Throwing Children By Ross Gay

blood pools under my tongue where the words should be. id kiss you but i wouldnt want to make a mess. petals on my unmade bed, petals in the bathroom, petals in the toilet bowl as I lean over it pulling back my own hair. there’s petals in my hair, too, im sick with it. sick with you. you’re growing in me like a fungus, it’s fucking hard to breathe. take my breath away, i bet you need it more. am i infectious? do you want to be sick with me too, dear? the vines around my organs are long, they can wrap around yours too, if you’d like.

He is zen

i. angels must think that love is one sided. angels do not understand love like we do, their languages are too dissimilar from our own. how can something with so many eyes only see forward. i think they like that we try, though. i mean, we do send them little gifts. poems and prayers and lonely mornings. they send us back coffee and cupcakes and a little hope under our tongue. in this way, we are both parts of the universe, trying to care for each other.

ii. i tell my dad i think angels are probably made from flowers. there's an angel in charge of every petal. angels are in toast. angels are in gasoline; it's why they burn with holy fire and why motor oil smells so good.

iii. to my dog i am an angel. he tells me he loves me in the language we have both decided is our code - he presses his head against mine, and we both sigh. i cannot love like an animal, which would be better for me - the unname love, without speech.

iv. i think my angel is plucking her feathers from stress. it must be very hard, to love something that is intent on destroying itself.

v. sometimes it is enough to love something, i mean. pressing our fingers to the mirror and breathing our little lives into the fog. today is a hard one, though. maybe tomorrow you and i can be an angel for the bird outside, and watch it take flight. we'll both know we love it, in our own private language - and give our heart into it. i'll be the angel of daybreak. you can be the angel of dawn. we can both collect the spray of the world and spin it into yarn.

The existence of Ghost Hunt UK implies the existence of Ghost Hunt (insert country here). Everyone in America watches the UK version for Melanie.

You have been visited by the twocumber. May you receive twofold luck in the coming days

oh to have nothing to your name but a rented apartment, and still be happy because you're with the one you love and you get to build a life with them.

[ID: two gifs of Mustafa and Sharjeena sitting in their new apartment. Mustafa is sitting against the wall with his knees pulled up, elbows resting on them as his hands clasp together loosely in the front. Sharjeena is sitting next to him, her cheek pillowed on Mustafa's arm as he watches her with a fond gaze. /end ID]

My 90yr old Irish Catholic grandpa doesn’t miss with my gender. He’s never gotten my name wrong, or my pronouns, never even faltered over it.

It’s all so natural too: son, big man, young man…

We’ve never talked about it. He’s the only one who hasn’t pushed for details. He just accepted it and carried on because it’s not a huge deal.

It’s so comforting.

is peanut butter a liquid or solid

It’s springtime.

Pic source: X.