We’ve moved blogs to a main blog (so I can follow people and have an easier time chatting) to @butterflynotes. New theme, new graphics - new everything! I will still answer DMs on this side blog, but please note that the ask box will be closed.
You can expect to find on the new blog:
Writing (as expected)
Edits & Graphics PSDs (for all your needs as a roleplayer or otherwise - for icons, promotions & more!)
Commissions with all new prices, 12 spots open & a comprehensive, easily accessed list of what I will & won’t write - also, a page for my store. In the store, you’ll be able to find PDFs of zines / books I wrote & am selling (and maybe later on, if it’ll sell, I’ll open preorders for some physical copies as a limited edition type thing)
New tags & some actual organisation!
A page that actually introduces you all to me & a page listing all fanzines I’ve been a part of.
Photographs & cosplays.
Me, actually talking about the books I’ve been reading lately. Amazing, right?
So if any of this interests you or you want to keep up with me, then feel free to check out the new blog. I love you guys and I really appreciate your support the last year or two, I hope to keep writing the stuff you enjoy!
( the queue is set to be reblogging old posts from this blog until Sunday, 50 a day, so you won’t see anything new until then. but rest assured, it’s there! i’ve been working on some new stories, new poems etc. )
This is a commission for @sainthearts. Please do not produce this as a song (or music) without the express permission of the person who paid for it. Thank you. Feel free to check out my commissions post if you’d like to buy some songs, stories or poems!
Originally Posted: July 14th 2019
Left it up to fate
but we all know that’s the devil’s dealings,
all these people ruining lives
claiming to care about our feelings.
Know they’ll never listen
know they’ll never change,
know we’ll die early
still wrapped up tight with chains.
I want to stare up at the darkest sky,
instead of wondering where the stars are tonight
or where they’ll be
in a few more years or a century.
I’d love to see nature in full swing
rather than the world suffering,
& i know i really can’t change a thing,
but i want to, i want to.
We’re in the business of dealing death,
thousands just to be put to rest
and a billion thoughts inside our heads:
why work when we’ll just die instead?
We live trapped in this economy
knowing we’ll never make it mainstream
& what we wanna hear is what they hide
‘cause they know without us their riches die.
I want to stare up at the darkest sky,
instead of wondering where the stars are tonight
or where they’ll be
in a few more years or a century.
I’d love to see nature in full swing
rather than the world suffering,
& i know i really can’t change a thing,
but i want to, i want to.
Wondering if I’ll ever be
quite what the world expects of me:
work harder, work faster, be more,
just useless as i was before.
I want to be something to you
I want to be something to you
I want to matter too
Please let me be someone to you.
I want to stare up at the darkest sky,
instead of wondering where the stars are tonight
or where they’ll be
in a few more years or a century.
& when they take away all I was
strip off my personality like a robot
I’ll remember stars as they used to be
when you were you & i was me.
This is a commission for @sainthearts. Please do not produce this as a song (or music) without the express permission of the person who paid for it. Thank you. Feel free to check out my commissions post if you’d like to buy some songs, stories or poems!
Originally Posted: July 14th 2019
Take centre stage we all know
you’re dying to get out
the words we don’t all
care about that you will say.
Take the stage and tell us
all these bullshit ways
& the lies you always say
& expect us to believe.
We want the stage
we want to take it all away
& tell you everything about the world
& how it is today.
We’d like the stage
to talk a moment about our lives
& how some get everything on a silver plate
while the rest of us waste away.
Another day, another dollar,
that’s what they say, what they holler,
but I’m not sure what to think
‘cause it’s already bound in ink.
It’s not going to me or my family
but in the pockets of the rich & wealthy,
controlling all our economy,
99% to the 1% isn’t fair to me.
We want the stage
we want to take it all away
& tell you everything about the world
& how it is today.
We’d like the stage
to talk a moment about our lives
& how some get everything on a silver plate
while the rest of us waste away.
We want the stage, we want the stage
to talk about this day and age
about the things you never see,
about the pain behind the scenes.
We want to change it all
We want to change it all
Before we drop dead & fall
We want to change it all.
We want the stage
we want to take it all away
& tell you everything about the world
& how it is today.
We’d like a moment to talk about
the future and every other way out
& that we hope it’s better for you
but we know maybe it’ll never do.
This is a commission for @sainthearts. Please do not produce this as a song (or music) without the express permission of the person who paid for it. Thank you. Feel free to check out my commissions post if you’d like to buy some songs, stories or poems!
Originally Posted: July 14th 2019
Take one more step and it’s going in your head,
bang bang bang breaks the silence of the shed,
one more word and it’s going through your heart,
take the blade, make it sharp & then we call it art.
We say this violence should be condemned
while encouraging it to no end,
& the further we go along the worse it becomes,
‘cause people let out urges like they’re the number one.
We all want to be remembered,
but not for the worst things we’ve done,
we all know people are hiding things
behind white lies and stardom.
We all want to be remembered
but who will remember you?
