[carriellie]

there’s a strange sort of grief in losing passion for something you once loved, i think. the violin used to sit on my shoulder like a bird on a tree, but now it feels like a fallen log, all hollowed out, scraped clean from within. i remember how the sounds i drew out with my bow felt like something close to flying, fluid and natural like a river racing across the ground to meet the ocean. i remember how playing felt like floating on my back in the ocean, like being on your tippy-toes in a ballet class. you had to hold that feeling of lightness in your bones, forget the crushing undertow, the ache in your muscles. you had to be better. you had to be perfect. you couldn’t be less than that because that would be a waste of your parents’ money. it couldn’t be enough that it made you happy and calm and at peace with yourself. it had to be something you were meant to perform for others, a crowd watching you draw out every note with your bow from each trembling string, your hands slippery with sweat, a lonely stage, shadowed faces of strangers in the audience, white lights glaring at you from above like angry suns. why don’t you play for us, dance for us, smile a little bit more?

because it wasn’t for you. it never was. 

[m-oshun-deactivated20251105]

based on Anjelica Huston in US Vogue 1970

[nosebleedclub]

Discussion 3 / 4 / 22

1. your time here 2. new leaves 3. unexpected cruelty 4. light blue 5. father comes home

[carriellie]

1. the questionaire sits in my emails, unread: how has your time here been? 

i could do it now, i could do it later, but the answer would remain the same - like  how i have left the dishes in the sink and forgotten to wash them. the dirt that clings to the surface remains. 

the mouse hovers over the message, and i open it with a tentative click. i don’t know why i am like this, why i see the notifications for calls and texts and leave them behind like they are a ticking time bomb that will be gone the second i don’t see it. 

how has your time here been?

again, that goddamn question. i rise from my seat, and leave the laptop open on the table. the dishes have been piling up a lot faster lately, and what seemed like an anthill feels like a mountain up close. suddenly, the sharp recoil of disgust and shame strikes me like a snake - the fangs thrust deep into my bones, the poison seeping into the marrow within. how did i let things get this far? how did i let myself fall so low?

when i snap the washing gloves on, it feels like i am about to perform a gruesome dissection of myself, on all the rot i have let fester away, and the wounds that i have neglected to clean. even with the gloves on, i can feel the wet squelch of water, the slimy detergent pooling thickly over glass and clay dishware alike, the heat streaming from the tap scalding my skin. 

nothing about healing is gentle; more often than not it is scrubbing at a stubborn patch of oil on the pan or an old dirt stain on a mug that you have left in the sink for years until your fingers feel numb and you feel like crying from frustration because you have tried, and are still trying so hard to pick yourself back up, and yet your soul still feels like it will never be clean again. 

how has your time here been? 

i place the last plate in the dishwasher, and sit back down at the chair. the screen glares back, the words in bold, all their edges sharp and cruel, accusing. how has my time here been? 

frankly, it has been complete shit.

[nosebleedclub]

Disgust

[carriellie]

disgust? oh, that old, jaded friend i know well. it’s like one of those hard-boiled orange candies that you eat and leave behind in the bin, your gums sore and teeth cracked - sour without the sweetness, a contradiction of the promised sugar. something that i’ve learned growing up, nostalgia and hope are the precipice, and the turning point is disgust, before you freefall off the cliff into rage and despair that the world could be so awful, so cruel. you can’t cleanse the taste from your mouth once you’ve had disgust in all its bitter glory, a shot of a drink downed like a stab of fire lancing down your throat. you won’t be able to stop the clammy feeling it has, the way it clings to your body like an oil spill - won’t be able to stop seeing all the ways humans have fucked up and will fuck up the world. there’s no curing it though; humans are humans, we live in a society, blah blah blah, immorality is a near and painful constant of human nature. no matter what you or i do, the world will continue to turn because of atlas’s scarred hands and the relentless rage of despair and life trapped within his bruised and broken body. i wonder if he screams at night, when there is no one to hear him, no gods to mock him for being unable to bear his punishment. i wonder how many people cry themselves to sleep at night and nobody close to them will ever care to know. it disgusts me, i know, the state of life, the apathy - but i care so much that i fear it is still useless in the end. but there is nothing i can do, but to live with this feeling coiled around my heart like a snake whose poison i cannot help but swallow.

[carriellie]

i spit the memories of us out like apple seeds, cyanide sweet. 

[nosebleedclub]

Will you stop them?

