⛈️
We squeezed our way out through a sliding glass door onto the tiny balcony, standing facing each other, then lowering ourselves to sit on the concrete floor. He handed me the glass stem and I gently bit down, holding it between my teeth; he packed steel wool and a rock into the end and cupped it with his hands like he would a cigarette, protecting it from the wind to light it—so close to my face now. I sucked in air as he chivalrously held the flickering flame of his lighter to the tip.
“You’re a doll,” he said in his smooth deep voice, then seemingly winced at himself, his typical bravado cracking in an instant. I looked at him for a beat, smiled knowingly, rolled my eyes, and cast them down and to the side. We sat there in the cool air of a rare desert rain under gloomy skies, mostly in silence—watching the pedestrians on the sidewalk below, passing the hot pipe back and forth between our hands and lips and trying not to burn our fingers.
It was the closest we ever came to touching.
Feb 20, 2025
Related Recs
The sharp scent of rain tumbles clumsily in as you tease window-hinges wider with the pads of your fingers. A siren trails close behind, uninvited, sears your eardrums, dies off down the block.
Your neighbors are arguing again. Laundry, loans, lack of commitment… like yesterday, like the day before.
You think it would be suffocating to wrap yourself up in someone else’s sheets.
It’s five o’clock. Leaning against the sill and flicking the radio dial with one recently manicured nail, you tune into the local news. Roaring wall of static, then calm conversation between two anchors bubbling up through an old set of Panasonic loudspeakers.
You are feeling incomplete today, like yesterday, like the day before.
Rigatoni boils in the kitchen. You check the leftmost cabinet and find strawberry jam, unopened. You check the cupboard and look over a tub of tahini, a collection of canned soup, and a stack of pie tins. You check the counter, behind the cutlery. Finally, you check the fridge, ducking down to see only your own brown-eyed reflection in one last — now empty — jar of Prego. Your shoulders dip.
You slip on white sneakers, not-so-white-as-they-once-were. Why did you try to paint the front door? It is peeling now, ugly like a fledgling losing young feathers. Flecks of buttery yellow dapple paisley carpeting.
The great outdoors wait for you at the bottom of a cramped stairwell with twin light fixtures, both broken.
A sky like an old sweater is draped above Brooklyn, ready to wring itself out again at any moment.
Once around the block, rubber soles brushing damp cement, you walk briskly. At first you fling yourself against the humidity, then become self-conscious and adopt a slower pace as you near the corner store.
Two dollars, sixty cents. Like last week, like the week before.
You and I, we are looking down at our phones and stumble into each other, halfway home.
It is no one’s fault.
You recognize me from somewhere, you say, and feel like a bad person for lying. You have never seen me before in your life. I ask for your number.
That night you eat too quickly, knowing you’ll wish you’d saved some leftovers.
I come over once, then again.
We go out for dinner at tacky restaurants, where art deco posters from the nineteen-thirties have pinned themselves up in scattered flocks across worn-out drywall and the menu is printed with strange font on laminated placemats. The appetizer sample photos are unnerving; the bruschetta cowers like a scared animal awash in excessive camera flash. I make a joke about it, and you laugh.
We order dishes to share. The food is always better than I expected, but not quite as good as you wanted it to be.
You don’t mind.
We talk for hours.
We agree, ballpoint pens are better.
I hold you, and the ten p.m. bus pulls you out of my arms and through the dusky streets, past crowds and utility poles.
I hold you, and we rhyme our steps. Burgundy is around us in the leaves and in the dirt. You wear a coat I gave you.
I hold you, and we swat flies out on your porch. The days are getting shorter.
I hold you, and we watch blu-ray CDs you found on sale. Soft light from the flatscreen plays across your face as you fall asleep. I keep the movie on a little longer.
I hold you. In December, we bring a blanket to Long Island and listen to the sound of snow falling on the dunes.
You call in sick for work too often.
I hold you, and you know my callouses well.
We share the same sheets; we are wrapped up in each other.
I hold you, and kiss your hair.
You smell like candied oranges.
The afternoons eat away at one another. Dishes pile like uneven layer-cakes in your kitchen sink, crested with suds.
You say you feel uninspired.
Now we argue about laundry, and the sounds of your unhappy apartment are heard through half-open windows.
You shout, eyebrows furrowed like the pages of a book. A white plate soars from the grip of a trembling hand, misses an upturned chin, and interrupts us with its shattering.
This time, it’s different.
Sleep escapes us ‘til the sun is already planted on the easternmost rooftop.