We don’t want to be forgotten
in just another shoot.
Say my name if you recall
where we were before,
& if you knew me after all of this
would you still say it just like this?
Call my name. Call my name.
We all want to be remembered,
but not for the worst things we’ve done,
we all know people are hiding things
behind white lies and stardom.
We all want to be remembered
but who will remember you?
We don’t want to be forgotten
in just another shoot.
One more moment and the tide washes over us,
there’s earthquakes & there’s floods
& i don’t know what’s shaking worst.
One word for the victims, they cry,
one minute of silence, they lie,
‘cause they’re not remembered out of care,
not even those shed through warfare.
It’s just another way to look good,
another way to garner attention,
another way for everyone to say
“hey look, I’m the best there is”
just for helping like anyone would.
When did human decency become so misunderstood?
We all want to be remembered,
but not for the worst things we’ve done,
we all know people are hiding things
behind white lies and stardom.
We all want to be remembered
but who will remember you?
We don’t want to be forgotten
in just another shoot.
Fandom: N/A
Form: Poetry
Originally Posted: May 29th 2019
Triggers: Allusions to planned suicide.
A poem comparing walking up a staircase to recovery from depression. I’ll write a follow up analysing it for all of you guys, as well as why I wrote it, how it relates to me etc.
The staircase winds up above me,
spiralling much like my thoughts
as it ascends to darker places
and smaller spaces
in which i can slip through cracks
in decaying walls.
It is made with wood and metal,
creaking with every step I take,
barely held up by a single steel beam
but it is strong enough
that i hold no worry
as i walk up it, slowly, step by step
even if i know the destination
is not somewhere i want to be
and the journey is daunting,
it is all i need.
As I pass through darker rooms,
I eventually see light,
and I follow it until it disappears again
and I am plagued with more darkness,
pushed into corners,
attempting to get out of the suffocating area,
knowing I could just go down the stairs once more,
but I don’t,
I won’t,
for I promised mysef I wouldn’t avoid the stairs again,
for I know the journey is worth the end.
Eventually, I come to the top of the staircase,
and I see the world,
beneath me, I see where I could end it all,
that the stairs have finally taken me
to wear I wanted to be,
but my previous plans were lead astray,
for my journey up the staircase,
although terrifying and new,
has taken me to a better place.
❝BUT WAS IT WORTH IT?❞ The voice speaking was soft, almost kind, but there was still the unmistakable shake of fear that one may expect of their prey — she was the last on his list, of course. Names of every single person who had killed them, of every relative they had. After all, he saw no reason to stop at those he had long since deemed monsters, no reason not to dispose of their family members and offspring. Adults and children alike that he was sure would grow to be like those who had hurt him, who had killed everyone he loved and left him in the middle of a burning world to fend for himself.
( Was it? ) He wondered, staring at her, the knife in his hand did not fall as his grip tightened, anger obvious within his eyes. It burned much like the fire that destroyed his family, set by the girl’s father and his associates, an arson attack with an investigation that had closed long ago as they never knew who did it — never thought to ask the only survivor what he had seen, who he had seen. Of course, when the murders started, they had been suspicious, but after the initial investigation, they had stopped suspecting him.
Why would they? He was young, not even twenty years of age, with no past record and faked alibis that he’d fabricated to stay out of trouble. Edited camera footage and eye witness reports brought by stolen money from every house of those he hurt.
An irritated sigh left him as he stepped closer, not allowing her to escape the corner he’d backed her into, holding his knife to her neck. There was no shaking, no sadness, no remorse in grey orbs, simply the appearance of a small smile. ❝I’m not sure, yet. The job isn’t done after all.❞ He leaned close to her, simply observing her reaction to the words, the anger that was clearly splayed across her face — it was much like his own, vengeful and cruel, cold even. Perhaps they were more alike than she thought, that perhaps she was the same type of saviour as him. The fire of a thousand frozen stars within them.
( You’re like me, you see? ) He thought, slowly moving away. ( You could be so much more... ) He did not repeat this thoughts to her as he lunged, tugging her closer by the collar and, as she struggled, bringing the knife through the back of her chest, throwing her aside as he turned, shaking his head. ( If only you were not born to a person like that man. )
❝You know, I think I can answer your question now.❞ He spoke up, loud enough for the wounded woman to hear. Words spoken with conviction, with true belief of what he said. ❝It wasn’t worth it. It was worth a lot more than that to wipe out those of your kind.❞ The monsters, demons, those who took away the lives of innocent people, undeserving of their wrath. The type of monster that he was, no matter how he tried to deny it.
It didn’t matter, in the end. There were many more cruel people he could kill — this was only the start of his goal: to purge the world of sin, of humanity itself.
Thank you for the friendships, for the good times, for the late night conversations and laughter, for the support and the encouragement. Thank you for treating me well, for putting up with me when I wasn’t the best, for giving me the opportunity to find myself and to love other people - to learn to love those around me.
