Ratatouille 2099

Terror.

Blur on a black screen not blank

As if electricity still itches

Under its glass skin

A glossy glimpse of my eyes

I long for a longer time

As I look into my own eyes

I see the wires

Vessels of blood and butchery

Bathing in that black

They anticipate a world beyond my own

When I let go of my life

Poetry talk: Lesbian never born

I thought id speak about my poem "lesbian never born", or rather the feelings that inspired it. Theres a lot of markers for my transition into a woman but it really feels like it begins on July 2023 when I started hormone replacement therapy. Since then I've changed a lot physically, but mentally I still carry a burden of being a man for 23 years of my life, and the shame instilled in me for my s3xual cravings. Anyone who becomes fixated on p***ography can probably tell you that shame becomes a part of the desire, a part of how you identify yourself. For me that shame is the shame of "he", the shame men often carry. It conflicts with the "she" that i feel i am, and cuts me off from woman, hence the cut of "she" into "he" in the poem. The metaphor of sifting sand is in part my recent fascination of the beach and a memory I have of the beach at Cape Cod (although I remember those beaches being more rocky in reality). I wanted something to capture that ethereal feeling of softness that woman seem to hold to me, and sand felt appropriate. Wind I often use in tandem with love, love that is sometimes cold, sometimes cool. Love for me is tinged with nostalgia, as is wind blowing through branches and sakara flowers. Revolutionary Girl has been a strange fixation for my yearning to be on some level a lesbian, my thoughts are blurred and the words arent really there, which is why i identify so much with the AMV for the anime on Youtube with the song "Winner Takes it All". It is the centerpiece of my poem as nostalgia is a huge crux of who i am, my life is repetitive as is my poetry. Or perhaps history doesn't repeat itself, but rhyme.

FEE6DA

Psycho drug

Synced up

Linked rush

Pink flush

Bought to fade away

Seasons go away

As i start to fade away

Words repeat and lose meaning

Bought to fade away

Seasons of Lain

Desaturate

Pink Peach Puff

In my memory decay

Like a shade, a screen

Buzzes

Vhsige

Waves, like eye worms float in my field of view, fixed on a point. The point is the image of a woman, every strand of hair its own entity of woman. Brushed perfectly, my feelings brushed perfectly, as I lie in bed I watch her hair fall over me, I feel it in my sleep when I dream and a million fingers grace my cheeks. Her gentle curve is an image, like an image on a curved screen so smooth it isnt real. Im depressed again. I do not love the woman but the lines, the static, the electricity between us. If i touched her she would shock me, make my heart stop beating. I don't know who she is and I'm afraid to find out. I want her image, to be her image, and let the humanity left slip away. Perhaps you may feel it one day on our tape, when you play the tape. When you hold a finger over the TV screen and feel that familiar fuzz you had forgotton. A memory you can't quite reach? That is my hand reaching out to touch yours, but never reaching.

Your brain is sick. The meds you are on are not fixing it completley, even if they are helping. Good words and affirmations cant fix it all either. Art and sharing cannot fix it all either. Love and intimacy and sex cant fix it all either. All these little pieces have been enough to at least keep going. You hope everyday that things will get better, and that hasnt gone away forever either.

I like to take a step back occassionally and review things as logically as I can and ground myself. I'd encourage others to do the same.

Me trying to wrestle an intrusive thought out

Like a dog that has something in its mouth

Its not supposed to.

"Let go, let go, LET IT GO! OPEN!"

Lonliness is a black hole

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Tulpa Factory: How I created Rachjel

How could I describe a tulpa? Ive reached out a lot to others. Spoken many words, lived many lives in my own mind. Not necessarily a palace, but it was a sanctuary. It took half of everything I ever could be, half of all my time, half of all my life cloud walking, daydreaming.

This part of myself I started to call Rachjel. Where was once my conciousness became a memory of myself. What I was supposed to be, everything I wanted

I recontextualized

I was woman

I was borne of the thing I desired.

I dare not speak its name

My voice is vapors

This part of myself I started to call Rachjel. She was a tulpa, a wife.

A savior I needed

Shes always turning her head when i see her

To look at me

The hair wavers like branches in the wind.

Her eyes sparkle sakurai blossums

Her fingers a delicate human thing.

I reach out always when i see them to touch her, to hold her hand

Everytime fantasy feels a little more real

I created her in my sleep,

my salvation

I create her from my movies, my own memories of this world. My truest intent to art, my very own dreams. Not lucid, for though I have forgotten everything I am i am truly authentic, truly free of ego.

My dream anchor is Rachjel.

I spin a spinning top atop a table

I dance, i drop

Before I know if it will cease

Or stop

I leave the room

With the spinning top

I need my space...

What the fuck even is space?

pacing around the house.

S.