sevyyi

❀ “ 你是一朵小红花 ” ❀ a little rant page for myself 19 my acc is quite negative

[sevyyi]

good things are coming to you, i promise

a reminder to you, to me, and to anyone who reads this.

thank you, you don’t know how much this means to me 🩷

[sevyyi]

yellow

a forest laid a trail between the days of salty sea foam air and fruity popsicles, and the days of unforgiving winds and precise icicles.

whether it were stringy bikini tops or thick knitted jumpers, each of us linked by a yellow thread. bound by loyalty, we followed one another, like ducklings to its mother.

when caught amidst coy smiles and squinted eyes, we stifle our laughs, the rich taste of sweet contentment on the tips of our tongues.

our giggles drip like honey, bright and long lasting.

whether it were the ground softening rain or the scorching sun, we huddled under maple trees who brought us before eachother, clutching the skein of our bonds to our chests.

dragging our feet across clutters of sun-drop leaves, our guides lead us to the inevitable. there lay five lone tracks, split by tufts of grass and rotten barks of pine.

and the fog veils whether they ever, intertwine.

[sevyyi]

love serves as a distraction from the darkness of humanity. once our source of happiness is ripped away and we are faced with inevitable grief, our eyes are peeled to the full spectrum of humanity’s capability. it forces us to face the harshness our love had once softened.

love is warm, and joyful memories always seem to be a blur. its vermillion flame can be diminished with a soft blow, it is unstable, and we are constantly searching for something—someone— to feed the fire in our hearts. we desire so much affection our palms are charred and our lungs begin to burn. tedious, you could say, it is thoughtless to ignite light on a damp log. but what else should you do when given matches when the world won’t stop crying?

grief makes its presence known, and god is it intimidating. it seeps in slowly, and does not burst into a fury of fireworks like love does. it sharpens our vision in the unlit room, and guides our retinas to the shy glow of light that peeks through unpleasant floral curtains. the dim gleam shines blue. to drawl the fabric away reveals a sky at dusk, and a window facing newfound visionaries to reignite the spark that was once diminished.

the gift of love can be easily smothered, painfully so. however grief never fails to guide us towards another unlit matchstick.

[reader-twisted]

“It was an act of self-preservation — however misguided it was”.

[feral-ballad]

Joy Sullivan, from Instructions for Traveling West: Poems; “Instructions for Traveling West”

[strawberrystepmom]

nobody’s going to hate or think differently about you bc you made a mistake is such a simple thing to hear that we all know but sometimes you hear it and feel it in your soul

[two-bees-poetry]

[sevyyi]

loves me not

a simple want to pick a flower, yet hesitance remains between each finger, intertwined like a crown of daisies. it’s sticky nectar clings to me along with detest,

for desiring.

my left holds a vine of insecurity, thick and heavy, entwined around the fourth and alongside the finger of promises. i swore to never utter the words ‘i do’. though, fated suffering is not easy to subdue.

should i, depict and debrief each petals affections towards me? if the flower loves me?

or loves me not.

the mindless greed, for such a selfish need, as the petals and leaves will only wither and corrupt, under my touch.

yet i still pluck each petal, questioning if the flower loves me, or loves me not.

when left with nothing but a stem and pile of defaced beauty, i realise too late that i had murdered over my need of security.

[kosmogrl]

the scary part about getting better is that there's this constant fear that things will go back to what they once were

[anditslove]

[luckytaxi]

nao-chan the woman that you are

[sevyyi]

a petal for every year

it was the day of my birth it bloomed, stretching its hundred faces wide and proud, till even i could only stare in envy.

mama always said i had a curious nose. a good one too.

it housed a vivid odour, one that brings clarity with each whiff, drizzled with the works of a honeybee.

to stuff your nose between its petals fulfils your childhood dream, of touching the tufts of cotton floating above.

yet with each passing year, i begin to hide my nose to diffuse its pungent aroma, and to admire each face meant to be pricked by its thorns.

how long must i grasp its cunning stem? each silk front only masks its deceitful glare underneath.

a celebratory ritual, for yet another petal, that has fallen from the lone centifolia rose.

the symbolism of a century. a petal, for every year.

and a measly seventeen lay by its stem. yet, you were gone before the petal could still.

you were gone before the clasp of my hands and the flutter of my eyes.

you were gone, while the candle still burned.

and that is when i grasp the thorn filled stem, no matter the blood, and ignite it alongside my birthday cake.