Thank you for the bad times, for the hatred, for everything you did that helped me grow. Spreading rumours, telling my friends to stay away - even if those were unkind things, they helped me be a better person, to not stoop to the same level as those who wanted nothing more than to ruin the lives of others for the most petty reasons.
Thank you, everyone, for helping me have a great time. I hope that you learn from the way the fandom has become.
I hope you learn that toxicity breeds toxicity, that character hate to the extent shown is an unhealthy attachment, that people change and that not everyone agrees with you, that not everyone will share your opinion - and that it’s okay not to, that different opinions do not deserve ridicule of hatred. I hope you all learn that these should be our happy places, our positivity, rather than where we show people hatred if only to feel better for ourselves.
I hope, one day, that if I return: we will be happy. We will no longer show the toxicity we have.
Thank you, for the good and bad times, they were the best I’ve had.
Fandom: Boku No Hero Academia
Characters: Todoroki Shoto, Midoriya Izuku
Relationships: Todoroki Shoto/Midoriya Izuku.
Originally Posted: February 19th 2019
If he had to help, if he had to speak rather than allow his actions to soothe the other, he would do so. Perhaps it would be a difficult task, for poetry on paper was easier than the words his lips would form, but he had to do it.
It had started with one simple text message, in the end. One word. It had been one entire word that had sparked fear in Shoto. His eyes stared down at the message for a moment, almost blank if not for the worry that they held. He’d never gotten such a text from Izuku - not like this. Izuku rarely sent things like this.
[SMS ➝ Shoto] Help.
He placed his phone in his pocket as he left his dorm room, closing the door behind him. He was quick to head down the stairs, almost tripping several times as he made his way to Izuku’s room, knocking on the door quietly before letting himself in. Dual-hued orbs scanned the room until he saw the other, a sigh of relief leaving him upon realising Izuku wasn’t injured - although, it was cut short by the way his boyfriend held himself.
“What’s wrong, Izuku?” He murmured, softly, as he approached. He was careful when sitting next to him, holding out his hand for Izuku to take, if he wanted to be touched. Patiently, he kept it in midair, gently interlocking their fingers and resting their joined hands on Izuku’s lap when it was taken.
“... I couldn’t save her..” It was a quiet admission from the other, but worrying all the same. “I was- on my internship, and there was a little girl.” It reminded Shoto of something Izuku had said two years ago, when they were still first years and the other had attended an internship at the time. “She was- in the house, and it collapsed, and I couldn’t get to her-” Each pause was punctuated by a choked gasp, a strangled sob. While he’d seen Izuku cry, it had never been like this.
Never like this.
“Izuku…” His own voice was barely a whisper, his hand releasing the other’s. Gently, he wrapped his arms around him, tugging him close. Words would not help, in this moment, Shoto knew. Words were Izuku’s, crafted with reckless abandon and careless thought, impactful and strong, determined to break down walls of ice and fire and sadness - to inspire hope, to inspire the world. Words belonged to Izuku, they were his power.
Words did not belong to Shoto, nor did emotions. Perhaps they once did. Perhaps they never had. Actions were Shoto’s domain, feather light touches and soft kisses beneath a blanket of stars, feeding each other cake while sprawled out on a picnic blanket in the middle of a meadow. Flowers handed with the lingering of fingers, the brushing of hands, chocolate boxes and macarons left on Izuku’s desk as thanks for doing something - just existing, most days, was enough to inspire those gifts. Whenever he was hurt, Shoto was there to care for him.
It would remain that way, he hoped. When they became heroes, they would still be this way, still be close, still be in love. He wasn’t sure if he could ever fall out of love, not when it came to Izuku. He never wanted to mess up so badly he’d lose Izuku.
Not the love of his life, the one who had saved him. His Izuku. His hero - heart, soul, life, love. Everything Shoto had ever wanted as a child culminated into one spectacular person he’d been fortunate enough to meet, to stay by. No, he didn’t think he ever wanted to lose Midoriya Izuku. If he had to help, if he had to speak rather than allow his actions to soothe the other, he would do so. Perhaps it would be a difficult task, for poetry on paper was easier than the words his lips would form, but he had to do it.
For Izuku, he’d do anything at all.
“It wasn’t your fault.” He murmured after a moment of thinking, attempting to figure out what exactly he should say. Slender fingers resting in the other’s hair, combing through curly locks of vibrant green and darkest black - like a forest in the twilight, lit only by the moonlight. Ethereal, transient - all the things Shoto wanted to see, but could never truly commit to memory. One day, perhaps, he would take Izuku to woodland, to sit and gaze upon constellations beneath the shade of leafy trees.
One day, they would dream of moments like this, of time spent in Izuku’s room. Whether sprawled on the bed, resting. Whether Izuku was sat on the floor, Shoto’s head in his lap - noting down all the words he would say, everything about the world he wanted to change, all he wanted to be. There were days that Shoto would be fiddling with a guitar while Izuku murmured something about quirks, his back against the wall as he tried to write a song - he could never find words enough that expressed his love for Izuku.
