este

brushed off margeurite.

[popsicleofdeath]

This blog 100% supports platonic soul mates

[estelinalicorice]

𝗮 𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗹𝗲 𝗴𝗿𝗲𝘆 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝗰𝗲

ring around the rosy they go

the ceramic girls with broken noses

swing on lead, burst a heart

they go where their little brain pleases

where it's light, where it's dark

a rippled frown on their face—

in this little grey place.

they clambered Mrs Puff's House

made of cards and clubs and aces

and on her porch they sat and drank

hibiscus tea and ginger biscuit

and all is fun and well, soon gone

when a gust of wind drew uninvited

and the old lady lost, her forever home

so she built a new one made of little girl's fragments

where pedestrians pass by and they stop and admire

their small-crawl deaths, a beauty displaced

never seen anywhere

just on this little grey place.

the town looks embracing and neat

𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘣𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘥

how i fit like a glove,

walk the streets with the nerve

to overtake such a place

what a dream it would be!

but the alleys i hid in, are made of monotone sweets

and the mountains i grappled falls calamitously.

i have come just to feast

now it 𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘥 me.

and the shade of grey

is washed away,

Mr. Diddy sweeps the streets

with his sweater patches

in red-stained blotches

i leave the town,

he smiles at me.

- z, 𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘰𝘱𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘢 -

artwork: At the Concert Europeén, Georges Pierre Seurat.

[estelinalicorice]

the wind blows east, along with my arm

flaying across the fields

if it ever reaches you, please pull me back.

and take me where the heart is, say home, say here.

there's a spirit underneath soil when its washed,

it lifts onto the air, long enough for the clouds to come and kiss it

you were standing in the middle of something that feels like earth

you're here before, you've danced with me

from dawn till dusk

the smell of youth's all over us—

when the downpour has filled the window sills, you were soaking

screaming, devotion looks like downpours

your mother says. “clean, holy, barely human. believing in something against them is what they often worship.”

the breeze broke my wrist, you looked over

your lips caught the salt of the ground, you bury yourself in water, pulling me.

you said home. you said here.

- z //𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘦𝘭𝘥𝘴 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘴 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶. //

[estelinalicorice]

i caught the grief on the air,

it twiddled on my thumbs—

a firefly wing carried by flight

of my mother's carelessness

she left the window open

she stained a water worn mattress

and illness creeps to her window sills

i had a hard time keeping still.

[estelinalicorice]

I. //wooden boys and cigarettes, inspired by the first track, Tokyo :D//

no lies makes it out alive

from the sighs of little wooden boys

they fall short, right under noses

of skeptics and their pessimistic wishes

that lads who scrape their knees cant rebuild themselves—

just enough, just the same

like love and hate.

So they fall back

to september autumns, running through dusk.

no two cigarettes are ever the same.

fresh youth, second-hand souls

those who wont burn for the glory

dies in its lows.

for skipping stones are not trivial for waters rivaled

and with each bit of neverland, is every dream crippled.

so looking back to the lakes now,

there are shadows i wished were never us

and bones i pray, were never dust.

So he falls back,

to grave like mattresses and swing-sets clad in rust.

there will always be a place for crows,

in the splinters of these shoulders

all hunched and burrowed,

all wretched and aching.

but if this is the only way to plunge in deep

underneath pillows of parents lying through their teeth

will i still be able to hold your hand and say

tomorrows are not how theyre drawn to be?

when over the precipice feels like home,

of starry eyed boys hidden in knights and castles.

run over the cycle they go

for blighted sunrises.

And they fall back again,

to all these love

for lifelines that dies when found.

And we fall back once more

to all this hate

for the boy i once said i owned.

- zi.

[estelinalicorice]

mono retold is a poetry project i started in 2021. as someone who have always been deeply enamoured by RM's mixtape “mono” i thought i would make an entire poetry series revolve on the spirit of each track. i loved every bit of making poetry as much as i loved every bit of Namjoon's music. looking forward for your feedback everytime! also if you're interested in mono, please do give it a listen.

mono.

RM · Album · 2018 · 7 songs.

mono.

RM · Album · 2018 · 7 songs.

[estelinalicorice]

my hands are calloused with a midas touch; a place where blades of grass never get in

tough skin and soft hair landing

besides a soft pedalled bike

where my mother's training wheels have been lying—

for long this is the place to be

rough red on flesh of ivories

where my sweater tears are left to die

legacies are laid besides my broken hearted bike.

because they call me,

young one,

never weep when things

turn to stone.