[carriellie]

1. i can't:

blood crusted nails, scrabbling for purchase on the ground, trying to fight gravity, to pull myself back up out of this grave. but this fists ache with the memory of violence, and death is my debt, the final deal i cannot escape. there no magic tricks left here - the cold creeping into these bones is not a trick of the light. already this body of mine is sinking, half asleep in the soil. the ground is still wet from the rain, and if i close my eyes on the way down i can pretend that the dew-drops scattered like freckles on the grass are angels kissing my cheeks, wiping the blood and tears off my face, bidding me goodnight.

2. i won't:

the gun sits in my hand, and the metal is so cold it burns. my finger is curled around the trigger, and god, it would be so easy to pull, easier than falling asleep or throwing a stone. easy to fall into that sick gravity of rage, feel it swallow me into that dark undertow of your blood, something to warm my frozen bones-

but you are weeping on your knees, your hands held out, palms up and empty before you, and i realise that we both have nothing left to hold after this, no one else to run to -  killing you would be like a candle in a snowstorm, a faint flicker of relief before being numb again; and i lower the gun.

3. i will:

my rage sits quietly in this body of mine like blood in my mouth, something to spit in your eyes, make your vision blur as red as mine. it is a-scream-a-shout-a-cry-a-sob, anything but words, sounds with shapes turned jagged and rough like rocks by the ocean, waiting for your ship to crash and break against my shore. think of my fury rising like a warning fire, the flames claiming the skies with bloody claws and a roar. think of me as inevitable.

[carriellie]

an ode to overthinking:

another thought latches onto me like a fishing hook, drags me to the shore. fish crave the lucid blue waters of the ocean, and i understand now a little too late, curse myself for being a fool for swimming too close to land, my own gills fluttering in my neck like the wingbeat of a bird. the sand scrapes roughly against my scales, and the sun hovers over me like the promise of a falling knife, makes my skin flash and sparkle. already i can hear the buzz of crowds gathering, the spectacle of my dying body flailing and flopping about on land. a fish they would cut up and eat; a mermaid, they will watch behind the glass of an aquarium. a thing, a toy, some odd specimen to pin and poke with needle-point glares.

i can see it now: their mouths shaping muffled words, some request, a plea, mockery most likely. impatient fingers drumming a staccato beat against the glass of my cage in the aquarium - morse code, music maybe, or idle hands, moving aimlessly around. tell me something, please. tell me anything; their hands bang in angry fists and the tank shakes, their voices raised and screaming words that blur into red shadows that grip my throat like a vice - and god, it's too much, please, don't tell me anything at all, lie to me if you have to, at least look away when you do so i don't have to see how much you really hate me-

but the crowd never descends upon me; they watch me with blank faces as they stand still as stone, waiting for some dreaded thing that i cannot name. perfectly silent, their words trapped like a swarm of flies in their mouths, lips fastened shut.

a frenzy of claws and teeth is in the wings of the stage when i go home, and i find nothing left to eat when i open the kitchen cupboards, nothing but a severed mouth inside, opening up to swallow me like the rotting fruit i am.

and yet, the crowd never leaves. my mind cries encore, desperate to hear their response, and this play begins again.

[carriellie]

sometimes i forget forgiveness is a thing with too many teeth. my mouth shapes apologies that will never leave my lips. i write long essays of text, of all the ways i am broken and i didn't mean to cut you with my shards whenever i held you too close to me. backspace, backspace - these words alone are never enough. i could invent a new language to say sorry. i would do whatever you wanted, just to come back to you. i would stain these hands bloody with those who have ever hurt you. i would destroy myself entirely, for as many times you ask, so my unworthy soul would never touch yours again.

but all i send in the end is:

i love you. i'm sorry.

[carriellie]

TW: SUICIDAL THOUGHTS/IDEATION

--

god, I'm so angry at myself I could almost scream, all these poetries filling my mouth like a swarm of bees. they sting my gums raw but they bring so much honey, such sweetness that it almost numbs the pain.

after all, i should be grateful for the ability to turn my own traumas into art, right? it's good or whatever to process your emotions with a creative outlet. it is how i can breathe under the weight of everything i have - but my hands are so very heavy, and these chains chafe my wrists raw.

how long can i beautify the rot inside me for me to be able to cope? when did atlas stop telling himself that the bruises weren't constellations on his skin, splashes of watercolour but marks of suffering?

sometimes pain is pain; sometimes trauma is ugly and it howls with blood and spit, and sometimes it feels like my own hands around my neck squeezing, begging a songbird to sing with a broken neck.

sometimes, i wonder when i am ever going to be okay.