Those days, he would give anything for them in moments like this. Not because he didn’t want to deal with Izuku when he was upset, but because he longed to make Izuku happy and in those times, he had been joyful and cheery.
“You can’t save everyone, Izuku, no matter how hard you try. We’re heroes, but we’re still human. We fail sometimes, but we always get back up, we always bounce back… You always bounce back. You have to. Don’t let this get to you Izuku, because you did all you can. You may feel like you could have done more, but that isn’t true.” Would these words even get through to him? Shoto knew that these things hit Izuku hard, knew that he didn’t want to watch anyone die. No one did, even less a child.
“You’re a hero, ‘zuku. You did your best. I’m sure she’d understand that, too. It’s important to think, Izuku, about these things. I doubt you needed me to tell you all of this, because you already knew, right? Don’t be sad. You promised to save people with a smile - so do that for her, smile for her, let her inspire you to be a better hero. For every person you didn’t save, you’ll save ten more.” Perhaps it was quite the accurate statistic, but it held a semblance of truth nonetheless. “We save more people than we can’t save, ‘zuku. You know that… You’re no god.”
Fandom: Boku No Hero Academia
Character Focus: Midoriya Izuku
For: @quirkheiir
Originally Posted: February 14th 2019
I got you for the valentines exchange so here it is! I’ll reblog to my main, but posting it on here ^_^
There are a billion colours,
but of them all,
his has always been green.
Green like the leaves
on summer trees
and the stalks of pretty flowers,
of emerald and grass.
Vibrant, neutral,
but he is anything but those.
He, the plain.
He, the heroic.
He, the one who will succeed.
He, the brave and kind.
Who had turned people
from the darkness
into the light,
who had saved souls
and touched hearts,
who had done all he could
even if it could kill him,
even if it could end his dream.
He, the carer.
He, the lonely.
He, the troubled.
The past, of which he has left behind,
a mix of broken shapes
and broken hearts,
of jagged angles,
of hiding burns from a friend,
or was he even a friend?
The present, of which he is unsure,
where friends save him,
but he is stuck,
in a circle of finding himself
and of healing
but of looking to the future.
The present, of which he does not know
where he will end up,
but he wants to,
and he tries, so desperately,
to make a life for himself.
With friends.
With family.
With love and care.
The future, he looks to,
he knows will be bright.
Green is a vibrant colour,
natural, neutral, kind,
and for now, it may be plain,
but he will grow,
like the plants,
and he will not fade
like green bleeds from autumn leaves.
One day, he will be vibrant,
the most noticed green of all.
Fandom: Boku No Hero Academia
Relationships: Kaminari Denki x Todoroki Shoto (TodoKami)
Trigger Warnings: Character Death, Murder.
Prompt: Betrayal.
Originally Posted: February 8th 2019.
Part of @bnha-angst-week, because I promised myself I’d actually do a week in this fandom at some point.
We open our hearts
to those who have promised
to open theirs to us,
especially on winter days
where frost encircles us
and the warmth of a hand to hold
is all we have to keep.
Perhaps these are not always the best choice
and we were blinded by dreams
of to have and to hold
‘til death do us part,
and we bury our lonely lives
with an oddly heavy heart.
For what dream is reality
and what reality is a dream?
The February air was cold, his breath more of a mist as he walked towards the place he had agreed to meet Denki at. It was valentines, after all, and Shoto had planned something to do - a picnic, with an array of foods he knew Denki liked, and he hoped to end it with a kiss. Although, he wasn’t sure if he would manage to, considering his own nerves were a hindrance.
Upon his arrival, Shoto noticed that Denki had yet to arrive, despite his own lateness. A few minutes, but it was late enough, in his own opinion, and he couldn’t help but wonder if Denki had come and left - he soon enough dismissed that thought. After all, Denki would have waited for him for however long he had to;. His boyfriend was a caring person and often claimed Shoto meant the world to him, so it was a far-fetched that he wouldn’t stick around until Shoto arrived to lead him to where he’d set up the picnic.
The area he stood in wasn’t exactly terrible, at least. Trees lined the street outside the park, flowers blooming on them - plum and cherry trees, white and pink and purple. Some of the blossoms had fallen to the street, trodden beneath the feet of other students, who had left school. Beneath his feet, the grass was a vibrant green, the colour hidden beneath everything that had fallen. It was beautiful - and his heart ached, for it would be so much more wonderful if only Denki were there to see this with him.
After several minutes of waiting - which he could call closer to ten - the sound of footsteps on the pavement and a call of his name roused Shoto from his thoughts. His eyes lifted from the ground, moving to look at the person who had called for him. “Denki.” He breathed, offering a soft smile. It was the same slight grin that he always aimed at his boyfriend, the sign of happiness and appreciation for his presence.
