#fleuronterrobang

[fleuronterrobang]

I have never lived anywhere long enough to truly root myself, and maybe I'm too much of a coward to even try.

What is a childhood friend? My companions of a decade past have vanished to the wind, and I can't find you, and maybe that's my fault for not trying, harder, earlier.

Loss, though in the grand scale nothing, has nestled into my mere existence.

Grief becomes diluted over the course of seventeen years but I still ache, still crumble under the thousands of drops pelting my skin and sinking its way into my bones. Does just a single drop of blood not swirl in the water?

Friends of days past I promised my life to, where are you now? Teachers long gone, do you remember, the year 2013, when the grass was ever-sweet and colors vibrant?

But I dare not speak this out loud.

Selfish, selfish, I have always been selfish. Greedily taking in your joy and mirth and basking in the glory of our short shared existence. Such privilege has been afforded to me and yet I lie here and weep.

If I reached my hand out to the void, will there be anyone to reach back?

[fleuronterrobang]

There were once stickers here

ripped off, without mercy,

there were once crayon marks

painted over; off white.

There was once a nail-hole,

(Life Hack: Fill In Those Pesky Nail Holes With a Dab of White Toothpaste)

and that painting is in a box,

in a truck, going somewhere.

The scuff-marks from the dining chairs

might cost us our deposit,

but we can use a tennis ball to scrub at dinners past.

The dust that settled behind the books

are easily wiped away,

the drawer liner for the forks

peeled, folded, discarded.

The hundred-something trinkets that decorated the walls

rattle in a biscuit tin, damn screaming poltergeist,

and finally we threw away all those paper bags

saved for gifts we never gave, this house that never was.

"This was not a home," we say. "There lived no-one here."

[fleuronterrobang]

unclench the fists at your sides

and rest your heavy head

slow your fluttering heart

so your ichor may lull its rapid spill

close your eyes and blink away

the wells of dust and tears, glittering

and turn your eyes up one last time

to where the stars shine brightly tonight

and I promise

it will be over soon

it will be over soon

it will be

[fleuronterrobang]

We moved often when I was young,

never too long in one place,

so I took with me small bits of cloth,

and a patchwork began to take place.

I am an assortment of mismatched fabrics

draped over my shoulders

a colorful ghost gliding along,

through a world which seems to grow colder.

I won't let go, no, I shan't—

won't relinquish what's left of my soul.

What'll remain if I pulled it off,

this patchwork of all I know?

Embraced in the echoes of the past,

sheltered from the unknown,

I huddle in the warmth of memories,

in all that's left to show.

[fleuronterrobang]

my room, an imitation of.

My room feels like a hotel room.

Let us be honest. I am too familiar with hotel rooms. I am used to the boxes; the suitcases; the packing cubes of my most essential clothes, shirts, trousers, too much underwear, all fitting neatly into a carry-on; hotel amenities; white, straight, sheets—

—let me rephrase. My room feels like someone's room.

A shoddy imitation of one, to be fair. My room feels like someone took all of my earthly possessions and forced them into shelves and storage compartments and stuck appropriately sentimental objects up on walls and open surfaces to create a poor semblance of domesticity—

—my room feels like a movie set; here We (the author's We, you, me, the audience) will eat. here We will dress. here We will invite Our friends in and have conversations with a warm, sodium-lamp glow inside of our hearts. The camera pans over our smiling faces and the scene fades out to slow and upbeat music. End scene—

—my room feels like fake-distressed clothing sold on vintage reseller sites, "pre-worn" flannels sold for the price of textbooks at fast fashion retail stores, a heart dragged through dirt roads tied by a string to the back of a bike, hitting snags on protruding rocks—

—my room feels like an aestheticized morning routine video of some elevated being of a human, whisking matcha in a bowl at 6 AM and swirling it around with oat milk, Here is my skincare routine, Here is my outfit of the day, Here is an excellent member of society, and you would believe it, you Will believe it—

My room feels like forcing a person into existence through flat pack furniture

My room feels like lying to myself and making myself believe it

My room feels like I should have kept my clothes in the packing cubes.

-

2025.01.05

[fleuronterrobang]

three old friends

And now my friends of days gone by have been sent off to war,

their forefathers', passed on to them, alongside blood and gore,

as my once friends take up arms to bloody hands in each other,

here I stand, far, far away, watching, frozen, in horror.

Was it naive of us to dream of our futures shared together,

when ten years ago those same hands were clasped one in another?

Three old friends of yesteryear splintered off for our survival,

two, faced off for endless war,

one, witness to the slaughter.

-

2025.06.28

[fleuronterrobang]

At times I feel fuzzy around the edges, like someone had drawn me into existence from the tip of a worn whiteboard marker and onto a white sheet crinkled at the corners. Like the plumes of a feather, or the thistle seed, far less appreciated than its golden-haired compatriots, I float from place to place wherever the currents may take me. And despite knowing otherwise, I feel small, inexplicably small, as if I ought to be snuffed out by a mere droplet or a careless tread.

2024/12/19

[fleuronterrobang]

At dark I ride my silver steed,

its gallop, barely a whir, rhythmic,

from yond rounding a glow, a spirit,

fellow traveler, weathering this frigid realm.

The being nears; a star, a pulsar,

humming at is grows, swiftly, blinding,

and just as it comes, it whirls by in a flash—

—leaving me, once more, to cycle alone.

2024/12/14