froth mouth

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and sometimes a bathroom, chipped tiles,

milk florescence. i begin with my tongue.


touch my skin, leave it ringing and sparking

in the spaces i leave. sometimes the eyes,


bathroom mirror, bathroom sink. i want

pronounceable things. i want my body to be


the stop. fingers more than memorials.

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small fingered

Apologies for not making much noise around here; lately I’ve been so bogged down with schoolwork in ways I never knew possible. Everyday is a battle against anxiety and drowsiness but I know everything will be alright in the end so I just carry on.  I still have my weekends to indulge in the things I love, so I promise to give some more personal updates soon!

For now, here are some pictures I have fallen in love with in the past week and a small poem I wrote while hyped-up on caffeine in-between studying . I hope everyone has been enjoying these grey skies, the chill, pink skin. I adore late autumn / early winter. There’s something so historical and marbled and tunneling about this time of year. Ugh. I just want to stare out the window of a cafe while listening to big band music. So soft and lovely.

sometimes, there is too much water in my room //

sometimes, there is too much room in my mouth.

I am drowned, I am drowned.

I am a shrinking house with the lights left on.

punlovsin: city lights

Portraits, 2009 | by BerniLouisa Tin:

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girl, swan and blue


I am the deep swell below my tongue. Here is the belly of the whale, candlesticks and blue cradles, nursery rhymes waterlogged. All I see is gold light spinning, here is the melt, my mouth as hot wax. Here is what I want: to be forgiven / backwards. Have my voice return to my throat through the parking garage. In the art museum with your red breath, forgive my shoulder blades easy, voice so melted yellow it pours down my chest.  All I want is to see through these walls without turning my head. All my limbs turned to snow, a slow dissociation. There is a hole in my cheek. Winter air floods in. Forgive me swan, wings spread like a sugar tongue. Forgive me like November, all goosebumps and milklight. I just want your fingers, thin and pale and fish-boned. All I want is for sight to be my body, swim museums like a ghost.


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publication news – quail bell magazine

Hello all! I’m excited to announce that a flash fiction story of mine was published in Quail Bell Magazine, an inclusive online literary magazine dedicated to “the real and unreal.” The poetry and stories published on this site are simply delectable, so be sure to give it a look!

Although an early draft of the story I submitted, still titled “Art Knows”, is published on this blog, you’ll find that major changes have been made to the published version of the story. I re-wrote the entire ending paragraph and added a new ending line as well. This updated version, I think, moves behind the curtain of the story itself and lends a new feeling of ringing ears and bodily dissociation (fun stuff!). You can access the updated version here.

Happy reading!

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3 hours too late & sweet rot


three sisters sweet as thirsty mouths. three sisters always in the losing. teeth flossed with cotton candy and burnt days seen through my teeth. neighborhoods of one storied houses, chain link fences. all was scrape and a drowned burn, the ancient electric. at night, air becomes bruised purple through telephone wires. at night, you two occupy the buzzing space and my body is alone. sometimes i think that moments are like photographs that have to be developed. it takes time to see the myth that was always there. now i can see that the corners of our living room were made out of static, tunneling and endless. in one photograph we’re outside mom’s car by an orange grove. i’m on the ground and you two are up in a tree, smiles like secrets, white t shirts singing the air. if you look at the picture for long enough you can sense rotten teeth. i would always arrive to your conversations too late and i could only ever see the surface. if i hadn’t caught you two running away you would have left me, alone. home only exists as a throat pang now. in dreams, i’m all sight and no skin, wading through rooms that crackle and ring. the air is clotted, bruising like blackberry stains and voices reach me like i’m underwater. when i wake, my mind is like cotton. when you two left me in the motel, no note, my mind was like gristle, empty but scratched.

i think of our car and the ripped leather seats. how we avoided sitting on the gashes even after nora covered them with duct tape. how there was always something blooming in the air’s gaps. i was all sight with a threaded mind like sound. the lights on the dashboard were green and at night it all felt like we were sitting in the belly of a ghost.


mfjr:  Lorna’s Garden, Ireland, 2012  by Robert Ellis

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Kateri gets a tumblr

Like the title suggests, yes, I finally caved in and decided to create a blog on tumblr. For awhile now I had been a fan of the tumblr community as an outsider and kept tabs on a few stunning poetry and aesthetic blogs, though it’s only now that I’ve decided to dive in head first.

And to be honest, I have no idea how any of it works! I’m totally lost and the my blog is pretty embarrassing and sparse at the moment. If any of my followers are more experienced in the tumblr world I would greatly appreciate it if you could explain the basics of the website to me in the comments.

Anyway, the url for my site is

If you wish to stop by, please do! I’ll probably be uploading more casual writing as in journaling stuff (as well as poetry) onto this blog along with the same posts I upload here. (This decision will probably lead to more needless procrastination but it could also lead to lots of discovery & productivity. Who knows, only time will tell, really.)

It's totally a girls name {gif}

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Memories as milk-light, as dissolving sugar, right eye bruised.

"The Sound of Music"  - a classic for all ages - enchants generation after generation with sounds and images that are truly timeless... our fashion designers at Isabella G. by GEIGER know the value of timeless classics and for SS 2014 we had fun again re-interpreting tradition for our customers. Enjoy!

Being young, I feel that my years are divided into halves where, in the first half, I become aware of something about life or myself and am left to understand/cope with it during the second half of the year. Everything grows and leaves so quickly right now, which is why this year, I have found myself longing for old times to the point of aching, and wishing to be my old self again, even if the moments I’m thinking of occurred only one or two years ago. There’s something of impossibility in every memory, a laugh. It seems impossible that any of these days could be behind me, but it also seems impossible that I could have ever believed those moments to have been the true present, the only time in existence.

In Dreams Airlifted Out


I miss Boston in the summer, the way I was self-conscious but obsessed with the architecture, always plotting my revolution novel or reading Jane Eyre. I know now that I could never think that way again. I miss how my thoughts came from a single source, only built on the moment. I miss my little obsessions, discovering a song for the first time, a show, an actor. I miss the code names we had for that idiot boy whom I liked and our texts. They moved me up to the adult skiing class now, but I still remember when we climbed that snowy hill, out of breath but determined to ski down one last time before the mountain closed. That was the real me, I deserve to live closer to that day than the years that have come between it and me. A spiral of ache.

The worst is elementary school. Everything is soggy and melted now. Everything was sun-scabbed and drafty. Sticky fingertips, jump rope, hand games. Summer was chalky, yellow pulled over everything. It’s scary, having only known a person then, away from the fact of now. The conversations I forget like a dream I’m not allowed to return to. Voices cut from another universe, the faces we knew not existing anymore, our fears and tears no longer valid. Let’s just refuse to keep up with change and recognize each other as we were.

Not only do I want to live inside my old ideas again, I want to watch them play out like they did back then. I want the thunder-clap of new discovery, even if it came through pain. Like when I heard him in the back-seat of the van, laying on top or that girl, kissing her. New fault lines. Later, I sobbed in a hidden cranny in the hotel lobby, away from the other kids. After that, there was no more hope between that boy and I, but the world was new. I want to re-learn those tears, fit inside the hurt I outgrew. I miss not knowing the ending. I miss myself.

Cinema Paradiso, #movies

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