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here i am sleeping at the altar, drinking the holy water like cough syrup. here i am beneath the stained glass window trying to cheat death i paint my body with the ashes of this holy fire, line my too-light eyes with charcoal. i am learning how to see clearly in the darkness. my southern sky constellation, my nighttime ocean, i am holding you against me as if i can stop the waves from crashing. i am controlling the tide for you. i wash away the blood as if there will not be more. bathe in the iron, my name becomes a copper coin on your tongue. blessed be. beloved. i want you to say this until it feels real until you know the color of an electric candle in a room shrouded in darkness. until you learn your own holiness. beloved. give me your hand, let me show you this night sky crystallized i am creating a home in my body for your heaviness. i am hanging holly and lilies from the ceiling, singing and closing all the windows i will trap myself inside, sleep tangled in the arms of your trauma. i search your hair for rings as if in a tree cut, charting every loss, every cruelty every time the weight of personhood nearly ruined you. beloved, i am beading your resin tears. i hold them like a rosary, like a lover. don't search for me, don't ask me why i had to adorn this shrine with dead flowers, dried juniper, torn clothing, my own teeth you know it takes sacrifice to reach sanctity ✱✱✱ 
#CutUpConfessions aims to fluidly investigate the human experience through a mixture of collage and confessional writings. By playing with different structures and media, Cara is bluntly honest in words, often directed as a question or request, while hiding smaller, more nuanced admissions throughout the imagery. ✱✱✱ 
I'M A SLEEPWALKING CHEETAH WITH A HEART FULL OF LIP BALMWe were ultra purple and also so for real. In the binge harvest, we got it straight from the source. We made things meaningless so meaning then could come. Watch us whittle ugly urges. Watch us tabulate the inky costs. Good lord, I think you could have waited at least until we hit the next text stop. We look up at the new reflective roadsign typeface: All the World’s a Forgotten Boy. We tune in to the weather band and listen to a poem of pure joy written by police. BIG MONEY FOR BROKEN GOLDYou find out what kind of neighborhood you’ve got by how the others jump when you pass them on the sidewalks. In ours, they’re almost all resigned to being overtaken by surprise. If you want to know their secrets, hang out behind the hotel where the employees all sneak smokes. When next we see those idle dads shredding by sunset at the trashed skatepark, let’s make a pact to never jump again. Her ring was diagnosed nine karats British dull, and I thought right, the rationing. Your grandmother’s story is never not achingly everything. ✱✱✱ 
I put up the paper to cover your body in, there you are, that Platonic poppycock with words in the absinthe of time just puckered pink and the red there, too where So. Many. Women. live; ghosts in the scaffolds or folds in the ghosts. Reading your journal, archeology, really. in the absence of me just blue and black ink, homage to some girlish bedroom and prairie wind, hairpins, darlings. Fuck you but fuck me like Toshio Saeki you cannot replace a woman who gets fucked by a squid. Clumps of hair— just evidence carry around those intestines in paper bags feed it—Alive!—to meaningless creatures of Woman, their dumb heads all tilted back and their mouths open like pleasure like homogeneity like replaceable like one of three reoccurring characters like interchangeable like plucked but not the thing that precipitated plucking … poppers, poetry, pills. Your body is still here underneath. ✱✱✱
well, it's been ~six months since we shared doe deer's music with you and - good news - there's a new album!
official album description: "a collection of stupid songs that don't really mean anything" sea foam's garbled stream-of-consciousness mini review: nostalgic, bird sounds, warm, fleeting, tranquil, soft, hopeful read our interview with doe deer here! cover art by matt leibowitz! two big-ass cloudshatching plans like pokemon eggs a safe yet relevant metaphor knowing how you hate the taste of those hanging on your tongue w/ your coffee breath but like whatever man remember the moon remember the alamo remember the titans remember on sports day may 11, 1994 when mr. smith's ball-sack floated out his shorts on the high-jump this was before we had accessible internet a month before netscape was found looking ahead to weezer themed chat-rooms short-lived eagle eye cherry msg boards when you were the size of a sears brand beginner guitar or other eight-year-old children big-haired / blue-eyes rly into beekeeping atm thinkin' abt midwifery soon auto-tune the sound of my future dentures biting into a sandwich just like this i wish (i wish) i wish so we spend all of 2008 in child's pose because at the vry least we need our lives to be a stretch so happy in this "brand new" & brown vintage scarf so happy in this new set of arms so happy in this drugstore where an akon song is playing so happy & so gay safe from harm we hug ourselves knees to heart knowing nothing lasts forever even seal is going to die hopefully not for a long-ass time baby's day out (1994)900 fire extinguishers exploding in the trunk of my subaru hatchback for a music video being shot in south africa. wow, holy fuck! a rose-red screen fades to pitch black as our producer peeks out the window through a crack in the venetian blinds. you've been reading bret easton ellis again, i can tell. i am going through my mumble-core phase, finding bibles in the sky, questioning everything except these rad-as-hell dogs in this wide-open wal-mart parking lot. long post-rock interludes to hardcore songs, delida of buttercups, the dylan thomas sky. i understand more about ryan gosling's character in "blue valentine" but i am not saying that i relate to him. you made it out. father had his surgery. i rub this daisy into my palm and know that i am leaving. spanish birds fly into my lungs, closing my throat. yes, this is beautiful and perfect. we stop to wonder where this quilt came from. i ask if i can hold your hand again. i am addicted to saving, but boy do i ever want that lawn-chair. tell me again who taught you the cold water extraction method and exactly how she died. make me a real tight fist by the mid-field boxcar at night. we kick up, with hot soft light under big october sky and we are shaky high. ✱✱✱
KISSI’ve been waiting for warmth again trying to conceal that I am a pile of dirty dishes shaped in curves and pretzel knotted curls and knowing that you are indigenous, even if the others don’t think so that’s what calms me LITTLE BALLIf I had a spear, if I plunged myself through a flagpole, it would all spill out. It would happen slowly, like honey. You are a little fucking ball of love, she says. I think about the love inside me. If the love inside me has divided into little men and women working who all reside in different parts. If they walk around, bow-legged, and cramped over so their backs have become dinner tables. I think about if they curse at me, hate me, if they want a break. Maybe they want to get a good rest in before they have to work again. But there is no rest, they are always working, and it makes me want to cry. I think about the love inside me. If it has died, like it should have by now, I could watch it roll out like a black glob onto my sneakers. People would stare, point, ask how an oil spill could come from a little girl's body, but no one would be sure because I wouldn’t be breathing. The love inside me is not yellow, like it used to be. You are a little fucking ball of love, she says. I look deep in the shower, and hold the black I feel behind my belly button. I hold the slime in my intestines, and I think that’s the reason why my stomach hurts so bad this year. ✱✱✱
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