“Happy valentines day.” Shoto murmured, reaching to take the blond’s hand, interlocking their fingers and tugging gently, turning to look at the rusted gate to the park. “I set everything up already.” He hummed, leading him into the grassy area and towards the spot he’d set up. Small flowers surrounded them, their roots dug into the soil beneath, not quite blooming but not hidden either. The first flowers of spring as the winter cold faded - even if it had yet to completely disappear.
A wicker basket, dark in colour, was sat atop a blue picnic blanket, tasselled edges making it look more frayed than new. Beside the basket, plates and bowls were stacked - two of each, one for each of them - with glasses on top and a small amount of cutlery in the bowls, kept from contact with the ground. Leaning against the basket was a pink box, a heart shape, with a white note stuck to the front of it with a piece of tape, Shoto’s swirly writing visible. Even from a distance, it was easily recognisable, at the least.
“What do you think, Denki?” He spoke, upon them reaching their destination. His hand slipped out of the other’s, fingers lingering against his palm before he sat on the edge of the blanket, obviously expecting Denki to follow suit.
“It’s wonderful, Sho. Truly wonderful.” Kaminari murmured, placing a hand in Shoto’s hair. For a moment, the familiar feeling of the other’s fingers combing through red and white strands relaxed him. However, it soon tightened into a grip, alike to the way Bakugo had throw him by his hair during the sports festival. “If only you were as good as this, though.” Such a statement was confusing, to him. Denki had always claimed Shoto made him happy, that he was better than he knew - so why was he contradicting this now? It made no sense.
“... What do you mean?” He questioned after a moment, wincing as the grip tightened. “You always said you were happy with me and that you love me, that I’m good for you.” Of course, he was quick to fall silent as the other’s free hand moved to the front of his neck and he let go of his hair, only for Shoto to be tugged into Denki’s arms. It was an embrace he usually found comfort in. However, it was nothing short of scary in this moment, eyes still reflecting his typical blankness. “Denki?” He whispered, aware his voice shook ever-so-slightly, in perfect timing with the tremble of his hands.
"Did you truly think someone could love a man with the same cruel gaze as his father held before him? You know the truth, deep down, Shoto... The only person who could love you was someone too fake to care for who you are. Even you can't love yourself - how could you expect me to?"
With every word that spilled from Denki’s lips, Shoto felt a little bit more of his heart shatter. Fragments of emotion - barely held in - surfacing, his expression crumbling from uncaring to utterly broken, eyes wide and filled with tears, lips trembling as he attempted not to cry. He had never been one for crying, after all - and he wouldn’t cry in front of Denki. Not now. Perhaps before, he would have considered allowing himself to, but no longer could the blond be trusted. He could gather that much even from such a simple interaction.
“You were my target, Sho.” The nickname was sickening to hear. It had always been a sign of affection from Denki - now, it was a reminder of what never was but had been all at once, of what he’d wanted but couldn’t truly have. A reminder of love and care, and not being left all alone. Now, it was simple a symbol of a lie. The act that he fell in love with, the person that never existed but had managed to capture his heart - and somehow, he wasn’t sure if he had been that desperate to be truly loved or if the Denki he had known was realistic enough for Shoto to never see the difference.
“I was tasked with your death, but of course, I couldn’t help but hurt you first.” The other’s lips curled into a sickening grin, and Shoto had never seen a more foreign expression on his lover’s face. “After all, Sho, you were so lonely. Manipulating you… It was always so easy.” There was nothing after that, only static, his screams silenced by a hand over his mouth - and electricity flooded through his body, until darkness took its hold.
Until everything was gone and dead, just like the love they had shared.
He awoke to darkness and arms around him, a choked sob stuck in his throat, hands trembling. Fingers moved to grab the arms, nails digging in. An attempt to get away, to pry the other off - or perhaps, to keep him close. He wasn’t sure which, anymore. Everything was different, odd, dreamlike even. “Denki?” He whimpered out, internally cursing himself for sounding so weak, so pathetic, for not even being able to speak properly.
It seemed to work, at least, for the other’s hold on him tightened - and maybe he tensed when the other touched his hair, maybe he panicked when he was pulled closer. “What’s wrong, Sho?” The weary voice was too kind to be an act, considering the other had only just woken up. “It wasn’t real.” He whispered to himself, an attempt at reassurance. “I- had a dream.” He murmured, moving to look at the other’s face. “You… told me you didn’t ever love me, and then you killed me.” He closed his eyes, focusing on breathing.
“Sho..” The other’s words were quiet, hesitant. “What if it wasn’t a dream?” The gentle touch to his hair ceased, the other letting go of him. “How do you define what is real and what isn’t?” Then, he was alone, door closed softly behind the other. It was always like this. He’d try to compose himself and Denki would return with a cup of hot chocolate and would hold him until he was calm enough to sleep.
Is existence simply a nightmare,
or is there solace from our pain?
Eventually, the things we wanted
and all we had
faded into an existence
that caused us to go mad,
and as red is to blood
I am to you.
Always there, expected, the same.