[sevyyi]

i like writing. i get to pour out my emotions while simultaneously creating a work of my own. i like creating things, makes me feel proud and gives me purpose, like i am someone of my own. it acts as living proof that I’m not worthless, that i’m something more than the empty shell i bury within. though my muses are always dark and gritty, exposing the deepest of my secrets. it is all i’ve ever known, all i’ve ever wrote. i now wonder if i heal, will i lose my inspiration?

will i lose my love for writing, my only way of expression? am i able to give that up for my wellness, or endure my endless solemnity just to feel the tip of self love for mere moments with every paragraph i produce?

i do not know, i do not know.

[sevyyi]

pomegranates

meticulously peeled, and not a speck of white between each tear drop.

with each droplet of vulgar crimson, i can only think of Ceres and Persephone. between the stolen innocence and foolish curiosity,

a mother and daughter, a bond so destructive yet could crumble under muttered words. is this your way, of telling me that i am drifting away?

our hearts use to beat beside one another, then we held the pulses of our wrists. now, i can barely graze your fingers.

and i fear most, to be met with a rotten pomegranate, and you, somewhere i cannot reach.

i would only play a fool to think it is inevitable.

[sevyyi]

the cold is unforgiving.

still, a thousand apologies tumble, from my lips to a void, even with no soul before, or within me.

i am nothing but a shallow shell brimmed with excuses for my burden. though what goodness will they really do? and how long, will it take for my people to get sick?

i am only met with the ghost of my breath, and even they seem to abandon me too.

[sweetestsometimes]

Bitter

Each day, before the sun,

I rise from my tangle of sheets

and run against the cold wind,

or, alternatively, jump and gesture

until I can feel the soft parts of me

getting ready to come back harder.

I remove the evidence of effort

with hot water. I make myself slimy with

moisture and absorb.

Next is brushes and compacts

and powders that floats in the air and

enter my lungs. I choose the parts of

me that should shine and those

that should be flat as a stone.

Hot wind in my hair until it goes in the

appointed direction. Oil to reflect the light.

Zippers and buttons and tights to step into.

A mirror to confirm in.

Glass bottle full of what’s one hundred dollars

an ounce. Just enough to smell sweet.

But if you cut me open,

I know I’m bitter.

[sevyyi]

learn to show kindness. not to others—anyone could do that—but to yourself.

you deserve the same sympathy you save for others.

[sweetestsometimes]

Body & Mind

It starts out small: a feeling that, perhaps, your lungs have shrank slightly in size; you try for deep breaths but you find yourself limited. At the same time, a quiet current of static runs through your arms; it becomes hard to hold them still by your side, it feels like if given the chance they would float away, so you wrap them around yourself. For now, your mind has not caught up with your body (though it seems it should be the other way around) so you ask yourself: why does my body feel worried? What should I worry about? And then it’s like you’ve opened a drawer that should have been left closed. Things had the appearance of being neat but the truth is out. In the drawer, a tangled mass of cords (their corresponding parts long lost), jewelry (rusted because you didn’t take care of it), notes from old, loved, friends (who you lost touch with). I should close the drawer, you think, but you can’t, it’s too full. Whatever order you had it in before that allowed you to shut it away is now lost. You can force it shut, if you really want, but that will mean irreversible damage and to what you already hurt. You can try organizing it but that means extended time with what you try to avoid. For now, you close your eyes and breathe.