[nosebleedclub]

December Prompts

1. your year in review 2. maiden 3. comforting 4. pink 5. elk 6. levitation 7. gas mask 8. what will they do to him 9. hot chocolate 10. moray eel 11. pajamas 12. survivor  13. baby girl 14. creek 15. milk 16. intruders 17. lost sibling 18. wretched 19. cold moon 20. puppy 21. body horror 22. memorable scent 23. hard journey 24. robbery 25. christ 26. antichrist 27. biscuits and tea 28. prince 29. revelation 30. history of the forest 31. prelude

[carriellie]

1. my old planner sits on the top of my bookshelf: 2021, in all its glory of scribbled out hopes and half-lived dreams. like a soggy pie from the supermarket heated in the microwave, almost the real thing, a half-failed, nearly-there promise of a good year. 

every now and then my fingers itch to reach up and grab it, flip through the pages hoping that i find something there, some decipherable alien code that tells me that i didn’t waste a year of my life, the last of my childhood. 

but i don’t. 2021 stays covered in a blanket of dust, there to hiberate until it haunts my dreams again. it always bleeds back into the cracks of my life like remembering the marks it left on me, filling up the space where the old bloodstains are in this house of mine, over my scars and in my mind and bones and body.

i realise now that 2021 stayed that lukewarm year, from the good things that just barely tilted the scales even. i cannot call this year hell if it meant that i got to see my friends and family still find pockets of joy amid the relentless pandemic; if it meant that i was able to make so much art - even it was to cope -  that it made the rainclouds over this house of mine ebb.

so, my year in review: not complete shit, but could be better.

[carriellie]

TW: SEXUAL ASSAULT

i think i loved you out of habit and forgot. you’re like a sepia photograph, your face all grainy with memory - something that my mum would say ah! the good old days! and tell dreamlike renditions of her sun-glazed childhood the way i would recount our love story in glorious colour to spectators, and scribble out the bad parts. i could hold your hand tight and let you draw me close, but i wasn’t there at all, not really. floating into air, something that you could not touch even as you clutched me close like a child with a toy in the darkness of night. 

your palms were all sweaty, i remember that much, and we would shyly twine our legs around each other like roots in the soil, and you would tell me i love you and i would say my line, i would say it back, i would say it for as many times as it took for me to make it real, because someone like you, someone who actually wanted me, couldn’t possibly be real. 

this is what love was like i thought, everything every rom-com has ever told me. it’s supposed to be sweetness in your belly, and work at times, but worth it in the end. but you were like honey flooding my mouth - i couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. you genuinely loved me so much, and i didn’t know what to do with all this sugar staining my teeth, this sweetness rotting in my belly. 

you loved me so, so much that you didn’t even realise that i felt like nothing between your overeager hands, like a child entrusted with a new pet for the first time. 

there, pat pat, sent and received the obligatory flirty text to gf. 

there, pat, pat, sent and received the i love you a thousand and million times a day.

there, pat, pat, be fucking grateful that a sweet guy like him chose a girl like you, don’t be an ungrateful bitch, give him your first kiss when he demands it from you.

there, pat, pat...

it’s been months since we broke up, and i still feel that rotten sugar leaking through into the cracks of my lungs, making it a little hard to breathe when someone hugs me suddenly, or leans too much into my space. the hot cold flushes, my heart thumping like a rabbit fleeing some unknown predator, the lonely rage that flickers and flares back to life when i think about this, about us, when i shouldn’t, and i want to scream my fury into words, all teeth and thorns - but it is a wet rage that sticks like rain-soaked clothes to my skin, that makes me cold and numb and bitter that i was told that consent is something silently given in a relationship, like love is some sort of cynical transaction where you give me a flower and expect a kiss, give me your love and i am in debt to you with my body. 

so, no. i’ll remember, this time. i couldn’t forget what you did to me, even if i tried. i’ll remember you, and curse you like the witches of old, and i hope you burn.

[carriellie]

[carriellie]

tw: body horror 

tw: sexual assault

tw: non consensual touching**

i came here, my love, as soon as i heard. you knelt before the altar so still that i thought you were still praying. if only i had been more rebellious or bold, i could have dragged you away, gotten my sister to kiss you back to life sooner before you were unable to move beyond your place on the floor, before you became stone once more. maybe then you would still be mine, even if you had been promised to her.

i think of these things now, as i run my fingers through your soft black hair. i used to dream about digging my fingers into your head when we would kiss, in that honey-glazed future - my nails sinking past the skin. you would have melted into my touch, holding my body closer. i would peel your scalp away until you were gasping, and cradle your skull in my hands, smiling as you shuddered against me.

i would have been an attentive lover, if you had let me. i can only be patient for so long.