So what if every nightmare we ever had
was the world we really lived in
and the good times were images
to fill the void
created by lonely minds
and hearts broken so long ago?
( what if everything we had never existed at all
and we, too, had been fake from the start )
and I’m just a failure in the shoes of success,
pretending I’ll get somewhere other than a dead end,
and I don’t speak the way you do
and I don’t understand your social cues
but I know it’s sad when you forget that
and I know you’re gonna leave and I’ll regret that.
and I know in the end
it’s hard to keep a friend
and people can’t be trusted.
and I feel the family I should love are no more than strangers, ghosts of what could have been haunting my home - and those who have disappeared are no less than spirits I may never see again. I want to wake up to happiness, to people who love me and a smile on my lips, but I know that can’t be.
and I feel like I should not feel this age in my bones, for I am young and so should not feel weathered by the world. however, my joints creak and my nerves flare, pain from every edge of the map of my body and mind - and I wonder what happened to the world to make us this way.
and I suffer through the pain, through the nightmares and flashbacks of which I can’t remember but that terrorise me all the same. and I do not cry through the worst days, simply allow the uncomfortable numbness to settle into my soul, for it is where it has belonged all this time.
and I wish for tomorrow to come, for this to all be a dream - but I know the world I think of, where I am happy, where nothing is amiss.. it will never be my reality.
and I will remain strong and live this life, for this is my own life and I could never live another - I’ll live with the misery that has enveloped me for years on end, with the way my hands shake at every moment, with the crackling of bone and the tenseness of muscles. I will survive, like I have for so many years.
and I will listen to the world around me, to birdsong and the sound of ripples in a pond - and I will remember the music that has kept me breathing, the words that gave me hope.
for music is simply a matter of the mind - and like it has, I will survive.
Point of View - Saeyoung Choi, 1st person
Characters - 707 | Luciel/Saeyoung Choi, Ray/Unknown | Saeran Choi, MC | Myeong-Eun Choe, Jumin Han
Ships - 707 x MC, Jumin x Saeran
Warnings - Character Death, Implied Suicide, Amnesia
Originally Posted: December 10th 2017
Who was this man standing in front of me?
Golden eyes that stare him down with a mixture of shock, sadness and betrayal swirling inside, replacing all the joy I had previously thought he had. No had told me he never felt like this… I wonder why they lied. Did they always do this? What was I to them? No.. I don’t have to ask the last question. I know why they lied, as my own orbs recognise those the same as my own, tears streaming down my cheeks as his thumb reaches up to brush them away. I don’t deserve this. I don’t know why he tortures himself knowing I won’t ever be the brother he needs. I can’t, not anymore. They say this is my twin, but he’s nothing like Saeran, he’s… Different, not in a way I like.
“Saeyoung-ah.” He starts to speak, and I suddenly can’t remember why he’s here when he’s so obviously not meant to be. I’m a toy, a slave, someone only for the agency to order around and people like this man don’t talk to people like me unless they want something- A hand on my shoulder disrupts the thoughts that were working me up. Soothing words from a deeper voice filled my ears. This voice… I remember this voice. It’s calming, I can’t recall who the person speaking is.
It isn’t the golden eyed man who has retreated, I know that much, because his lips are tightly shut. I don’t miss how his top lip quivers, however, as if he were about to cry. I’m not surprised. I make a lot of people cry, everyone knows that, I don’t know why he’s so familiar, I just don’t- People can’t get close to me. I can hurt him - and I want to, in that moment, because he’s pretending to be someone so precious to me. That precious person is dead. My other half left this world soon after I left to try and save him, I was told that, so why… Why do they do this?
Memory loss.
I hear the whisper of a brunette woman as she stands next to the man who looks like me. He shakes and sobs, as if unable to breathe. The voice of comfort stops, the hand leaving my shoulder as Jumin - I recognise him, even if he looks much older - walks over to the man who looks like me, wrapping his arms around him. The man who looks like me cries harder, his small frame trembling as his fists are dug into Jumin’s suit. Jumin kisses his forehead and the brunette woman looks at me, as if she expects me to say something. I don’t understand what she expects me to say.
Eventually, Jumin leads the man who looks like me out of the room, promising they’d be back tomorrow. The brunette woman leaves to. I wonder who she is to me - to them - because she looks like the saddest angel in the world.
As promised, Jumin and the brunette woman come back as soon as they can. It wasn’t the next day, it was a week later. The man who looks like me is gone and Jumin has never looked more upset in his life. I wonder why he seems so… Not Jumin-like. His voice is cold and calm as he speaks, though I know that he isn’t anything of the sort. This is Jumin Han, after all, that cold tone is only reserved for a like of emotion.
“He’s dead.”
He must be speaking about the man who looks like me. I voice my previous thoughts, questioning who the man was and why he was there. Jumin doesn’t respond. It’s as if he can’t handle it, politely excusing himself to leave - I saw the tears that dripped from his eyes, I didn’t dare ask. The angel offers me a sad smile and a softly spoken “you’ll know when you remember”, before she leaves and I’m all alone again.
