Mediocre at best

✿ Just a place to put some of the bits and pieces I've written over the years ✿ Tag-friendly and all that ! ☆ Malina ☆ 23 ☆ English/Swedish/French ☆

[greelin]

demonic possession CAN be fun and sexy. God willing

[syrensaft]

tfw you open a document you haven't touched in ages and see some lines that are almost too sweet, too good (??) for you to have written them in the first place,, now i just need to actually put them in the story though </3

[syrensaft]

on love

"I want the silly kind. Call me a hopeless romantic, I want it all, the stuff from the movies, the stories I lie in bed reading in the wee hours of the morning. Sappy, fluffy, cavity inducingly sweet, the honey can drip down my arms, leaving trails of sticky residue and I would be more than happy to let it dry up in the sun, ruining even my best clothes. Eating cherries on hoods of cars, the red juice staining lips and overflowing with their ripeness. The fruit is ready to be picked, having saved all my summers to give it all up when the season hit. Longing, yearning for what could be, yet still doubting the reality of my daydreams as I’ve only heard of it through the whispers of the birds, word of mouth, tiny letters on blue screens. I know nothing of it yet I'm an expert overflowing with knowledge of the romantic kind.

It comes in waves, this want, the desire to please and to be pleased. The urge to let someone in, let them see what lies beneath the skin I’ve kept to myself all these years. I can come off as obtuse, abrasive to some, maybe even cold. Yet in the orange tinted lights of my small studio apartment I see no signs of such a thing. The stars look down on me like they do any other and I stare back in awe, wishing I'd be on some random rooftop with the girl of my dreams. Not faceless like in my mind but full of life and adoring a soft spot just for me. My personal comforter, a blanket I never need to throw in the washing machine, inevitably causing it to lose its signature scent. A hand to hold, gosh I sound like a teenager in love, call Dion I hear he’s an expert on the matter. I am simply tired of trying and never finding what it is so many tell me I deserve. What I’ve imagined and convinced myself I deserve as well. Superficial, yes. Selfish, maybe so. But aren’t we all? The countless playlists I’ve made don’t even cover it.

I want the fields of flowers, afternoons in the grass, nights pointing to the skies trying to make out the constellations I never bothered to learn but tell myself I will every other month. The quiet dates at coffee shops, the vintage stores I miss from back home, the long drives with one hand out the window, the other on my thigh. Or theirs, I’m not picky. All the sickly sweet nonsense that I despise and avoid in heterocentric movies I want for myself, preferably yesterday. I want to be a fool. Allow myself the pleasure of being dumb, just once, in the company of someone I adore, and who, indubiously, adores me back."

[syrensaft]

Sliced strawberries,

Browning bananas not yet moulding, barely forgotten, pushed aside. Soft enough to clump together in your mouth, healthy mush gushing around. 

Say they told me, 

So. but I'm still not quite sure I know what they mean. Perhaps I never will. 

Spluttering syllables, pre-rolled r’s left forgotten clogging up my throat. 

The bananas won’t go down. The clump is only growing larger with every chew, every tooth clashing against another. Not quite gritting, the clash suffocated by yellow mass. Cushioned. It’s uncomfortable, really. 

But the voices still, they are persistent, I have to give them that. Not easy to ignore, I’ve been trying to break out of my bubble. To let them in, I suppose. Let the right one in. Problem is I don’t know which one that is yet, I have a nameless waiting list of sorts. It defeats the purpose but I prefer the delusion of control than the alternative truth. It’s not real delusion if it’s intentional; it’s stupidity. Happiness is a choice, and I chose. 

The gushing is like a distant memory, yet persistent. Very much there. Ingrained. The swallows are futile. Saliva encompassing every flossed groove, dent, and nook. Swooshing the mush back and forth yet it always seems to find its way right back to where it belongs. It’s healthy. It is. 

I am doing this for me. Even they told me so. Or, so I thought. They’ve been rather lusty recently. It was white for a while but somehow morphed into an opaque brown, before rendering black. It’s not a colour, it’s vivid. I see them so clearly. Hear them, sorry. 

Like the back end of my piercing presses into my lip, embedding it within, surrounded by fleshy red walls, puffy and soft. Barely there, only visible by choice, yet so clearly there. Constantly flashing itself in the light making its presence known. 

How does one ignore something that is so clearly there, put there by choice? 