I hurt you the way I learned to, and stay awhile, but don’t know why I stay.
We sink into sweet, heavy things: the saxophone in “Charcoal Baby”, shared creamsicles on hot Saturday evenings.
I see you less and less, and remember less and less of you.
Will I see you next week?
Yes, if you text me.
You forget,
just like we’d both hoped.
Sep 17, 2024
🦨
victor has his fingers to my stomach in the shape of a gun, whispering “murder” over and over. funny that i made it a man.
your fingers to my stomach in the shape of a gun. it’s not enough to think about it, and yet i’d have to hide my face if you ever put your hands around my waist. didn’t know i was into having my wrists held until you stopped me from tickling you.
something changed under the surface. in the part of head that’s actually in my throat. can we mind-fuck?
looking through the crack in my door. you ask if i want to talk about it. i say i want to sleep, and talking keeps me awake. you say talking could put it to bed and i say nothing.
my heart and my lungs are fragile. thought of you stopping my head, turning my face towards you, the intention, of meaning to kiss me. for a moment the hole in my chest was gone. there’s that line, about having a god-shaped hole and it being infected. this time, tonight, there’s a gouge in my chest, right around or below my sternum, and it’s letting all the cold air in. makes it hard to fall asleep.
you ask if i’m okay through the closed door. i understand that you love me and you don’t mind waiting.
it takes until my chest is dully aching and my stomach burning for me to admit i’m awake. kissing you feels like resurfacing. something is wrong in my body. so i go out into the hallway. i squint in the light. in the mirror, i meet your eyes, and you’re smiling.
Sep 30, 2024
💋
No image for this one, use your minds eye with me
Yesterday I was walking down myrtle ave underneath the train with my cousin and aunt, we were on our way to a private event at the library (im looking great thank you for asking, wearing this silky floor length dress my aunt had just given to me with my only pair of heels i got for an insane discount on the real real that are definitely not extremely uncomfortable)
We pass this couple embracing each other on the sidewalk, the sunlight has crept underneath the tracks and is illuminating the scene like a golden sheet laid over them. Nothing distracts the pair as they lock lips. I doubt they even register my gawking and if they did it certainly didn't matter to them. And almost as if the scene had been written, cast, and set-decorated: on the woman's shoulder hung a violently red bag that read "lovestruck."
When we arrived at the subway station steps about two blocks later I looked back and saw them far in the distant still in each others hands. My aunt and cousin said that was excessive, but to me I couldn't think of anything more wonderful.
3d ago
Top Recs from @taterhole
My dad teases me about how when I was a little kid, my favorite thing to do when I was on the landline phone with somebody—be it a relative or one of my best friends—was to breathlessly describe the things that were in my bedroom so that they could have a mental picture of everything I loved and chose to surround myself with, and where I sat at that moment in time. Perfectly Imperfect reminds me of that so thanks for always listening and for sharing with me too 💌
Feb 23, 2025
Schedule sent my resignation email for the morning, effective immediately ✅💅
Feb 27, 2025
🖐
I’ve been thinking about how much of social media is centered around curating our self-image. When selfies first became popular, they were dismissed as vain and vapid—a critique often rooted in misogyny—but now, the way we craft our online selves feels more like creating monuments.
We try to signal our individuality, hoping to be seen and understood, but ironically, I think this widens the gap between how others perceive us and who we really are. Instead of fostering connection, it can invite projection and misinterpretation—preconceived notions, prefab labels, and stereotypes. Worse, individuality has become branded and commodified, reducing our identities to products for others to consume.
On most platforms, validation often comes from how well you can curate and present your image—selfies, aesthetic branding, and lifestyle content tend to dominate. High engagement is tied to visibility, not necessarily depth or substance. But I think spaces like PI.FYI show that there’s another way: where connection is built on shared ideas, tastes, and interests rather than surface-level content. It’s refreshing to be part of a community that values thoughts over optics.
By sharing so few images of myself, I’ve found that it gives others room to focus on my ideas and voice. When I do share an image, it feels intentional—something that contributes to the story I want to tell rather than defining it. Sharing less allows me to express who I am beyond appearance.
For women, especially, sharing less can be a radical act in a world where the default is to objectify ourselves. It resists the pressure to center appearance, focusing instead on what truly matters: our thoughts, voices, and authenticity. I’ve posted a handful of pictures of myself in 2,500 posts because I care more about showing who I am than how I look.
In trying to be seen, are we making it harder for others to truly know us? It’s a question worth considering.
Dec 27, 2024