even MORE reassuring

'im going to kill myself' arent even words anymore they are like brothers to me

if u dont mind id love to know more of ur fav poems :-) trying to get into reading more poetry

missing persons by sam sax

ode to prince by hanif abdurraqib

social skills training by solmaz sharif

men by maya angelou

DL N8 4 3SOME by jake skeets

having a coke with you by frank o'hara

jubilate homo by ellen bass

carpet bomb by kenyatta rogers

border patrol agent by eduardo c corral

heart condition by jericho brown

tell me something good by ocean vuong

letter to S, hospital by emily skaja

we lived happily during the war by ilya kaminsky

long division by matthew dickman

the american security against foreign enemies act by lucie brock-broido

you will never get death out of a system by dana levin

letter to chi by franny choi

14 lines from love letters or suicide notes by doc luben

said the confederate flag to the american flag by RJ walker

worms by shyla hardwick

blood makes the blade holy by evan knoll

the 17 year old & the gay bar by danez smith

mountain dew commercial disguised as a love poem by matthew olzmann

i listen to catholics. not the clergy, not the congregation, but the queer, the abused, the rejects, and the rejectors. i fall in love with how they reclaim catholic imagery. i see them make art from the blood they’re still bleeding and it feels familiar in a way that makes me realize maybe i’m bleeding too.

angels had never called me. they were too perfect, too pure. i am messy and wounded and mean. i have sharp teeth and pointy horns and leathery wings pushing through my shoulder blades. but here, in the church of the damned, angels have a predator’s wingspan and eyes that don’t blink and feet that step on snakes in the grass. they have flaming swords and silent mouths. what a terrible, wonderful thing, to admire the blade that cuts you.

it hurts and i love it. i fold my bloody hands together, right and left. i scale the fence out of eden. i stare at the heavenly light until my vision clouds. i clutch tight my rosary until it leaves marks in my palm.

You know what you really need is an English countryside murder mystery mashup with a splatterpunk supernatural horror movie. Think of it as the Re-Animator of Algernon Blackwood.

You got your level proper countryside Midsommer Murders group of coppers, only now they're not dealing with vengeful old aunties but the rage of nature itself, the raw an unchecked anger of the land given life, the darkness of the woods, the deep sunk pain of rocks and roots. The metaphysical embodiment of natural spirits takes the form of trees, growing form nowhere inside quiet drawing room, through the aging and satisfied ladies at gossip, ripping their bodies into bloody chunks of gore and offal.

But the steadfast inspectors stay at the same level despite investigating crime scenes like the aftermath of an Evil Dead movie, unflappably seeking out the mundane clues leading nowhere and puttering about at home with loving wife and doting daughter. For each tangle of thorns stretched over with gruesome skin and impaled bodies, for each body consumed alive by locusts, for the houses swallowed by earth leaving nothing but a blood soaked skeleton behind, life trundle onward undisturbed.

Which is not to say the protagonist is undisturbed. A historian and preservationist, they're seeking to maintain and increase the records for right if way paths throughout England, much to the annoyance of various gentleman about this quiet country town beside by horror and death. And it falls to them to make the discovery that the right of way paths are not as they're meant to be, no, it seems there's been some moving of landmarks and stone boundaries, an offsetting of the path letting lands fall increasingly into private hands.

Yet those paths and stones and markers were not merely guides. They were lines, sigils, locks and gates to hold back the will of the woods from the lands of men. For a time. For just a small but fair space. A trade of stewardship and watchful wards, but men long forgot the promise of caretaking or what the wards kept at bay.

And now they are paying, as the historian struggles to find the means to close the way. And the steadfast inspector begins to uncover a land grabbing plot. And as time counts down the fae and green and deep eldritch magic of old reaches shadows further into the tidy little village. It may have survived countryside murders for decades, but it will be lucky to last a week under these conditions.

yes babe i love your dads leather jacket on you it looks like high fashion no it doesn’t make me think you have major issues

*calls him bro, bestie, dude, but in a romantic way*

“this pillow works better if your a back sleeper” bitch I’m a rotisserie chicken sleeper I don’t stop turning until sleep rips me forcefully from this world

hi my name is Eeby Deeby Blorbo H'rse Plinko Glup Shitto and i have blue hair and pronouns