silver velvet sky

sideblog / lesbian / 21 (they/them)

[embracefuls]

If you knew that I am listening to Mitski right now, you wouldn’t be surprised. You’d even laugh and shake your head, since I’m so predictable. It seems, though, that’s all you know about me. I think you'd never thought that I’d be writing something about you.

I had thought that loving requires knowing, but I had loved you despite finding out that I don’t know you. You became a stranger, or you were always one, but I did not realize.

Misunderstandings are given. This, I understand. But to the extent where it turned us into ruins? And at some point, haven’t we resolved it? Was it too much work, just the mere thought of being with me? Am I not easy enough?

A part of me was hoping that you’d choose someone else, so that I don’t have to burden you with expectations, both mine and yours. I am always scared of not being good at something, and that includes loving you. I was already afraid of not being enough. I’d rather you choose another person right away, than be with me only to realize I am not what you want after all.

Another sick part was, is still, wishing that we could have worked out. Some nights—most nights, really—I think of you, wondering if you spend as much time thinking about me. You even appeared in my dream once, from the sheer frequency of which you occupy my mind with.

We hurt each other; that is a fact. The only difference is the timing. I have always been terrible with timings. I didn’t know how much it hurt you the first time, and you don’t know how much it’s hurting me now.

I’m greedy. Nothing is ever enough for me. I’d look at what I wrote in this and not be satisfied. But honestly, I’m not eloquent enough to do anything other than say things the way they are. All I have is my honesty.

So, I’ll be honest. You made me the happiest and saddest and angriest I’ve ever been. You were the sun to me, even just for a moment, because not long, you crashed into me and burned both us down.

We will never be the same again, and this finality pains me. I want us to be gone and stay gone from each others’ lives, but I can’t say that I’m doing better without you. Even if life ever allows me to forgive you, it’s not promised that we will be as we used to be. I can’t even wish you a good life, ever since you made mine hell.

Goodbye.

N.M.

[embracefuls]

grief that’s rooted so deep it makes you sick

do people really cease to exist? is it fair that after two generations they’re no longer remembered? when they brought so much joy and light to their loved ones in their own time... who will remember them then? when they deserve to be remembered. preserved in memories, etched in the carvings of the intricate universe.

maybe to some people remembrance is not the greatest honor, but i do think that it’s the least that they’re loved ones owe them. why is no one equal even in life and in death? even in flesh or in thoughts?

the mind isn’t built to hold all memories in. it is feeble and fickle. it is not to withstand so much grief that your own stomach reacts so strongly and thinks that the contents of it is the physical form of your misery. dispel it, mind says, as it cannot bear the weight of loss. but it’s not enough and you’d just be left not only with empty and aching stomach but also sore heart and mind and soul and then who would be appeased?

i say the mind is fickle, why, because it cannot decide if it wants to let the memory of those who passed on stay or if it wants to be calm and acknowledge that everything is not forever. i say mind is feeble because it cannot stand against the chemicals and processes it produced on its very own. the mind controls the heart but it’s no surprise heart wins out because mind is so easy to bully most of the time.

n.m.

[darshanasuresh]

i. the splash of cool water against the back of your knee. the wooden railing rough under your fingers. her laughter, nestled in your throat.  her laughter, a punch in your stomach. she’s laughing because of him, not you. you know this. a girl who loves a straight girl can only ever  stand on the sidelines. this is a lesson you have been taught  all your life. ii. the back of a movie theatre, her hand in yours. her skin is warm, and you find yourself thinking that if the sun were a person it would feel like her. she leans  her head on your shoulder and you know that she won’t ever feel the same way, but you let yourself pretend anyway. you pretend, just for that moment, that if you turned your head and kissed her she would kiss you back. iii. your pounding heart. the confession. i like girls too, you say, and you’re crying, and she’s got her arms around you, and she’s saying that this changes nothing, and she’s telling you that she’s here for you, that she’ll always be here for  you. you want to tell her more; you want to tell her how you feel like you again when she’s  around, but you hold your tongue. iv. her voice in your ear saying i love you.  your voice (disjointed, far away, quiet) saying it back. you don’t say: you love me, yes, but not the way i love you. you can’t say it. you won’t say it. when she tells you about him you laugh and listen, you smile and help her, you bite your tongue until you draw blood and say yes, he sounds wonderful. v. a girl who loves a straight girl can only ever stand on the sidelines, anyway. you know this, you do.

Darshana Suresh, standing on the sidelines (prompt: jealousy)

[nostlagiac]

The proof of life is etched deep beneath sinew and bone, blood and flesh. It’s the savage thrum of a machine that jars open the chasm between life and death, thrashing until silence falls.

You may hear it, or feel it at the edge of your fingertips as you place them on another’s chest, or put your ear to the trembling body of a little creature. It beats, a low, fast, desperate song that is proof. Beat, after beat, life. Life exists.

Then again, you feel the same tick at the centre of an old clock, or a pocket watch. Less flesh, more mechanical, but it still beats. Proof of life lays there too, beneath glass faces and turning arms. Time is alive, tick after tick after tick.

B u t   w e   k i l l e d   i t .

What blinks back at us now are led lights and lifeless numbers. A dead, silent impression of what time once was. No thrum of immortality that time once stood with. No wonder we are always running out, running late, too late. We work with times weary spirit.

- time is a ghost

[lonelyearthangel]

what does the universe mean to you?

[denmysterywoman-deactivated2017]

I’m playing back our conversations like my favorite song on repeat; stuck on those lyrics that made my heart beat, my cheeks flush with emotion, my smile- wide as the sea; The words that have left your lips And the ones written on my computer screen- Replaying them in my head I believed every word every tingle in my bones every electric shock that went through me and here I stand

Doubting it all.