I wonder why the man who looks like me is dead and how he died.
Later, they invite me to his funeral. The man who looks like me seems peaceful, simply sleeping, in the open casket. However, I know he isn’t. I’ve seen death before, I know how it is to lose someone, and this man isn’t important to me. I don’t understand why there’s emptiness seeping into me, where it comes from or the purpose of it. My eyes are trained on the face of the man who looks like me. He’s paler than usual.
If he had not been dead, I know I would have been concerned.
I notice everyone seems upset, as if this man is important to them. I wonder why that is - I didn’t know this man, so how did they all care so deeply? I look at the carving of the casket, which I know Jumin had gotten customised because a name is written in silver lettering across the side, a quote underneath it.
Saeran Choi.
Perseverance is key.
That’s when the memories flood back to me, crashing like a tidal wave. The realisation that this is all my fault bubbles up inside of me, a cry of pure agony - emotional, not physical - leaving me as I collapsed to my knees. MC - the woman, the brunette angel - was by my side in moments, holding me, comforting me. She knows me. She understands what happened. The man who likes me is dead - my little brother is dead - because I forgot him when I promised I would never leave him behind again.
I understand their sadness now. Jumin had loved Saeran, I knew that. I… There wasn’t much left after I went home, MC holding my hand, murmuring that it was okay and it wasn’t my fault. She reminded me that Saeran had been struggling for a while. Her words are little to reassure me from the truth. Saeran is dead because I forgot him. I was… His brother and I forgot him. Saeran was my missing piece, the blank space that now resided in my heart.
Fandom: Mystic Messenger
Focus: Saeran Choi
Originally Posted: 17th January 2018
The longer version of my Saeran Zine poem / the original draft. I wanted to share it too because my friends keep telling me I should. This is much longer than the final piece, which can be found here.
The first step to planting flowers
is always to dig a hole
in which the seeds will be sown
and in which the life may grow.
A flower, for that is all he is,
first began to come to life
in a hole far too shallow
for the seed to take root
and so, he remained there
in the state between living
and not quite alive, simply waiting
for the day he could grow
into a flower.
Perhaps it is the holes he digs
which become holes within him,
gaps in time appearing from
days he cannot remember and weeks
which he wishes he did not know of,
for there is no nutrient in the soil
that could ever allow a plant to grow,
and so the seed he is was not quite planted,
left on top of the soil for any to pick up –
if only so that they could either crush him
or plant him, so that he may live.
The next step to planting flowers
is to place the seed in an environment
where it can grow, not stunted and barely
able to survive, much like the seed he was had been
so long ago, in a distant memory he wishes that he
could forget more than anything.
They are the reason he begins to grow,
for one has dug the hole for him
and the other has planted the seed
of a life without misery within him.
One loves him without condition,
keeping him safe and watching over him,
while the other seems to want him to be
more like his brother – wherever he is –
and less like the person he truly is.
She wishes for a machine and
he will be that, in the end, for he
is a child, naive to the tactics
of manipulation which she so
daringly employs.
When he looks back on such days,
he curses himself for how he was
for that moment of idiocy
lead to him losing all he ever could be
other than an empty shell, a robot
which existed only to do her bidding
and his own opinions were ashes
and dust, for he had never thought
a single thing that he believed unless
she had planted it within his fragile mind.
The third step in the life of a flower
is when it finally takes root,
provided with necessary nutrients.
A flower which is not starved
may go on to do extraordinary things.
He is not one of those flowers.
These are the days of false bliss,
of praise given to his saviour,
who simply presses him to work harder.
He is forced to complete tasks without water
or food – no sleep is allowed, for such
is now a luxury to him in this lifestyle.
He has become her pawn, albeit he
does not realise, and he does not
have a life of his own.
Airhead.
Worthless.
He does not deserve to think for himself.
Burden.
Abandoned.
He does not know why
the woman who claims to care
calls him such names, almost
as if she knows what his mother
knew he was – he wonders if his
saviour believes that too, for her words
make him believe that the cruelty from his
mother was true and that he was simply an
idiot for realising late.
Yes, this is the third step,
when someone takes a flower
but, before it can grow, they place
toxicity into the mind of the flower
so that it may never bloom and grow
as much as it wished to. So that it
may never truly know the potential
it had – the height it could have reached.
The fourth part of a garden’s life
is when the stalk of a flower begins to grow,
the bud there yet not quite. The flower
begins to take form, yet it holds nothing
but hidden beauty as its form begins to change,
glimmering in the sunset which isn’t quite there
and thriving in the daytime sun.
He cannot be a flower, for he does not live
in the day, he is an agent of the night,
surviving best under the blankets of stars – or
perhaps he is a kadupul, meant to bloom
in the darkest hours. He fears that day,
for he knows as well as anyone
the kadupul does not live beyond dawn.
He meets her in this eternal night,
fearing the day he is to live – for he knows,
as does she, that the moment he begins to love
is the day he will die.