Truly I’m sorry to bother you with this, it gets incomprehensible at times. They’re a bit boisterous, that's all. They look out for me. Yes, they do. I should listen more. The mush is good. Yes. Perhaps I’ll go back to eating my strawberries. They are fresh and ripe, sliced open beautifully on chopped oak just the day before today. Yesterday. The juice stained it so wonderfully, left a mark or two, soaked the knife induced ridges too. Crept under my nails, too. Lovely, isn’t it. It made itself a home too, I’m no evictor. Silencing, swallowing, scrubbing. 

I’ll slice some more.

Would you like some?

[syrensaft]

Shitty fairy lights like dimming constellations on concrete 

ceilings. The batteries need changing but they’re shining still.

Anaemic.

Gently contrasting. Everpresent, evanescent. 

Mostly translucent, transient. 

Yet so very sparkling,

Twinkling like the real thing (if you squint hard enough).

Or perhaps

Just glimpse at the night sky;

I heard a new one appeared last night.

[julienbakerfavormp3-deactivated]

my favourite lesbian poems:

joan larkin, want

kitty tsui, breathless

donna allegra, stilled life

suniti namjoshi, i give her the rose

elizabeth bishop, insomnia

jackie kay, her

karen brodine, driving home

dorothy allison, a woman like the ocean

stacey waite, fixing my voice

becky birtha, how i became a lesbian

kristin chang, a postcolonial portrait of the girl loving a girl

deborah a. miranda, marriage proposal

janice gould, blackbirds

adrienne rich, paul becker to clara westhoff

adrienne rich, twenty-one love poems

natalie diaz, these hands, if not gods

natalie diaz, if I should come upon your house lonely in the west texas desert

natalie diaz, i watch her eat the apple

sappho 31, trans carson

sappho 16

chrystos, crooning

carol ann duffy, warming her pearls

tamai tobayashi, for lola

leah horlick, levitating

mita radhakrishnan, self-love or i love myself when i am laughing and when i am eating pussy

mary coleridge, the witch

[syrensaft]

The library’s oftentimes quiet. Papers rustling around, sighs from the left, footsteps from the right. 

Books piled high, tension even more so. 

Blueberry muffins.

That’d be nice.

[syrensaft]

Buying themselves flowers, since no one else seemed to do so. Always the same. White roses. An illusion of purity, but far from it. A scene outside the local supermarket. The motorcycle-bound twenty-something talking loudly on speaker being side-eyed by the overworked cashier, now on their lunch break which really is a french breakfast; consisting of nothing but three cigarettes and some watery coffee. A constant beeping fills the background, tires screeching. 

A casual tuesday. 

The ashy blonde finds their way out as well, joining the habitual scene as of second nature. Cookies stacked high under one arm, flowers in the other. Prickly skin and toothy grin. Wired earphones dangling in the wind, slowly but surely falling out of their left ear. It’s not like something was playing to begin with. Just part of the costume. Beaten down, taped together, connected to the inside of their front jean pocket. Phone’s dead anyway, laying on the nightstand back home. There’s a time and place for everything. 

They leave the scene as quickly as they entered it. They gain a few looks, it’s part of it, before they cross one street, then another, then another. 

Red light. Green light. Yet another. 

No one buys flowers. 

Romanticising the mundane seemingly a discarded thought left in the sink back in their shitty apartments next to the stale bread and forgotten ramen cup. 

Every street resembled the other. A maze of dirty facades and overfilled trash cans. Apparently there’s a strike going on. It’s hard to keep up, they’re on and off every other week. It’s not like anyone recycles to begin with. Especially not on this side of town. Just like the blonde likes it. They can come and go as they please, and no one questions their rather strange intake of white roses or their daily walk around the block. Some would call it a ghost-town but they forego the grandma who smokes her two and a half cigarettes on the balcony every afternoon, the lanky gym dude who blasts his seemingly dubious music around 9pm every night, the fighting couple who has angry makeup sex every other week, and the preppy little blonde who throws petals from their fourth story window on a regular basis. There’s a community between the cracks, one that thrives off silence and mutual ignorance of each other’s presence. They just are. Invisible to the scene outside, disregarded by the community. 

You don’t ask when the bags amass more flies than usual. You don’t ask when the rose petals on the street switch to red. You don’t ask when the doors start opening and closing in the wee small hours of the morning. And you certainly don’t tell when that tuft of blonde turns pink. 

If you ever find your way through the maze of side streets, remember, you didn’t see shit.

[syrensaft]

is your blog a mdni?? Just wanted to check. I liked your work. It would be a shame to not be able to read it!!!

hi! it's not mdni, at least not for now (don't think that'll change though), so you're all good !! thanks for checking in <3

[syrensaft]

Blinking faintly like the power button on my headphones

Marshall’s

Blushing in the produce section on a Thursday afternoon.

