Tulips

@tulips.gay

74 Followers 136 Following

writer of esoteric high-concept broadly 18+ web-fiction. in philly, from the midwest. 24, she/her&. hates posting. never kill yourself portfolio: https://tulips.gay/ ARBITER: https://wordsmith.social/arbiter/

The walls around me are resonating and I cannot take it lightly and I need it to stop. There's no guidebook for when you miss what doesn't exist. Maybe it happened, not here, not now, but there is no chance of ever going back there and I need to recognize this. You need to recognize this. I need you to see me as I am. I don't like the way he's looking at me... I don't like these noises. I think they're grating and I wish they would stop but I can't get the courage to actually tell them to stop it. I think I might be a shitty person. Do you think I'm a shitty person? I promise I won't judge you if you think I'm a bad person I promise. Please don't leave me here. Please. I need to do the dishes. What the hell is a 'schizopost' anyway? Leave me alone. Give me $20 right now and maybe I will say that you can come back. This is what happens when the walls resonate. This is what happens when I resonate with them. Did any of this make sense to you? Dear lord, I hope not, I hope not.
I hear crying from the other room no matter where I am. I can walk for days, go outside, and I still hear it. It isn't coming from inside of me, it's just in the other room, but it keeps following me around like tinnitus, except the ringing is someone screaming and bawling their guts out. I am sick of it. More than anything, I've been consumed with the idea that this is my life now, that I'm just going to have to go to work and go home and have sex and go to dinner and hear a baby- not a baby, a grown-ass man, or woman, I can't tell, crying from the kitchen, or the bathroom, or the closet. If someone wanted to stab me, it'd be really easy, wouldn't it? Just sniff some sliced onions before you slit my throat and I'd be none the wiser. You could even use the same knife! It's probably telling that that's where my brain goes immediately, and not concern. Maybe that's just an effect of how long it's lasted. I don't know if going deaf would help, but that's a bit like murdering a fly with a low-orbit ion cannon.
I have 15 dollars in my pocket and I'm afraid of it. I have lip balm in my pocket and I'm afraid of it. I have a phone in my pocket and I'm afraid of it. I have a pocket and I'm afraid of it. I have pants on my legs and I'm afraid of it. I have legs and I'm afraid of them. I have a body and I'm afraid of it and I don't know where I am and I want to go home. I want to go home. I take a bite into my dinner and I'm afraid of it. What if it burns my tongue? What if it tastes bad? What if it's poisoned and the person at the grocery store poisoned my food and I'm going to die. I'm afraid of my keyboard because what if the five-volt supply suddenly becomes mains and then shorts out my fingers and kills me. I am afraid of myself because I do not trust myself. I am afraid of everyone else because I trust myself more. I have no job because of workplace hazards. I'm afraid of running out of money and I'm afraid of work. I have 15 dollars in my pocket and I'm afraid of it.
She wakes up in a cold room with sterile, white tiled walls, with nobody around her, and her mind floods with the desire to rip into flesh. There's nothing but thoughts of men gushing thick red blood from their throats, ripping them out and causing them to asphyxiate, and then dismembering the body until it's nothing but a pile of goop on the floor. It's overpowering, like she's a marionette trying to desperately claw back any semblance of agency from her master, a nexus of infinite want for *anything but this*. One phrase sticks out in her mind — *swing low, sweet chariot*, coming to bring her to Heaven. To bring her home. To get her out of here. All she has is hope, but there are no doors and no windows, nothing that could even alert someone that she's here. She starts lashing out at the walls until her fingernails can't claw away at the tile — they've fallen onto the floor, leading a bloody stump there instead. She wishes she could climb up the walls just to see if there's some trap door on the ceiling. She starts bashing her head in until her skull cracks, stomping on the floor until she breaks a leg. The first and last thing to go was her mind, and when it went the second time, she finally gave up.
