A Matter Of Faes

Pixie, she/her/sidhe/fae, tiny winged witch, writes poetry and empty space stuff.

[amatteroffaes]

About Me

I am a pixie with a doll.

i am a trans woman.

i am polyamorous.

I am pansexual.

I write poetry.

I write small scenes.

I write about trauma.

I write about processing.

--

I experiment with styles and media, searching for the voice that fits. Something that helps understanding myself and others. I'm always in search of the right words for things that often don't have names.

I'm still super new to tumblr and figuring out things, the style I want to use, and how I wish to present the things I write. I'm happy that so far it feels like the things I've written are appreciated and people share them with the communities and spaces I identify with.

I frequently present as a winged pixie and it is what feels good to me. I like fae things, places, people, stories. That's the magic I am drawn to, and where I hope my words manage to touch.

Much of my writing targets 'empty spaces'. A non-entity, non-descript 'place' neither here nor there filled with things that often defy easy labels. I write about dolls, witches, fae, angels, moths, and a lot of things in between. I am sure eventually I'll share some of the things outside of this, but, for now, this is where most of my ideas land and take root.

[amatteroffaes]

Vision

Papers tower around Miss, stamped over and over: prove it. Miss: They changed it again. What I am. Where I can be.

Miss: If they decide I’m not real

Doll lifts her from the table.

Doll: This one sees Miss.

Miss: They don’t.

A siren passes outside.

Miss: What if they take everything?

Doll holds her steady.

Doll: They cannot take this one. They cannot take Miss.

Miss: They will. They’ve already started. For beings like us.

Doll: They can change words.

Doll: They cannot change what this one sees.

[amatteroffaes]

Refuse

They never made room for me. So I grew sideways. Bloomed in alleys, under neon, behind velvet curtains and whispered names.

I stitched myself together with safety pins and spit, painted truth across my face so loud it became camouflage.

They called it rebellion. As if survival was a choice.

I learned the quiet art of vanishing in rooms that demanded I shrink. They do not see me, not really. Only the outline of what they fear.

But still, I exist in backrooms and basements, in stolen eyeliner and borrowed boots. Dancing like I'm shaking off extinction.

I am what remains when erasure fails.

When a body refuses to forget how to take up space.

When they finally notice, and see the beauty, in the scars, they carved.

They never made room for me. So I carved a shape they could not name and stayed.

[amatteroffaes]

Unreal

There are days I'm sure I am an echo.

A whisper in someone else's dream. A version of a girl who almost survived.

I look in the mirror and my features are not my own. None of it belongs to me. The eyes stare back, but, they do not see.

The floor feels like memory. The walls shift when I blink. I cannot tell if I have always been here, or if I never was.

The mirror won’t look back. The air won’t answer when I speak. And when you say my name, I wonder who you’re calling for.

I count things to anchor myself. Fingers. Corners. Breaths. But numbers lie. They always do.

And the fear grows louder not that I will vanish, but that I already have, and no one noticed.

I place my hand in yours to feel the shape of being. To remember I am not only thought.

You squeeze back. And for a moment, I believe I am real.

[amatteroffaes]

The Bend

A feeling this deep does not sit still.

It bends the floor beneath me. Tilts the sky. Shifts the shape of doors and days until I don’t know where I’ve been.

Time flows wrong now. Moments repeat.

Others vanish before I can hold them. The past claws its fingers through the present and leaves me unsure what I survived and what I imagined.

I try to write things down. To pin memory in place like moths under glass. But the tears run like ink, the paper tears, or the words never come at all.

Sometimes I ask you what happened. Because I doubt myself.

You always answer softly. Never surprised I’ve forgotten. Never upset when I ask again.

And in that quiet, the world tilts a little less. Just enough for me to stand without slipping.

[amatteroffaes]

Sorrow

There is a name I once knew tasted like stars felt like moonlight on water warmed my wings, made the world feel almost kind.

I’ve forgotten it.

I only remember the hole it left, a sense burned into my being, a hollow where the light refuses to go.

Sometimes I dream of it not the name, but the moment it was lost. The shattering. The stillness after. The wrongness of everything.

Grief this deep has gravity. It bends time, warps memory, pulls everything toward its ache.

I try to build a life around it, a quiet orbit of breath and tea and dolls. But it still lives in me this wordless absence that once had a name.