Spanish strawberries on sale

2 for 1 i might buy 3

Reciting significant words without meaning by rote barely passing but bearing a small smile nonetheless 

The ponyo plant has lost its glimmer rotten to the root 

It was like that when i got it, inherited it from a friend

She’s gone now

Not gone gone but gone as in left, moved away.

Anyway, i haven’t thrown out the plant pot yet

It even has a name tag, it’d be classified as murder

Third degree maybe

The two leaves are still green albeit fading

Maybe it got contaminated in my garden

Also known as my studio apartment 

My green fingers not the french ones it longed for.

[syrensaft]

can't say i've written much recently, my brain's been a uni-infected mush. i've slept a lot too, probably too much if i'm honest, but i think someone said you process knowledge in your sleep so technically i'm only being strategic here. gotta learn those mandarin chinese characters somehow. thin smarter not harder etc etc

i plucked my eyebrows though. (well technically i cut them, same shit). so that's something. maybe i'll force that into a poem someday as well, just for the funsies

[syrensaft]

"OC in 3" tag

Thanks for the tag @rcsthewriter <3

Tag rule; post three images that you feel represent a character.

Admittedly, my characters are more often than not nameless, but here are some pics that represent one we can call Eli for now

I'll tag @stanzasbysloan @emabatis @revenantlore & literally anyone else who sees this and feels like posting some silly images

No pressure to participate !!

*mwah*

[syrensaft]

Her skin fucking itched with it, she wanted to claw her way out. Skin herself like a snake leaving the remnants of her dead self crumpled up and forgotten, bloodied nail beds galore. One might say she was seductively pessimistic with eyes sparkling, they glitter jewel-bright, delight written all over her face.

Stare too long and you will get seasick. 

She felt almost too pure, anemic. Skin so clear it contaminated itself, over and over again. The feeling just kept coming back, like the blackheads piling up on top of your nails from forcefully squeezing your nose. The itch lingered, so ever-present despite her best attempts. The bloodshed. The red spotted shower floor tiles, she tried, she tried so badly to get rid of it but to no avail. If anything she was persistent, stubborn even. If the itch was not scratched she would not stop. She would keep trying. The same sort of trying that inevitably would end up in her, slowly yet steadily, pulling herself apart. Bit by bit. Piece by fucking piece.

[syrensaft]

The sides are stickily coagulating together, clear slimy liquid oozing around it. Healing. 

It was a house, yet not quite. Four walls meant to resemble a home of comfort and thyme, strawberries and lime. Suffocatingly sweet, dripping of exasperation. Skin on skin contact, it sticks close-by. A hug. The walls are gushy. I don't know where they end nor where I begin. Their formation is so desperately simple, so piercingly human. Swallowing you whole, safely guiding you back to where you belong. 

[ur-daily-inspiration]

[syrensaft]

Lavender laundry

Lavender and citronella growing like stalks (stocks). She yearned for such things she couldn’t name. She was greedy, and she took. Whatever came in her way she gobbled up and held close to her chest, she wanted adoration, she wanted more, but in the face of the moon, she saw nothing but the pearly gates staring back. She wasn’t a breath of fresh air, she was the smell of lavender filled cupboards and three day old laundry. The warmth one feels when walking past an apartment complex’s laundry room, its fan spewing out the toxins to the streets, reminding them of that shirt they spilled ramen soup on the other night that they never got around to properly washing. She yearned for closeness, cried for belonging, ached for appreciation, thirsted for that simple touch.

She longed for it, hungry as she was. Desire bloomed, origamied, in her chest. Cavities. It became visceral, this itch, this lust, this want. Her body felt too constricting, she wanted out, to be able to float freely, exist in these small spaces, she wanted it all and even more. And yet, the stars gave her nothing. The people passing in conversation didn’t bat an eyelash. Words rarely found her way — nor in or out. Toes curling crushed in new bought shoes, she seeked it out. All of it. She thought perhaps merely existing in other people's presence was enough, the proximity making her satisfied.

It rendered her speechless. The utter disregard of her presence. She wished for more, practically begged the sangria skies for it, but no matter her incessant pleading, she was at the end of the day met with nothing but the neighbours' cigarette smoke slowly but surely making its way towards her, invading her open window. It swirled inside, past her, clinging onto her fresh set of laundry.

[syrensaft]

<3

going all out on valentines by wiping red dyed dead ends from the shower floor tiles, and eating chopped up grapefruit whilst desperately trying to wrap my head around mandarin passive tense markers