SEND ME YOUR NUDES

I love it when you send me random pictures & videos of your body,
It’s my favorite gift to receive.
I love receiving nudes.
Send me your nudes on my birthday,
send ‘em on Valentine’s Day,
send ‘em before my morning devotion
so I can add you to my prayers
so God can bless you with more sexiness
so you can bless me with more nudes,
send ‘em when we’re far apart
so I can have you on both of my minds.
Sens your pictures,
my gallery is your museum
cuz you’re a work of art.
Don’t hoard what you already have in abundance.
Keeping these body, pictures & videos
from me won’t make me want you more,
it’d make me want you less
cuz I’d believe you don’t want me enough to keep me.

By Sanity “The Insane”

I’M WEIRD. THAT’S MY LOVE LANGUAGE.

I love that I love enough. I make sure I exhaust all the love in me today like there ain’t no tomorrow. I make sure I enjoy & create art with my experiences & emotions. Buying gifts, sex, saying “I love you” countless times, numerous “good morning” & “I’m sorry” texts, calls, kissing & going on dinner dates are all basic & don’t really mean “love” to me. You can do all that for/to me & I wouldn’t care or feel a thing. It’s been done before, so many times. Be irregular, unconventional, creative, ment. Give or show me something no one else has given or shown. Love differently. I loved my first/only/ex girlfriend so much I wrote poems & essays for/about her everyday then I personalize an IG page just for her & made her the center of my artistry. That’s my love language. An Asshole like me made his heart a fucking gallery of love just for love. You can’t find that elsewhere. These other people do the same thing, no creativity, nothing different, nothing that hasn’t been done before. I’m no regular lover, I love different. I’m the type of person to create a novel or a collection of essays or poems, or make an album of photos, or write a song just to say “I love you” instead of just using actual word. That’s my love language. I’m the kid that wrote love poems & had my English teacher post ‘em on the school’s Notice board every week for Creative reasons, but secretly, I wrote ‘em for/to my secondary school crush just so she could always read & remember how much she clouds my thoughts every week. Besides, we were prohibited by the school to write love letters or have relationships, so I made my own technique. I’m weird. That’s my love language. “I want to be your artist, you my art.” That’s how I say/show “I love you”. When I love, I either make art with/for you or I make you my art; my muse. I’m no regular lover, I love different.

By Omale Rex

Download: “FLOWER’S MONOLOGUE” by MAE & Omale Rex

In Flower’s Monologue, Mae and Omale Rex both combine literary skills to cook up an insane and mind-blowing collection of poems about physical abuse, emotional distress and psychological trauma, making use of a lover who goes through the pain and grief of a terrible and wild partner’s love.
Mae gives an insight of the physical abuse the supposed lover invokes on the persona in the poem, explaining how her lover hurts and beats her only to gift her flowers right after each abuse, slowly bringing her to her death or that of her heart. A victim of physical abuse, the poet persona gives details of how her supposed loving yet destructive lover imposes himself and his love on her through gifting flowers and continuous abuse, respectively. She hates flowers but her lover continuously gifts them to her just to heal the wounds he causes day and night. She only hates flowers due to the memories and trauma attached to them.
Omale Rex comes with a different yet similar perception/perspective. His persona is a victim of emotional and psychological trauma/distress. Everytime the persona gets flowers, he knows his lover has done something terrible to hurts him and the flowers are only to cover up for what he is yet to find out, like this lines “What amends are these flowers for?”. The persona is going through emotional blackmail as his lover continues to hurt his feelings and pays every hurts/pain with flowers, he is sick of how many more flowers he would get off her continuous hurt towards him.
The flowers in some of the instances can be substituted for “apologise & forgiveness”, with lines like “My acceptance of these flowers is my approbation of the agony you inflicted on me. It’s me saying “I forgive you”. The persona describes his consciousness as “(drunk), wasted, left to be buried alive”, and all he blames on his lovers ability to toy with his heart. But this poet persona hates flowers because of the death memories he has attached to them, his mother got flowers but none could save her or keep her alive, only helped to beautify her grave. So he believes flowers are only brought not to make amends but cement conflicted emotions and feelings of hurt and despair.
Later on both poet’s persona go on to explain what they already have than flowers. With Omale Rex saying flowers are only a mockery of his dead emotions, stating what he would rather have than flowers as apologies or as gift on his tombstone. Then Mae goes on to explain how her her spirit won’t be at peace if flowers were laid on her graveside, with expressions like “Even when I die I’ll have too many flowers by graveside, My spirit won’t be able to rest well, even at death.”, Then also stating what she would rather have.
This is also a great use of irony. Even after complaints and clamours, there’s simply more complaints made towards to flowers than the abuse or the abuser, even to the point of referring their lover to a different, more preferable apologetic gifts. It really says alot about how addictive and intoxicating love is, and also how abuse can slowly get us trapped.

Summary by – Omale Rex

NO FLOWERS AGAIN

I said to him: “Maybe this shit will be the death of me,
But I already said what I said.
I do not want flowers and I don’t like them,
I’m not scared to say what I don’t like.”

For a minute he was in awe,
Because everyone knows I don’t talk that much.
And for the first time, he was scared to hit me,
So he left the house.

I knew within me that this was the final time
and there was no going back for me,
And for the first time, there were no flowers for me.
I was really happy,
I survived this one.

By Mae

From: FLOWER’S MONOLOGUE