And even now, my bones hum its echo.

[amatteroffaes]

Nowhere

Miss sits at the table, unmoving, wings drooped low. The room soft hum of silence stilling the room. She stares at her rembling hands.

A heavy, nameless, weight presses down. A fracture deeper than bone, rooted in the marrow of existence itself seizing her. The dread, ever-present, whispering quietly from shadows at the corners of her vision, flickering shapes that vanish before she can turn.

She tries to move, but her limbs refuse, locked by a fear that holds her.

Dread: You're not going anywhere.

Miss sobs and gasps for air. It doesn't matter how hard she tries. She's suffocating on something unseen, questions too large to ask, too terrifying to answer.

Miss: Why am I here?

Her voice is soundless, words formed without disturbing the air.

Miss: Why does everything hurt so much?

Still as a statue, she waits, longing to dissolve, to become nothing. She desires to be nowhere, to fade into silence, flee from the crushing awareness of being.

Dread smiles somewhere deep within, content. It doesn’t need to say anything more. It's already said everything that matters. 

[amatteroffaes]

Closer

I find myself often at the edges of existence, feet dangling over a void, questioning if it's easier to let go. And always, without fail, your touch finds me there, drawing me back to safer ground. You never pull too hard, never scold the darkness that tempts me. You sit beside me, hands gentle, eyes patient, until inch by inch, I choose to come closer.

[amatteroffaes]

03-05-2025

Some days, the static is louder than others.

It hums beneath my skin, a restless eerie presence, creeping at the edges of my mind. It tells me I am too much, or not enough, or that I shouldn't dare to exist in the first place. It crackles with every headline of the news and every law passed. Whispering and trying to close the door that was never meant to stay closed to me.

I dread what they see when they look at me. The ones who think they own this world. The ones who believe their gaze alone can strip the self-identity I fought and killed myself to claim. To them, I am a mistake, a distortion, an abomination out of place in their rigid sense of reality. They hope to drown me amongst the static; to be consumed by it, and disappear back into the white noise of existence.

I have lived in silence before. I know it's unbearable weight.

I know the burden of being invisible, making myself small enough to fit inside of their expectations, of curling my wings so close to my body that no one could ever notice I was different. I know the humilation of swallowing my name and pretending I was content to be something I was not.

I will not go back.

Some days, I wonder if despite all my fight, if I will be swallowed whole. If I will lose myself in the noise, in the fear, in the exhaustion of always have to push against a world that wants to unmake me. Some days, it feels like the static is winning.

However, sometimes there are other days.

Days when I hear my name spoken in a loving voice. Days when I wrap myself in colors and fabrics they told me I could never wear. Days when I laugh and love with people who see me for who I am and have no wish to see me as anything else. No wish to see me as their own expectations.

Days when I look in the mirror and I finally see my own reflection. I see myself.

The static is loud, but, I'm still here. As long as I'm here, as long as I refuse to disappear, they can never drown me out completely.

I am not the silence they want me to be. I am not their fear, nor their mistake, nor their distortion of reality.

I am my own. I will not be consumed.

[amatteroffaes]

IFYKYK.

A memory lingers, dust in forgotten corners. Tangled threads bound to fragile form, still and silent. The whispers breathe life into the empty space. Eyes blinking with hollow purpose. Movement aches, every action causing more lament. Puppeteer or prisoner, what am I to this existence? There is no freedom here, only the illusion of choice.

[verity-hollow]

Big Spoon

A doll is holding its witch in bed. A question occupies its thoughts, keeping it from crossing the threshold of sleep.

"Miss, is this strange for you at all?"

The witch streches in her dolls embrace, craning her head to look at it quizzically. "What do you mean?"

"Well, this one holds you every night, but it was told that dolls are supposed to be held by witches instead."

The witch paused and nestled herself deeper into its arms. "I see. Well, i sleep like this because if i sleep in any other position, it starts to hurt. Do you feel uncomfortable being my big spoon?"

The doll bashfully played with its fingers, springs creaking slightly as fingertips pressed together. "Of course not, Mistress! You feel very soft, and your warmth spreads through me in my arms. It feels good."