The other day I swallowed my car keys. I don't really want to talk about how that happened, I think I just dropped them in with dinner and didn't like- notice they were there. Y'know when stuff falls off your carabiner? Hate it when that happens. Especially when it means that you ate your god damned car keys. So like, I'm working delivery, right? So I *need* a car. I can't exactly- I can't get away with not having it, since I'd like get fired at the drop of a hat if I wasn't able to do this. Underemployment sucks really bad and I hate it. So what I've been doing is I've been punching myself in the gut repeatedly until something in there hits the key fob, since it's one of those doohickeys what which you press the button and it unlocks the car. If it was non-electronic I would be super screwed, but it's not, thankfully. The future is now. I guess it can transmit through organs? Yeah so anyway I don't actually know what to do once it reaches my intestines. 'Cause like, there isn't anything that could swat at the button, and I like really need this car. For my job. You get me, right? What do you mean I need surgery.
The horsemen came by, and I wasn't able to save you. I'd hope that you know how badly I wanted to, but their eyes were dazzling, their lie was conniving, their gaze was unflinching. You deserved better than that, but unfortunately, I'm just a little shit, aren't I? Their greatest promise, the one that they broke immediately when they touched you, was that of safety. They said that the people that I truly cared about would remain after it all. I could see the harm they did, razing fields to the ground and breaking limbs so hard that the bones turned to dust, and I was afraid. I wasn't afraid for you, though. I was afraid for myself, endlessly selfish as I am. I was afraid *of* you, maybe, of what you'd do if you knew. You didn't learn until it mattered the most. I'm a coward, I know that. I can't even work up the courage to speak to you. Don't you love hypotheticals? Stories? Friendly little tools to prevent yourself from owning up to your own issues? Coping is a myth, I know that much. This- god, this is so navel-gazey. Screw this, I'm out of here. *click.*
When she woke up, her hand was a different shape, her digits turned to stubs, five turned to four. She went to the doctor, after she struggled to type the message, but after the appointment they said everything looked fine. It kept happening like that for a while — she grew a snout from her face, a tail started to emerge from behind her, but nobody seemed to notice it as she swished it around. Everything about her was changing, eyes filling up with static, teeth growing sharp, and nobody cared. Nobody even *knew*. She tried to act out more: snarling at people, grabbing them with appendages that couldn't be human, pinning them against walls and forcing them to notice. That was when she learned what the word "chuuni" meant, and she didn't like it. Worse, she went on the internet, and there were words for something like it, but nothing for what she had. There were the furries, dressing up in costumes with their own subculture. There were the therians, which still felt too human to her. There was nobody who had what she had. She stood in front of a crowd she'd gathered, and then started screaming into the microphone. She crushed it with her teeth, and lept into the audience with shrapnel flying out of her jaw. She slit the throat of a casual onlooker with her claws, just to know that the impact existed, that it was *real*. Then, and only then, did Komm, süsser Tod start playing. *And now, the truth is all mine.*
You like looking at dead bodies, at least that's what you tell yourself. Especially the gross shit. You like the way that dismembered remains paint potent pictures of alternate realities, of worlds where those accidents never happened, of worlds where they happened to someone else, of worlds where they happened to you. Sometimes you think you're in them, sometimes you have dreams about them. One time you chugged gasoline just to see what it would taste like. It was sour. Top 10 drinks when you want to kill yourself. Top 10 shoegaze songs to kill yourself to. Top 10 National Socialist Black Metal bands. Top 10 Kanye West tracks after all that shit happened, not before. Top 10 callout posts against women who didn't deserve it. Top 10 ways to harass Guitar Center employees. Top 10 trains to sleep on top of and then get crushed Wile-E-Coyote style when they go through a tunnel. Top 10 top 10 lists. Top 10 longest whack-off sessions. Top 10 places to want to go home to. Have you heard about this? Has anyone else noticed this? It's pretty uncommon to get away with uploading that kind of thing, isn't it? I would hope so.
the cover page for "my ex-wife and i are still in our twenties". it shows two white trans women locking hands via photomashing, face down. 18+.
the cover page for "my ex-wife and i are still in our twenties". it shows two white trans women locking hands via photomashing, face down. 18+.