He is correct, for he dies seven days later,
another taking his place. The other is
volatile and cruel, if only to hide his wishes
to survive into the dawn. He is the pink camellia,
the flower that means so much, but feels
it means so little and takes out what it wants
as anger rather than passion.
He is the flower which does not thrive
yet keeps living anyway.
The life of the flower is growing to an end
as the next stage is the flower’s bloom.
His colours are vibrant, morphing from
the white kadupul and the pink camellia
to the lily of the valley, beautiful yet
also deadly if one does not know how
to handle it properly – he wonders if
it also applies to who he is, rather than just
the flower he loves, for it is all he wishes for.
It is all he can never give – never have –
and such knowledge pains him, but
he deserves such feelings, for he has
wanted no more than to hurt others
for the longest time.
The him that is not quite him,
the person that he was yet wasn’t.
The final step of the garden
is for it to wither in the coldness
of the winter it cannot survive.
He is not an evergreen, he knew
that the person he was would not
survive forever. They reunite,
accusations and explanations tossed around
almost as if the red carnation he has become
will die under the gaze of such a brother,
despite the fact he had faded.
The life of a flower passes from one to another
each flower a different meaning,
a different soul – he survives through multiple,
the seeds of who he wishes to be
scattered in the soil of the love
his family provides, beginning to grow
yet not quite, for his fear prevents
what the flowers could make him.
The life of a garden is no easy task
for it takes endurance and strength,
but perhaps if one can look close enough
they will find the life of a garden
is not all it seems, for the kadupul
is full of hidden self-worth, waiting
to burst free, and the pink camellia
is everything he cannot say yet
it is everything he wishes to say.
The lily of the valley has an irritant touch
and must be handled with care, but they
are sought after by many, for the promise
they bring. Each flower withers, another
beginning to grow.
The red carnation is the final flower he will be
for it is the flower he has always wanted to be.
It says everything he needs it to,
for his brother, for his lover – the friends he has.
He is an everlasting flower, he mentions to her
one day in passing, his lips curved into
the softest smiles at the adoration in his eyes.
I am a red carnation, he tells her, almost
afraid of her reaction – she doesn’t understand,
he doesn’t need her to. His brother does
not know what he means either, he doesn’t
tell them.
The red carnation is his final message to them
in the life he plans to live.
Fandom: Mystic Messenger
Focus: Saeran Choi
Version: Finished Zine Piece!
Originally Posted: 17th January 2018
I forgot to post this, but here’s my final piece for @saeranzine / Wither and Bloom. The original poem (which is much longer) has also been posted! Please check it out here. I had a lot of fun working with everyone!
There are many steps to planting flowers,
from seeds taking root and stalks growing,
to the flower’s bloom,
and its death which follows all too soon.
As a child, he was a flower.
but he had yet to grow,
for the hole he was given
had been too small
and the seed of joy had yet to be planted,
so he stayed as he was, between
being alive and living,
waiting to take root.
At one point, he falls through the hole,
leaving gaps in his memory and
the life he lived as soil crushed him
beneath reality’s cruellest tricks.
It was later in life when he could grow,
taking root in a healthy environment,
with the right nutrients to thrive,
the seed is just a distant memory now.
She wishes for an artificial flower
and he promises to be that,
for he is a naive child, oblivious to manipulation,
something he will one day despise himself for
when he looks back at all he has done.
The days of self-discovery as those of bliss,
fake praise given to him by a woman
he refers to as ‘saviour’ with high prestige.
These are the days without sleep and food,
where water isn’t necessary and
he is her pawn - only vaguely aware.
He holds a bud, but light doesn’t reach him,
so he cannot bloom - unless he is the kadupul,
an agent of the night, blooming only in darkest hours
surviving through the night, however he knows it -
the dark truth behind - for everyone knew
the kadupul did not live to see daylight.
Perhaps he is a pink camellia,
after he meets her in eternal night,
But another takes the place he held,
volatile and cruel, and he is simply
gone as the life of a flower
begins to draw to a close.
From then on, he morphs into lily of the valley -
beautiful, yet deadly if handled incorrectly.
This is him, yet not quite him, the one who
sifts through fragments of vague memories
and voices he once knew. This is the flower
he loves but cannot have, for he does
not deserve it - nor what its meaning is -
and he wonders if he is as deadly as the lily.
The garden withers in the coldness,
the flower following, for it was not an evergreen,
never there to live forever, no longer the flower he was.
He changes, another flower, same soul.
Only the deepest affection comes from his heart,
scattered on the breeze
for those he loves,
out of reach, yet not quite.
A red carnation, affection and love.
It suits him, he knows, for all he gives
is kindness and care,
because the red carnation is
the love of a garden’s life.
He was the kadupul, the pink camellia,
the lily of the valley and the red carnation
he has become, he tells her, with his lips
curved in a smile, as he speaks.
I am an everlasting flower, just for you.
