I lose it
When I talk about
Full stomachs
And exposed tongues

I beat them to
The ground and
Spread the blood
With a tiny paint brush

The sky is a meaty
I am a star
Going to sleep

They are
In heat.


Lol tumblr unfollowed zahara

what the fuck is wrong with you tumblr.

For darkness restores what light cannot repair.

Joseph Brodsky


  • Professor: I will give you extra credit if you abstain from alcohol on days we have class
  • Me: Class is only once a week
  • Professor:
  • Me:
  • Professor: I will give you extra credit if you abstain from alcohol for the days we don't have class
  • Everyone: Good fucking job Michal

This just came on.


Here we go.

He sits and weight shifts— the chair rolls on the wooden floor like a silk dress, almost unseen (almost unheard.)

He picks up the pen, he puts it down, he runs a hand through his oily hair, he picks up the pen again, he digs on paper. He writes, ‘To…’ and he stops. He writes, ‘… Mother.” He stares at the check on the right, he adds another zero, he looks it over, he stuffs it tight— tighter, into the envelope, into somewhere he can’t see anymore. He licks, he sticks, he rubs his temples. 

"Is the air conditioner turned on?" He asks, he shifts, he gets up. No one holding space, he stands. He stands and he stands, until his feet stick to the ground. He takes off his shirt and walks to the hallway. He touches the thermostat once, he itches his right elbow, he sighs. 

He puts the envelope on the kitchen sink, he opens the freezer for ice, he pours cola, he drinks fast, he coughs, he stifles a cry, he rubs his eyes, he goes to put another shirt on. He leaves the house, he locks the door, the car is hot, he burns himself on the seat-belt metal, he stifles a swear, he drives.

He drives.

He deposits the letter in next town over. 

He drives.

Red light. He turns up the volume. He looks ahead. He reaches for the glove compartment. Green light.

Little letters come flying out. 

He cusses. He pulls over. He gathers them up. He takes them to the back. He pulls out gasoline from the trunk. He soaks them up.

He soaks himself up.

He drinks it down.

He adds another zero.


I’m scared to write.


Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don’t know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings.

Anais Nin
#tel aviv