i pluck a lock, now - tipping my head back and let it fall, slither down my throat and curl tight around the bones of my ribcage like fingers. is this what it would have felt to be held by you, before your frozen misery? you would never have let me go, ever the dutiful knight.

i cup your face with a hand. i remember that first night when i had snuck out of the palace to see the fireworks, and had seen my sister do this to you. all the frustration turned into something soft in your gaze, like you couldn’t stop looking, so hungry you were for the sight of her. i think that was when i had started falling in love with you. i’d snuck out every night since, to watch from afar as you held each other.

and yet, your mouth remains closed to me, even in your death throes. i sigh, bending down and pressing my lips to yours. i can feel the warmth draining from your lips as i sink my fingers into your skull, pull you into me. my first kiss and i can already feel your soul flickering more faintly in my peripheries with every second that passes, like you have smudged yourself into a blur before i can claim you sharp and real and mine.

your eyes remain frozen open, staring into mine. they fill with tears that spill hotly down your cold face. oh, i understand, sweetling. you adore me as i have u, but you have always been loyal in your attentions. of course you would feel disgusted at the thought of leaving my sister, but more towards yourself for how much you want me more now than her, your god-forsaken soulmate.

you’re mine more than you are hers, more than you would like to admit.

i close my eyes, pushing my lips against yours harder. soon you’re melting into me, your tears warming your frozen lips. they part in a ragged sob - and i could almost cry, i’ve wanted you for so long, and i never knew that true love would this way. hopelessly trapped, shaking from all the things left unspoken.

don’t worry, dearest. like i said before, i understand.

i love you too.

[carriellie]

i think of you sometimes. i know, i know you’re not supposed to think about ex best friends who slam the door in your face, but it’s like stealing candy out of the jar when everyone else in the house is asleep. i roll the memory of you around my mouth tooth-rottingly sweet and your name sticks to my gums like toffee. god, i wish you could be easy to forget like that. even toffee melts away into nothing after a while. your face, frozen in the sun-glazed amber of my nostalgia; your voice syrupy and thick with love, i’d hoped was for me. 

i think i loved you, but i don’t remember you properly anymore. your ghost sits on my tongue like sugar melting, edges blurring into softness. is this what decay feels like - finding candied fragments between my teeth, little pieces of you everywhere? i try to romanticise it far too often with my tongue probing my teeth seeking minerals or gold; there found it! i found the piece that lets me love you more! see! you weren’t a bad person, i just wasn’t looking properly. i think i may be going mad, wondering if i missed you at all. i think i should go to bed now; the dentist said i forgot to brush my teeth.

[carriellie]

sometimes the only way to endure the cliche i’ve become has been laughing at my own heartache. look, the teenage girl writing angsty poetry; look, her heartbreak spilling like fresh blood on the page. here are my wants and thoughts and dreams, as lurid as they are in their ecstatic heights and as demeaning in their pathetic lows. here is my heart.

but i don’t think i regret it. 

i resented this body, this mind that my soul is trapped with - governed by a heart that falls a little bit and a little too much in love with everything. everything is too much screaming static: please teach me to love these thorns gently without pricking myself again and again; please teach me to love the world in any other way than this, i had begged.

but i would rather fall in love with life than hate living in it again. yes, it may be survival, finding reasons to live by finding beauty in everything; yes, it may be dumb and silly and sentimental - screw it all to hell anyway. the world is already a broken place, so i might as well learn to love what i do have as fiercely as i can. 

[carriellie]

from across the room, i can see u smiling at something your friend says. somewhere, the roots of my heart darken and tangle into knots. you’re laughing, and god, i wish it were me there, being the reason for your laugh. but my mouth closes around all of these unspoken words - they tremble in the shivering silence that swallows me. they are too quiet to give voice to this molten thing inside my soul, that aches and seethes under my skin, too terrible to name as want.

somewhere, the crowd of students in this room is cheering the performers on the stage. i am clapping along with everyone else, staring determinedly away from you. they sing of love sweet and pure, love like how your fingers slipped through mine, love like how your mouth pressed kisses all over my face (as if that could have ever stopped me from sinking deeper into myself, farther away from your touch), love like your arms pulling me close, trying to grab a hold of me before i drifted away.

it’s dumb, i know. i broke up with you, so i shouldn’t care. i deserve your indifferent stare, the ache of your absence. this is the price i paid for realising too late that we were always meant to be friends, and nothing more. 

but that will never stop me from missing you.

[carriellie]

sometimes, my heart aches and the grief comes rolling in like tides to sweep me off my feet and drag me away to some distant shore where the lands know no sun and living things die softly, their tears swallowed by silence.