#fraynarte

[persephoneshellhounds]

my skin has always been mine to break. it is a crime scene i can never flee, and i have to live with the fact of being both the perpetrator and the victim. i am an inconspicuous shadow melting in a rustic kitchen, waiting to escape — waiting to be found, and this anguished aching has begun to chew on my fingertips, like a bleaching agent yet, some things always leave a trace. some things always leave a trace. some things always leave a trace. my hidden scars, my manic letters, striking in their blood-red words, my hair all chopped off like diseased dahlia stems. my fingerprints, like the sins of a roman governor washed in vain. my loudest angers. my quiet hurting.

some things always leave a trace. i wish i can dissassemble my body and carefully lay myself — all detached pieces, on a dinner table, and wipe myself with a washcloth. i wish i can wipe myself and lo, i am good as new. i wish i can wipe myself spotless. i wish i can wipe myself clean.

— fray narte

[persephoneshellhounds]

i'm still building myself up on top of breaking skin. oh how easy it is to slip on this shapeless, humming loneliness until it takes the form of my skin. i'm a forsaken deity, learning to come to terms with what's left of her ruins. crumbling, i tie them together — they buckle in place like my knees: a sight too fragile to be a worldly wonder. i'm still learning to be gentle. i'm still learning to forget all the ways i have ever hurt myself. and beyond this corpse-cold bed, these corpse-cold hands — the world goes on spinning. restless as my thoughts, yet immobile as my feet. it goes on spinning — leaving, never slowing itself down for anyone.

these words come out of my tongue, in fragments. i pick them like aphids on a rose —

maybe it's the closest thing i'll get to healing.

— fray narte

[persephoneshellhounds]

all the weight of the night sits on my shoulders, like a murder of crows pecking on a graying bruise — i cave under; my entire skin — it falls apart, in grace, from the constant touch, like liquid mercury; such an anomaly, such an irony, such words mused, lying there in a trance-like state under all the weight of the night. i wish it takes with it my sorrows the second it lifts itself. yet, i remain. soon, the dawn will creep and break, eventually, from holding me up in vain.

such a pity

maybe i will break with it.

— fray narte

[persephoneshellhounds]

this is how i'll let you go:

i'll open our photo albums for the last time, touch the yellow edges where your body ends, and not get drunk on what we could have been. i will wipe the coffee stains you left in perfect circles; sometimes, i pretend that they had the color of your eyes when the sunlight hits them. i will scrub your fingerprints off my spine; it's time for them to let me go too — slower, gentler than the way you did.

i will pass by your street, and not send you a bunch of paper rings engraved with all my overused metaphors. i will not hope you'll chase after me, wearing them over the promises we've broken, and over the promises we're yet to break. i will stay up late; midnights are somehow still for missing you, but i won't be writing anything. and we both know it kills me — not writing poems about you, when loving you and losing you are the closest things i ever got to call poetry.

instead, i'll hold on tight on every word that spills out of my mouth, seal them all in a trinket box buried in some place where we let romance die. i will fall asleep next to our cemeteries, wet from the rains we made; i might wake up at 3 am and not think of calling you. and i will wake up at 7 am, when it's still raining, and i will watch the early morning thunderstorms, and i won't wish you're back with it. i will sit there, free from the damp coffee stains and from the traces of your kiss. my tailbone will no longer recall the intricacy found in your fingerprints, and my eyes — they will have forgotten if yours were cobalt or turquoise or electric blue, 'cause darling, maybe it's too late to make you love me again, but it's not too late love myself.

— fray narte, "today is the day i learn to let you go"

[persephoneshellhounds]

