softchaoticmuse

She/Her • 20 • INFP-T • I write?¿ https://instagram.com/softchaoticmuse

[softchaoticmuse]

“So, THAT is your comfort character?”

*points at the dead fictional man with a tragic past and unresolved trauma*

[softchaoticmuse]

It passes on, like everything;

What would have I done to make it stay?

Fleeting feelings and prolonged nostalgia.

Silly fall turned out to be a bad idea.

[softchaoticmuse]

Unlovable being is searching for something it can’t name. What does it want?

Why vulnerability has to be so embarrassing? Why wanting something serves as a assurity of never getting it?

Why do I have to be so smug of my tragedies, why can’t I for once be wrong for predicting them all right?

I have lost the ability to ask for anything, I have sealed my mouth.

I wish I could make sense, was a little less complicated. It would’ve been easier if I could explain what I feel like facts, same as sun is yellow and grass green.

How I could say exactly what I mean. Be soft and not regret it after.

Has something been snatched from me? Why is there a permanent period of grief? It hides mostly but creeps in out of blue. Has stuck for so long. And I just know I don’t make sense.

Perhaps it’s time to lock myself for good, maybe it is overdue to close the only window of the tower that I have built.

[softchaoticmuse]

“In the search of warmth, you found yourself in a burning house.

And the hands that were supposed to protect you, left you at first instance to save someone else.”

[softchaoticmuse]

I should have offered as much love to you as much you could stomach.

So, you wouldn’t spill it all on my kitchen floor later on.

I shouldn’t have fed you with love to the point you got nauseous, my love was just not your appetite.

I shouldn’t have cut my limbs to provide you with it and so that you could still believe someone could love you without harming themselves first.

I should’ve kept quiet instead of painting you full of light, you’d then get hurt less whenever someone else would tell you, you aren’t right.

I shouldn’t have knocked at your door twice with a smile so that I wouldn’t expect you to still wait for me;

A third time.

[softchaoticmuse]

Mid July rolls in and the warmth drips from your honey eyes. The folds on your forehead when you’re confused and the way you scrunch your nose when you find something funny. The way bags under your long lashes testifies that you keep on trying. The way you hum when when thinking about something good and the way it is never visible that you’re hurt until I ask if you’re fine. The moles on your face : a constellation that I have memorised. Your dimples are hidden treasure that makes you look so kind, the ones that only appear when you smile, oh when you smile. Summer days melt on your fingers. Your calloused reassuring hands and soft touch, I hope you know that it’s music in my ears : your laugh.

(you’re the kind of sunshine that blooms rather than burn, you’re the sun that makes all the sunflowers turn)

[softchaoticmuse]

Forever a fictional man’s girl

[softchaoticmuse]

What a sick desire it is to show them the damage they have done. What do you want to prove? What difference would it make? you lie to yourself that they’d even care. Perhaps they would but you’re no longer capable of thinking that way, it doesn’t come off like that anymore, too much hurt has shut your system and there’s no way you’d want to see them the same way again.

But isn’t it pathetic? The want to know that you were someone who was chosen, for once.

That you’re not in vain, and it was real while it all lasted.

What peace do you want for the ones who have wronged you? Why there’s still the urge to pour yourself out in-front of them, to make them realise how utterly cruel they were to you and how clueless they are.

So much of them you think about but none in positive light but they appear your in dreams as someone you know you would’ve cherished for a long while.

[softchaoticmuse]

“I hope you never have to think of anything as much as I think of you.”

No, I’m sorry but I hope you think about me as much as I used to think about you. I hope I occupy your mind even when you’re busy, I hope I cross your mind every time you look at the moon. I hope my name is heavy on your tongue and I hope you regret not asking about my well-being. I want to you stay awake and think about what we could’ve been, I hope you regret not knowing me more. I hope you dream about me even if my face is blurry in those, I hope you’re annoyed when you wake up and realise I am no longer there for you.

And I hope you think twice before sending a text to me now because I want you to grasp the fact that this suffering isn’t pleasant, this suffering isn’t just a phase of hurting.

[softchaoticmuse]

Hey, I’m here for the vibes ( the vibes are literally staring at the ceiling while lying on my bed in complete silence together for 6 hours straight)

[softchaoticmuse]

What worth are my words when they fail to do justice to what storm or calm that resides within?

What worth are your eyes when mine hope you see through everything : the home I have built for us inside?

[softchaoticmuse]

For so long, I have kept my peace only by distancing myself from everything I have ever desired. The inherent belief that wanting something is a surety of never getting it. I’m incapable of being anything but cynical.

But, oh, do I desire love? The tender warm love. A love that melts on your fingers. A love that stays without obligation. The soft and so so sure of you kind of love. A love you’re not scared to touch. The type of love that cups your face and and smiles at you, holding eye contact. A love on whose shoulder you can put your head on and rest. A love that holds your hand just because.

A love that doesn’t disappear the moment you allow yourself to be loved.

[softchaoticmuse]

“I remember you had whispered once that purple is your favourite hue. Perhaps, that’s why you had confessed you loved my bruises too.

And should I believe, it is the reason they never really heal;

Love, isn’t that selfish of you?”

[softchaoticmuse]

I spit words before I fill your cup with my tears.

An almost decade old repressed anger, a forlorn what ifs I had spun in several starry nights with the moon as witness.

I have got the rage from my mother’s side and every other repressed emotion from my father’s.

A child with a crayon, orange of flame. I draw the sun and then tear the page.

The voices in my head speak louder than you, both of us try to shut them up. But what if you’re one of the voices too? What if I have created you in my head?

Have you picked on yet that I’m not creative until I pick myself apart? I only show you the stars when I pick myself apart.

What do I write in consolation when I treat words as the weapon of choice? And to whom should I dedicate unwritten letters, who’s worthy enough to have a portion of my misery?

I bask in winter’s sunlight but I have always had cold feet. Should I take a step back before I throw you off the cliff? Most endings come sudden, for none we really ever prepare.

[softchaoticmuse]

My misery has got teeth and melancholy is a safe space.

What do I do when I put pieces of broken mirror on their palm when they ask me for my hand?

Who is sitting beside me in silence till I find words to say, and don’t force me to voice out when they’re threatening to leave?

Whose assurance I’ll accept? Whose words am I going to believe?

I have a face easily forgotten, I have my words but none to speak.

[softchaoticmuse]

January feels like a sweet burning itch, and I find my own marks on my skin.

January, is a starry purple hued bruise and looks like comforting and equally bewitching smiles of them, the ones who haunt me in my dreams.

[softchaoticmuse]

Another winter and nobody’s sweater holes to put my hands in to :(