#shreyasmixtape

[shreyatxt]

will i still be the same when winter comes around?

the truth is-i've never understood why apples are never green in math problems. never understood why butterflies are worshipped and moths are killed, why english teachers love boys who smell like musk and recklessness, why people only write poetry about the kind of love that never stays.

i had this thought once in january.

that maybe-if i drank enough orange juice, if the glass was empty enough, if i hurled that goddamned thing against the wall hard enough, it would shatter into something softer than me.

and maybe, just maybe, i could pick up a single shard, press it into my mother's tear duct, and tell her to blink. once. twice. thrice. so she could feel what it's like to swallow glass.

she let mould grow in the corner of kitchen sinks, she never wiped it clean. she never wiped me clean.

and if she did that is all she did.

they found faith in scripture, in train tickets, in the way i shrank into the walls.

they let me rot in the name of devotion.

i don't know if it was the three-hour sermons, or the decades of sunsets that burned my skin raw, but i have softened into something shapeless.

something that drips through their fingers like i was never meant to be held.

father said-no, he spat-that i am a sick thing.

not a sick person.

and i never argued, because people are beautiful like spring.

they bloom, and they wither, and they come back again.

but i don't.

i stay dead.

but i love people. i think

i love strangers on trains, their tired eyes and cheap cologne.

i love the way someone tucks their hair behind their ear before they speak.

i love the ones who love like it's the last thing they'll ever do.

i tell mother to close my door on her way out.

i tell her seven times.

eight.

but it never sticks.

i tell her to shut the door

so i can curl into myself and bleed quiet.

so i can press my forehead against the window

and beg the rain to take me with it.

because, the sun always comes back, but i am so tired of watching it rise.

i hate people.

i hate that they are beautiful and still do ugly things anyway.

i hate that the sun keeps setting.

i hate that it is beautiful anyway.

i hope no ever sees the world like that.

[shreyatxt]

"you scare me"

What is it about flowers that makes it so hard for me to express how much I love receiving them? What is it about emotions that makes them so difficult to describe? But he was different. He knew what I wanted without me saying a word, understood how I felt just by looking at my face—eerily, always correct.

“What can I do to make you less afraid?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper, though his gaze spoke volumes.

"Love me less,” I said without hesitation.

[shreyatxt]

perhaps she never realised just how far down in her virulent love he had drowned himself in, upon a seabed build from seashells and festering rib cages that once carried hearts imprudent and feeble enough to love knowing well enough about how badly it could hurt, yet he wished the same fate upon himself; because for him just catching her glimpse was worth all the pain in the world.

[shreyatxt]

“I have a ton to figure out, I am young; yet there’s nothing youthful about me. perhaps thats where distinction lies; you call me wayward, I call myself a paradox”

[shreyatxt]

a meditation of loneliness

You're the morning fog that looms over bogs in meadows

you're the autumn breeze that tickles my neck

you're a ghost and you haunt me

the love we had is not quiet alive anymore

a turbulent passion, a torrid affair but i still see you, vividly, in my memories you visit me in my dreams every night it seems

I hold on to you, i let you go, i tell the stars about you, i cuse your name to the wind, i use the love letters you send me as an ashtray

i put our polaroids in a photobook that i'll give to my grandkids one day

if they ever ask me what love means

i'll show them pictures of you smiling with a mischievous look in your eyes holding a heavy book in one hand and the puppy in another

pictures of me laughing while flipping you off as I flip through your photo albums

pictures of us taken in front of the mirror while we brush our teeth or going to sleep or backing cookies

there's a photo of us in front of a famous bridge somewhere, our eyes closed and lips touching, my hands caressing the back of your neck

i searched every box, every cabinet, but I could no longer find it

mysteriously it disappeared around the same time as you left

now I'm alone

i get drunk and dance by myself to your favourite songs and get high and lay in bed staring at the silhouette where you once danced with me

[shreyatxt]

"you sink yourself into the motel translation, your body pliant beneath mattress like a prayer lost in my spine, and your fingers tangle in my curls as if they are rosary beads, as if there is salvation woven between each strand. you map my shoulders down to my chest with your fingertips like you are heading south when the sun comes up, like you are tracing a path out of this world."

[shreyatxt]

"i wonder if vandalizing gravesites weren't such a crime, how much happier people would look on monday mornings. i love monday mornings."

- @shreyasmixtape

[shreyatxt]

a snow white lily with blood

spilled blood

soaks into the soil of her youth as she paints pretty white roses blood red with

scrupulous strokes. gardens of fragile florets and blood thirsty thorns bloom,

brutally bewitching beneath the strangled sun.

she paints

until the brush falls from her fingertips. blood splatters and spills like ink on a

page and through the mess and the madness she doesn't notice the marzipan

moon creeping in or the teeth of nightshade corrupting her gardens with

its venom - a violent vagrant seeking sanctuary from the cold corpse of midnight.

the final white roses are plucked from the earth, the petals fall like feathers and she

holds white hot heaven in her blistered palms. innocence is stolen with the

sun, tainted and painted until the night runs red with bitter ruination, a

flightless carcass and a desperate lover. scarlet seeps and stains, nothing pure can stay.

the night may listen but deadly nightshade doesn't forgive. it courses through her

veins, dark and divine. the cards shuffle and fall to the floor, a queen

of spades or a queen of hearts. ringlets of honey rot and promises are

abandoned. the girl is gone, ruin becomes her and a crown of thorns winds

around her battlefield mind.

her majesty's

mesmerising madness could never be mirrored. she's at war with winter

and her roses are ruined - bloody, beaten and beheaded at her feet. a soul

survivor sits, fragile and fair atop rivers of blood;

a snow white lily.