“every girl must be something”

must be filmed,

must be one-shot stars on fair woven silk.

and i go over a hundred ransacked rhythms i keep on playing

past my pulled hairpins, is there growth?

from maryjane flaws to amethyst stones.

i burn it til my skin succumbs

to where the paint bleeds on a little girl's arms

oh mother, lost over words

she never found until

they pass through these scars

like a prayer for mercy

when silver linings breaks down—tarnished.

burns breathe through fire

“every girl's got a wish”

and she calls to them,

oh she calls to them now.

the first of plenty; I never know

how poison ivy grows from my ill-bitten lungs,

careful climber, circus artisan

crawling like every whim-turned-dream i clutch from a lover's perfunctory plans.

it knows of a breath worth holding back

til it stretches far beneath these

cautious dreams

with a calmer magic, i believe.

that these hands are sculpted with a midas lust

worn down by first loves that wears fast like butterfly wings on a little girls hands at summerdusk.

this is a commissioned work for a friend, mini.

[estelinalicorice]

I was in magazines.

brushed off margeurites,

plucked stalks of sweet scent.

slipped off the cradle, fell on the dais

deer on the headlights

prey for the eyes.

peppered kisses

are salt to scraped knees

puffed and powdered, there's someone through the looking glass

some carved out fantasy, out of leather trimmed lust.

and this skin has been open for faults

and short-gazed frowns,

and apologies after another,

for matters that goes beyond four summers.

I was on television.

roughened up russian doll on dried cornflowers

crawling within, for something similar

than the child sitting in a boudoir

choked in eat-me cakes and poisoned apple pies.

Mother how far does heaven go?

away from spray-tanned marionettes in three inch heels

away from dolled up lies; tongue tied

from beauty queen wishes

that these dreams will once belong to a little girl

How far does heaven go away from you?

I was here and there,

in vegas hotels and glittered up houses

I was up and above

scatterbrained and beyond

diva in the runways, jaded and shrewd

loved in the highways, ran over muse

Its all so pretty, but its miscontrued

Mommy i look beautiful

But i dont feel so good.

- z //tainted tiaras//

artwork: The Dance Class | Edgar Degas 1873

[estelinalicorice]

“Prom queens are meant for funerals, or else they'll never be”

i have my teenage heels buried halfway on softly dug skin.

Picking apart stream lines of flowing red flesh

against the disco bathroom light.

In rosé wine and sweet carcasses

civility and recklessness,

And the halls would scream, but they'd often cry—beauty is blessed madness

just

nicotine lost

just

short lasting fire.

Speeches are done religiously,

amongst the few broken mic stands

shimmering bright with stolen jewelry

from my fathers scornful hand

and the last words drown out on drugged up howls

fired up diamonds in wonderland grounds

juvenile ears never seemed to care about

the sacred years, the filthy crowd

the foul headed thieves on my dirty crown.

creams dont ease up strawberry cuts

not my past time paper dolls, or the lavishing lust

to carve out each and every stardust

as indiscernible as my cosmic rough up.

the night smells of decay under alcohol mouth.

and my mother's prom dress would look good without,

my stitches overdone on the seams

just

lilac when fading

just

a fickled woven dream.

- zi /fifteen bound!/

photo: primadonna/ marina and the diamonds

[estelinalicorice]

wars do not make lovers.

nor look back before they leave a wooden gate that creaks

as kisses do when you breath in between—

we break it, before your head falls into the gutter

and my shoulder bones cracks at weight

by gossamer hair and school buses

that never leads us to any escape.

down goes picket fences;

they planted themselves back in the soil—

to grow is to never know

how much of my father's heartbreak

could send him home

to paint the wood fresh milk as he liked it better when the lawn's cut—

the stain runs thicker on your own blood

ive peered into smoke that swells

like the butt of his cigarette before crash

he sleeps, with chest a flowerbed

ive became too careful getting past.

never go for foot wings on the run

they burn near shooting fire

before wishes reaches a hundred centigrade, they dissipate

with the sun

radios active yet i hear frequent

scream, they glow

as they saturate

on this land's distant dream.

i wouldnt want to skin trees

to put debris on alexandrias shelf

i held onto freedom

til it parted me

way far from suburban stories that dies unspoken

with resiliency.

the nature of mad men

on clandestine

kills a flock of birds that'll never sing.

- zi | we

[achillesbeloved19]

-Sylvia Plath