#gyvnsgrps

[gyvnsgrps]

— a petal’s afterlife

press me between your pages, let me wither where the ink breathes and the paper ages. let my veins flatten against forgotten words, so that even silence carries the weight of me. i do not ask to be remembered in the sunlight, only in the shadows where your thumb lingers too long on a sentence that reminds you of something you cannot name.

i want to be the fragile thing you stumble upon years later, brittle and almost dust, yet still holding a trace of color that time could not wash away. when the book falls open and the air tastes faintly of me, you will not know whether to smile or to grieve.

because what is love, if not the art of leaving behind fragments, petals that crumble, words that ache, the ghost of a touch pressed into paper.

and when i am nothing but a stain in the crease, a soft bruise on the story, may you finally understand: i was never asking to be whole. i was only asking to remain, quietly, in the places you could not bear to forget.

— ishi

[gyvnsgrps]

hi, i’m ishi! this is my first post here.

i’ve been a writer for as long as i’ve known how to listen. maybe you’ll find something that feels like you in what i leave behind.

if you do, take a peek at my page! i’ll be posting more poetry + prose soon 🤍

[gyvnsgrps]

— a shadow of girlhood

[gyvnsgrps]

people like to say the world is cruel, that people are cold and selfish, but i don’t think that’s true. cruelty is loud, it takes up space, but kindness has always been there, quiet and unassuming, easy to miss if you are not looking. it is the teenager who pauses their music to help an old man cross the street, the stranger who taps your shoulder to tell you your bag is unzipped so nothing falls out. it is the friend who stays awake with you even though they have to wake up early, just because they don’t want you to sit in your sadness alone.

humanity lives in these unspoken gestures. in the way someone holds open a door even when they are in a hurry. in the way a child offers you half their snack with no hesitation. in the way a neighbor you barely know knocks just to ask if you made it home safe in the storm.

we are taught to measure humanity by the grand, the tragic, the unforgivable. but maybe it is better measured in the small ways we carry each other, without recognition, without reward. and maybe that is what makes it real, this quiet insistence across centuries and faces and fleeting moments, that we are not meant to survive alone.

— ishi

[gyvnsgrps]

— a bouquet of everything i never said

i wonder if silence still counts as a feeling. if the ache of what was never said is its own kind of love.