And here I stand wanting to rewind to stop press pause but I can’t. Life is not like a song, your love not like the words…

So I have to move on.

[rewoven-deactivated20221201]

BECOMING THE MINOTAUR

the same labyrinth, again. my mother’s heart lies at the center of a corn maze, waiting to be found. conundrum; i want to let go of who i was a year ago, but everything continues to remind me of you. private things will always remain the way they were and imprints will stay for years. the sky will go from blue to green and still i will watch from behind glass, too afraid to press my cheek to the window and see what’s reflected there. can’t you see the things that my mirrored body has done? what’s a reflection to skin? what’s a barrier? i choke because i cannot chew. i am cruel because it is easier than trying to tell the truth.

[eaclesparaadoxa]

xxxiv.

limestone memory gradually dissolving into flowing time, passing by mercilessly.

evasive fragments washed away, nourishing the voracious ocean of oblivion.

erosion of mind;

nothing but a natural process; yet i could never cease to resist.

[lonelyearthangel]

happy valentines day loves 

[poemsforpersephone]

the crossroads have seen too many girls willing to sell their souls for a beauty that already belonged to them.

a liminal space where boundaries thin like wisps of smoke in early dawn light.

but there is beauty in this too, soft pastel colours, a quiet empty echo of laughter and then darkness, encompassing and heavy, pressing into lungs but still radiant somehow.

for now demons count souls like dollar bills held close to devil red chests, smiles curling because they think that they’ve won.

but one day those girls will see past black ringed promises bartered at an intersection of road, down to the skin that was already perfect and that quiet empty echo of a soul that had been perfect too.

hell will see. the four horsemen are nothing compared to an army of girls ready to reclaim what is theirs.

l.s. | LIMINAL SPACE © 2017 

[redportrait]

poet ask meme

a. what other poets style do you emulate the most?

b. do you write with too much imagery or too little?

c. write four poems in one day or go three weeks without writing anything?

d. do you have your poetry organized or are you more likely to write half a stanza on a one dollar bill and then spend it by accident?

e. bird imagery or ocean imagery?

f. what was the last poem that you loved?

g. do you write about people or landscapes?

h. dreams or real events?

i. who do you write for?

j. what is the worst thing about your writing? what is the best?

k. what’s the best line you’ve ever written?

l. how much do you edit a piece before you consider it complete?

m. how long does it take you to write a poem?

n. ghosts or angels?

o. god or sunlight?

p. soft or harsh?

q. safety or happiness?

r. how long have you been writing?

s. who is your favourite poet? you have to pick just one.

t. what is your favourite line of poetry?

u. would you be okay with never being well known?

v. slow or frantic?

w. what colour is your poetry?

x. who, if anyone, do you send your new poems to?

y. is your poetry light or dark?

z. write a couplet (a short poem with just two lines) about pulse points.

[maya-doolali]

wayang kulit

At the back of my leather

is a blur, of monstrous quality and aberrant endowment. A

silhouette so  teratoid, ill defined yet  theatric in its proportions.

An amorphous responsibility  fixed to warp my spine, to empty what is a puppet’s build.

This obscurity about my frame

I and it are not.

- Maya Doolali

[aikaleegrave]

things can last forever but they won’t stay alive. our love felt like pressed flowers, trapped between book pages, water seeping out molecule by molecule and staining the paper. petals going brown at the edges, crinkling as if in a fire.   and we humans are only wildfires, wreaking havoc wherever we go, tossing the scraps of a perfect life into the wind, igniting and meaning to be gentle but ripping everything apart   and love, i’m sorry for everything i tore apart.

a.s.w. (via avolitorial)

[ecstasiskunou]

So Smart

So smart, they always said, but her broken heart always made her stumble. So smart, she needed to know how that drug would change perspective. So smart, would this boy fill the void left by being defiled? So smart, gave her heart once then locked it in Pandora’s box. So smart, marry badly a few times just to learn the lessons. So smart, learn everything including how to be ignored for years. So smart, pour heart and soul into those she made to ensure love endures. So smart, she never gives all to anyone because of memories. So smart, love unreciprocated just to keep the heart broken. So smart, they always said, but her broken heart always made her stumble.

[nonbookclub]

anti book club

here’s an idea: a book club that’s not about books. this is for everyone who enjoys literature but struggles with concentration; we’ll read essays and short stories and poetry and everything in between that’s not A Book. we will read a different one each week, and afterwards we will discuss, analyse, or write creative works as a response to them. feel free to follow this project, and happy reading!

[soulreserve]

nonchalant

flowers bloom, stars twinkle, and skies they stretch, bursting, with ribbons of clouds bathed, in a kaleidoscope of colors,

fools, they are what do they know? how my heart stays taken, nonchalant to their mild seduction, I am, so deeply moved by the beauty of my love, I have, eyes only for him.

© SoulReserve 2016

[strikezilla01-deactivated202308]

Relations

She’s a slave to others’ ambition, saving the world is priority. Comes off as an independent, but gives into aged authority. A subject of the hive mind theory, damned to that inferiority. As the mother controls her actions, preying on her minority. She’s victim to her own issues, of princess glitter and gold. Pretends to hear every word, yet won’t listen to what’s told. Easily bought by gifted favors, her soul even more so sold. Maturity isn’t her strong point, when reality starts to unfold. She’s reflecting a labored life, prisoner turned institutional. Rougher due to her scars, soft from being called reusable. Wall of lies without true need, hides because it’s excusable. Poetic words of loved misery, tragic if not equally beautiful. She’s something I don’t know, far from any understanding. Figments of this imagination, to which there is no planing. I wonder if such person exists, or could be so enchanting. Who says I will be her choice, is a subject notwithstanding.