melody mars

[giallolily]

sitting pretty

melody mars shot and tattooed by deo sanni

[giallolily]

sitting pretty

melody mars shot and tattooed by deo sanni

[giallolily]

I send you a text. A test, really. Something small, harmless on the surface - a question, a link, a joke I know you’d like if you wanted to like me back. I watch your phone light up with it. I watch the message flash across your screen, my name right there, undeniable. You swipe up. You don’t even hesitate. You see it. You see me. And then you put the phone down. No reply. No glance back. You ignore me in real time, like it’s nothing. Like I’m nothing.

I sit there, trying not to react, trying to make it mean less than it does. But it’s not just the silence. It’s the way you made sure I saw it. How casual you were about it. There’s something uniquely sharp about being dismissed in front of your own eyes - like someone closing a door while you’re still standing in the doorway, mid-sentence. You didn’t even flinch. You just let the moment pass like I hadn’t tried, like I hadn’t reached for you. And now I’m stuck with this hollow pause where a response should be, the weight of everything you didn’t say pressing down on me louder than words ever could.

do not disturb - by melody mars

[giallolily]

consume

melody mars shot by maxwell

[giallolily]

I let him crawl inside me like my body was a promise he never intended to keep - just squat there, in the ruins of me, broken windows and no working plumbing. But still, somehow, he made it feel like home. He said nothing of love - only moaned my name into the hollow of my throat, pressed his hands into the softness he never cherished after, left bruises like breadcrumbs, and I followed them. Every night I laid down not because I wanted to, but because I was afraid he'd leave if I didn't. And isn't that the most desperate magic? To shapeshift into a fantasy just to delay the goodbye? I let him use me. And don't get it twisted - I knew exactly what I was doing. Knew this wasn't love, wasn't devotion, wasn't anything that would last past the cooling sweat between the sheets. But still - if I could buy time in broken heartbeats and sore thighs, I would. I did. Because it's better to be wanted for an hour than forgotten forever. Better to be devoured than left untouched. Better to be a body than to be no one at all. They don't tell you love can look like this. Like bargaining. Like trading pieces of yourself for seconds of warmth. Like saying yes with your lips when your soul is screaming no. Because sometimes survival looks like surrender. And sometimes, surrender feels like love when you're starving for it. But God - some nights, I still miss the way he touched me like I was all he ever needed. Even if he never stayed long enough to mean it. longer - by melody mars

[giallolily]

suffocating

melody mars self portrait on scanner

[giallolily]

give me a break

melody mars shot by maxwell

[giallolily]

the hands that break me, hold me - by melody mars

[giallolily]

tattered wings

melody mars shot by phairyz

[giallolily]

I don’t touch myself anymore. Not because I don’t want to, but because I can’t. My hands hesitate, linger, then fall away like they know they don’t belong here. Every inch of me feels like you. My skin is haunted. It hums with the memory of you, as if it still thinks you’re coming back. As if it’s yours to keep waiting for.

When I brush my collarbone, it’s your breath I feel. When I shift under the sheets, it’s your weight I brace for. My own warmth startles me, not because it’s unfamiliar, but because it’s too familiar — because it feels like how you used to hold me. Because it tricks me. My body tricks me. It says, they're still here. It says, this is still love.

But it’s not. It’s just me. Alone with skin that doesn’t fit right anymore. I’ve become something unrecognizable in my own mirror. Not because I’ve changed, but because everything I am has been filtered through the way you used to touch me. And now it feels dishonest to try and touch myself without you.

There’s no pleasure in it. Just the sharp, breathless awareness that even the softest graze of my own fingertips turns into a ghost story. That I can’t trace the line of my stomach without remembering the way you used to kiss it. That my thighs know your name better than they know my own.

I lie still instead. In defeat. Listening to the echo of someone I used to be, in a body I used to recognize, before it was rewritten by you. Before it stopped being mine.

haunted skin - by melody mars

[giallolily]

I think maybe this is what silence sounds like when it's trying not to cry. We've said everything, or at least everything we dared to, which is never the same thing. You look at me like you're already somewhere else, and I keep hoping you’ll say, “just kidding” and pull me back.