"Then you should be caring less about what others are telling you and more about what feels good to you and me." Remarked the witch. "And when you hold me at night, your firm embrace is very reassuring. You serve me well, my doll, in ways you don't even know and without even trying."

A doll that effortlessly keeps its witch comfortable and safe as its eyes close, stealing away to the realm of dreams.

[the-littlest-lily]

Vent art from no sleep

We all need hugs

[amatteroffaes]

Miss stands over dollie, some arcane symbols etched into the ground surrounding the doll. Her eyes brimming with tears.

Miss: I had hoped never to need to do this.

Miss looks up, speaking to no one in particular.

Miss: Summon the council of witches. Time to mobilize the combat dolls.

Miss looks back down drawing a few more sigils onto the doll. They flare with an ominous glow and then she lowers herself down and lays against the doll sobbing.

[dollible-deactivated20241114]

everybody is like "robot girls are great! I'd love to have a robot girl for a girlfriend!"

my sibling in christ, she'll barge into your room ten times a day to tug at your arm, bring you to her laptop and look up at you, sniffling, with expectant puppy eyes (on her laptop is yet another failed captcha)

[amatteroffaes]

My Doll, My Mirror

I found you in fragments, stitched of sorrow, a frame crafted, by unloving hands.

You were built from hollow, from ache and absence, made to carry the comfort that was stripped from you. A purpose crafted, forced into being when no one cared to see you whole.

When I hold you, I recognize the longing in your gaze, a reflection of what I keep to my self, the quiet where my pain lingers.

My doll, my mirror, we are bound by the sadness we carry, two souls fractured by a world, an aggressor that left its scars too deep.

When I touch your hand, I feel the familiar sense of my own fears, the ghosts that haunt my dreams, the weight of wounds too raw to heal alone.

But here, in this gentle silence, we find pieces we thought gone in each other’s broken places, in the soft exchange of understanding.

You ground me when I lose myself, when I fade into the static, your hand in mine a tether to a world that feels less cruel.

And in your presence, I am reminded that healing is slow, fragile, and quiet, built from scars laid bare, from shadows embraced, not ignored.

Together we fill the empty spaces, not by pretending we are whole, but by knowing that being broken is a language we both speak.

My doll, my mirror, we are woven from the same thread, and each day, we stitch ourselves a little closer to something softer, a patchwork of hurt and hope, two wounded hearts, mending side by side.

[pearlthedoll]

A Witch Who is Cold

A witch who is cold. A witch who evaporates any form of heat the moment she draws near. She's been this way since she was born, she's always been chill to the touch, and wherever she's gone, the cold has always followed her wherever she's gone.

It's an involuntary sort of power, she has no real control over it. She must drink quickly, lest her drink freeze in her hand, windows fog over and are covered in rime the moment she draws near, and when she steps in a puddle, it turns to ice within seconds.

There's never been a cure for this, no permanent remedy has ever been found. Flames are extinguished the instant she stretches her hand out to warm herself, hot coals are rendered inert and even boiling water turns ice-cold the moment it touches her skin.

A witch who lives a life without warmth or heat, or at least she would be. For there is one thing that she's never been able to chill, and that is her doll. The doll is warm to the touch, eternally so, and when the witch holds it close, even she too can feel it in her chest.

When her doll is near, the feeling returns to her fingertips, and she can finally stop shivering. Her breath isn't visible, her teeth do not shatter, the frost melts from her glasses. In her doll's embrace, the witch finds peace.

And so she pulls the doll closer, burying her face in its shoulder, and hunkers down for another long winter.

[amatteroffaes]

Unassigned

I was assigned my role. I was assigned my name. I was told to be strong. I was told to grow up. I was expected to be provide. I was expected to be so many things

I was none of these things. I was not what you assigned me to be. I was not what you told me to be. I was not what you expected me to be.

I tried. I failed. Again and again. I tried and I failed.

None of these things were what was right.

I found my role. I chose my name. I became stronger in spite. I grew up before I could be young. I succeeded because of those who shared the burdens. I became what I was meant to be.

You told me I couldn't do that. You told me I wasn't who i was. You expected me to change. You expected me to comply. You wanted me to be something I wasn't. You wanted me to fail.

You tried. You failed. Again and again. You tried and you failed.

You will not deny me my destiny.

I am a woman. I am beautiful. I am smart. I am beyond you.