13 Reasons Why I Gotta Stop Loving You (OKAY, I JUST FOUND THIS IN MY OLD ACCOUNT)

1. Compatibility. Maybe we're the most uncompatible things to ever exist. My presence in your life would make galaxies explode, and yours in mine would remind people of the sins of Judas Iscariot. 2. Bringing the best out of each other. Maybe we're better off with without each other, for you are the poison in my mind, and I am the toxic in your heart, and maybe  — just maybe, we're so much more when separated. 3. Proximity. That's something we always sucked at. A light touch of your fingertips would have melted my heart, and my lips against your neck would have set you on fire. And maybe love's not meant to be like that. 4. Similarity. We're so unlike in so many ways. I look at you when I sing, and you look at her when you do. I say your name like a prayer, and you say mine like a curse. They say that opposites attract, but maybe they don't know what it's like to be you and I. 5. Time. Time never ticked for us. You stare at the horizon during the sunrise, and I do during the sunsets. Maybe you loved me a little too early, and I reciprocated a little too late. Sucks, right? 6. Commitment. Since our so-called romance sucked, we needed back-up plans right? You needed someone else you could have fun with, and I needed someone else to make me feel safe. It all goes back to our compatibility issues 7. Passion. We doused our fiery passion with ice, and lost it before we lost each other. We stopped trying. You stopped apologizing, and I stopped reaching out. We stopped fighting for each other, and started giving up. 8. Intimacy. This is one of your fortes  — being intimate. But tell me, with how many girls are you like this? How does it feel when you hold her hand when you know that I trust you? And did I ever pop your mind when she leaned in for a kiss? Bet not. 9. Communication. We shouted and yelled, and that's when we stopped hearing each other's heartbeat. We talked with small talks and we hushed with awkward silences. And this, this pulled us away from each other, and pushed you towards her. 10. Absence. Contrary to their saying that it makes the hearts grow fonder, it only made ours forget. Do you remember what we liked about each other, why we fell in love, where we first talked, when we first held hands, how we slowly fell out, and who was the reason for it? Bet you did not. But I did. Even in your absence, I did. 11. Beliefs. Remember when we both vowed to stay? I believed you, and you believed me. The only difference is that I tried my hardest not to break it, and you did the easiest thing. You broke your vows, and you broke me. 12. Fidelity. You were every girl's Brad Pitt  — a desirable, but cheating bastard. And the 13th's reason about this. 13. You and her. No more elaboration on this. We both know why.

— Fray

[persephoneshellhounds]

This is the Cinderella story where Cinderella wanted to go home before midnight. This is the story where Cinderella didn't want to stay with the prince. This is the story where she said no.

This is the story where she tried to run down the stairs, away from him, leaving behind her soiled sneakers but not going back for it for fear of her safety. This is the story where he had cornered her before the closed gates, where he seduced her not to leave, where he told her to stay for the night in his sick, princely voice. This is where she shuddered, keeping the distance as he inched closer towards her. This is where he had her pinned against one of the castle's foundations, caressed her back and her hair, and planted forced kisses on her closed, stubborn lips, and this is where he marks her with a wound. This is where he silenced her words with his mouth and his hands.

This is the story where she begged him not to, where she implored to him to let her go. This is where she spoke of her stepmother and stepsisters, about the dishes to be washed, and the cats to be bathed, and the floors to be mopped, and the chores to be done. This is where they mattered, and this is where he does not heed her pleas.

This is where he trailed dirty kisses down her neck, fighting the hands that fight him back. This is where he slammed his tongue down her throat to stop her from screaming for the grand duke's help. As if they would, he's the prince after all. This is where he moved his hands to her clothed bosom, to the waistlines of her gown, to below it. This is where she tries to escape them to no avail. This is where she said no, no, no, goddammit, no.

This is where she tried to push him away, to avoid his cigarette-and-rum-flavored lips, to get away from his fucking royal touch. This is where she talked him out of it, where she spoke of all the other princesses he'll bed, of all the other kingdoms he'll conquer, of all the other treasures he'll get. But please, not her. Please, just not her. And this is where he said "in the name of the king". This is where he ripped her gloves and undid her hair. This is where he hiked her gown way back to her thighs This is where his nails marked her back, and his mouth marked her neck, where he took kisses not his for the taking, where he started owning what's not his to own. And this is where she fought him most, but this is also where his strength overpowered hers, til she couldn't fight anymore.

This is where Cinderella said no. This is where she wasn't able to thank her fairy godmother. This is where she remained in the palace, five hours after the clock struck 12, thinking of climbing the palace's towers, and throwing herself on the ground. This is where she wasn't able to go home, wasn't able to feed Gus and Jaq. This is where a carriage did not come the next day. This is where she didn't become a princess, but a statistic. This is where it stopped being a fairytale.

— Fray Narte, “This is where Cinderella said no.”

[persephoneshellhounds]

Choking on lemons life has thrown.

[persephoneshellhounds]

You sit there on the floor of your room, leaning on your bed and stifling your sobs, asking why it has to be you. Why does it have to be you who gets to be tainted and yet empty at such a young age? Why does life feel so entitled to fence you out of happiness? Why can't just life stop fucking you up for once, and let you feel happy without fearing that it would slip out of your hands?

But sadly, life doesn't care enough to hand us the reasons. Life doesn't care about what we want. And we deal with it. We deal with it, pathetically, self-destructively, silently, slowly, recklessly, effectively, proactively, in the dark, with self-love, with friends, alone. We deal with it, in ways we know how. And aren’t we brave for that?

— Fray Narte