Welcome, reader! This piece has been in progress since April 2020 and I am proud to announce its publication. Please join me in taking a rough, analytical look at how the lack of sex education in Protestant Christian churches destroys young women. And how we can stop it.
Software Engineer | Musician | Dog Rescue Work | Bisexual poet and creative dark romanticist who writes about mental health, sexuality, & love.
Dear friends, hi! My name is Anna Blendermann (last name means ‘textile maker’ in German but I’m short ass Irish/French haha).
I’m 25 years old and I…
Honesty is such a bitch. Honestly.
I spent so much of my university years wondering how to be as honest as other people, especially in relationships. How was Rami so blanatly honest with her partner? Was that the key to staying together for so long? Shit, if true honesty was…
I’m losing mye-lination
And all my concentration
My mind is tested, invested, an unprotected nation
And I dare say the train hasn’t quite left the station
I sink to marinate
Taste the words that you say
Like a steamy mug of coffee on a chilly, chilly day
For I’m out of sorts in sort of the best…
I forgive you
I forgive you for November at 2 AM, sailing across
The concrete, arms around each other at a loss
For words, came so easily when we were young
I could feel an ‘I love you’ just under my tongue
But a monochrome demon had stolen your lungs
Fingernails at your throat
Good morning! Thank you for being patient with me, friends. Over a week since my release on February 1st, here is part 1 of a poem remake dedicated to my best friend. We will always meet.
I never knew
How badly I wanted you
How badly I needed you
Hello, friends! I’m back. I took a break from writing in January because I got into a car crash and was facing a few major life decisions. The dust has settled and my creative juices are flowing again.
He moves as though a panther
Lazing, lounging around
The month of my birthday
The month moves slow
As if my limbs drag through a swamp
And oh, I feel desperately cramped
My bones achingly grow
Succumbing to the grasp of progress
Fuck no, I never expected any less
Than to be left
Than to be lonely
At the turn of a quarter…
A Short Story.
The clock hands at midnight struck my mind like a gentle, sensible blow, a soft reminder to lay down for the night. Such things as time may be a man-made construct; yet, our biorhythms follow it closely, understanding the turn from day to night. In truth, night…