But you don’t.

Instead, the air between us is thick with the ghosts of things we used to be. All the small tendernesses — coffee spoons, shared laughter under cracked ceilings, your thumb brushing my cheek like it was made to do nothing else. All of it stretches out like a shadow begging for the sun to come back.

I say, “Just one more.”

And you know what I mean. Not a memory. Not a metaphor. Not some gentle goodbye like in the movies. A kiss. I want to feel your lips on mine one last time, to memorize the exact curve and softness, the heat of it, the weight of the moment as if it might collapse time and space and make everything before it real again.

Because I know tomorrow your scent will start to fade from my pillow. The echo of your laugh will go dull in my head. And I’ll forget, slowly, the exact hue of your eyes in the morning light.

But if I could just hold this one thing — the way you kiss me when you still mean it — then maybe I can survive the rest. Maybe I can carry it like a pressed flower between the pages of my grief. Maybe I won’t forget the way your mouth whispered things that language never could.

So I lean in, breath trembling, and ask, “One last kiss.”

the last kiss by melody mars

[giallolily]

tattered wings

melodymarsirl shot by phairyz

[giallolily]

masterpiece

melody mars shot and tattooed by deo sanni

[giallolily]

consume

melody mars shot by maxwell

[giallolily]

tattered wings

melodymarsirl shot by phairyz

[giallolily]

I don’t touch myself anymore. Not because I don’t want to, but because I can’t. My hands hesitate, linger, then fall away like they know they don’t belong here. Every inch of me feels like you. My skin is haunted. It hums with the memory of you, as if it still thinks you’re coming back. As if it’s yours to keep waiting for.

When I brush my collarbone, it’s your breath I feel. When I shift under the sheets, it’s your weight I brace for. My own warmth startles me, not because it’s unfamiliar, but because it’s too familiar — because it feels like how you used to hold me. Because it tricks me. My body tricks me. It says, they're still here. It says, this is still love.

But it’s not. It’s just me. Alone with skin that doesn’t fit right anymore. I’ve become something unrecognizable in my own mirror. Not because I’ve changed, but because everything I am has been filtered through the way you used to touch me. And now it feels dishonest to try and touch myself without you.

There’s no pleasure in it. Just the sharp, breathless awareness that even the softest graze of my own fingertips turns into a ghost story. That I can’t trace the line of my stomach without remembering the way you used to kiss it. That my thighs know your name better than they know my own.

I lie still instead. In defeat. Listening to the echo of someone I used to be, in a body I used to recognize, before it was rewritten by you. Before it stopped being mine.

haunted skin - by melody mars

[giallolily]

I think maybe this is what silence sounds like when it's trying not to cry. We've said everything, or at least everything we dared to, which is never the same thing. You look at me like you're already somewhere else, and I keep hoping you’ll say, “just kidding” and pull me back.

But you don’t.

Instead, the air between us is thick with the ghosts of things we used to be. All the small tendernesses — coffee spoons, shared laughter under cracked ceilings, your thumb brushing my cheek like it was made to do nothing else. All of it stretches out like a shadow begging for the sun to come back.

I say, “Just one more.”

And you know what I mean. Not a memory. Not a metaphor. Not some gentle goodbye like in the movies. A kiss. I want to feel your lips on mine one last time, to memorize the exact curve and softness, the heat of it, the weight of the moment as if it might collapse time and space and make everything before it real again.

Because I know tomorrow your scent will start to fade from my pillow. The echo of your laugh will go dull in my head. And I’ll forget, slowly, the exact hue of your eyes in the morning light.

But if I could just hold this one thing — the way you kiss me when you still mean it — then maybe I can survive the rest. Maybe I can carry it like a pressed flower between the pages of my grief. Maybe I won’t forget the way your mouth whispered things that language never could.

So I lean in, breath trembling, and ask, “One last kiss.”

the last kiss by melody mars