✦ dev / eve ✦ trying to get my spark back ✦ silly ✦ queer ✦ poet and artist ⋆.˚ִ ࣪𖤐
tags —
#handwritten — my poetry/prose etc ; #txt ; #img ; #sketch ; #myart ; #at the sea — ___ and me ; #letters from ___ ;

祝日 / Permanent Vacation
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
tumblr dot com
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Monterey Bay Aquarium
YOU ARE THE REASON

@theartofmadeline
ojovivo
Sweet Seals For You, Always
Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣

Janaina Medeiros
almost home
Mike Driver
Peter Solarz

if i look back, i am lost

Origami Around

ellievsbear
Game of Thrones Daily
we're not kids anymore.

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@waterashore
✦ dev / eve ✦ trying to get my spark back ✦ silly ✦ queer ✦ poet and artist ⋆.˚ִ ࣪𖤐
tags —
#handwritten — my poetry/prose etc ; #txt ; #img ; #sketch ; #myart ; #at the sea — ___ and me ; #letters from ___ ;
i step out of the train, its doors closing behind me. leaving me behind, the train flies off; towards its destination.
the subway is quiet, darkness lurking everywhere. there are maggots growing on vines, feeding on decaying life.
nobody can see them, except i, alone.
with my hands in my pockets, i walk forward, looking ahead.
it won't exist, if i pretend it doesn't.
so i walk. i walk, i walk.
when i reach the building, a broken elevator greets me with a cry.
i ignore it and use the stairs— oh, the never-ending stairs.
i keep climbing— the first floor, the second floor, the third floor..
and then, the fourth.
standing in front of the closed door of my apartment, i fish out the keys.
insert, turn, open.
take off my shoes, step in.
but once again, i am stepping out of the train— without my permission, the doors close behind me; and towards its destination, it flies off.
once again, i walk through the crowd.
the maggots, they crawl towards me.
the people— everyone's looking at me.
me.
me, only me.
wide eyes;
looking at me,
looking at me,
looking at me.
one fourth of the witching hour and the screeching of the dogs halts and i am still so frozen under this blanket i will wake up a little less me tomorrow. then again and again because my mind is caught helplessly in the wheels of my bicycle rolled around in the mud, apologies for getting dirt on your carpet and so on and so forth. earworms spill from the dirt and trace the folds of my brain folds shaped like the integral symbol and all i can do is trace it over and over. but the solution is nowhere in sight captain the weather screams high turbulence shall we dock over the sirens bay tonight? just til the fog lifts? ah but it never does at the sirens bay your desires won’t leave you won’t won’t won’t let you leave so make up excuses and stay shivering under the blanket and fall asleep to the orchestral dogfight at ding! the witching hour
SCRATCH
Scratch. My fingers caress the side of my head, brushing apart the hair. My scalp is smooth under my fingertips. And then: lottery. The bump and the fall, my month old scab. The gentleness forgotten, my nails dig into the space where the thickened, brown, dead skin used to be. Scratch. Oh, such are the little joys of life. Scratch. Yet, I can’t peel the skin. Scratch. With each failed tug anger bubbles in my stomach. The hydrochloric anger, it burns and makes me want to puke. Scratch. I sit with my neck titled and my arms bent awkwardly. Scratch. PLEASEGOAWAY. Scratch. Tired, I look around for a hairpin. Unable to find one I staple the stapler into nothingness and pull apart a pin. Scratch. The metal is cool on my skin. It digs in my hair. Finally, I feel the skin give away. Scratch. All that remains is to pull it out. Scratch. I tug and tug but to no avail. I feel another wave of anger. Scratch. Scratch. SCRATCH. WHYWONTITENDPLEASESTOP. My arms are sore. Scratch. My neck is sore and my arms are sore and it won’t stop. Scratch. Stopstopstoppleasesendthemailpleasestudypleasewakeup. Scratch. My back is sore and my neck is sore and my arms are sore and I CAN’T STOP IT. SCRATCH. TUG. SCRATCH. My face remains a familiar mask. The notebook is splayed on my desk. Scratch. Everything aches. Idontknowhowtostopicantidontwantto. Scratch. There is a hole where the scab used to be. Scratch. It cannot be scratched.
an attempt to put my weird feelings into thoughts. kinda cliche and anti-climactic; not proofread.
when i was fourteen, my mother had picked up a strange phrase. "it seems like your wings have started to sprout," that's what she'd say. it wasn't an observation made by a parent; the words were meant to be an insult of sorts.
i wasn't too affected by her words, so she stopped using them. after all, why would i be bothered by words which were not even true— by words whose meaning i did not understand?
now, as strange as it may sound, i feel there are wings trying to tear through my shoulder blades; constantly wriggling and squirming, trying to break free from the constraints of my skin. a rather uncomfortable sensation, it is.
and something far more uncomfortable, is the hope this sensation brings along.
it might be arrogant of me to compare myself to a holy being, but i feel like an angel being born— or reborn, perhaps.
i feel like i understand now, at least a little. the caterpillar which is confined within the walls of its chrysalis— later breaking free from it, and emerging as a beautiful and free being called a butterfly.
like that little bug, maybe i, too, might be able to break free from these walls around me. so i look forward to the freedom that comes with those wings, and my very own metamorphosis.
i still have your number in my contacts. it festers in my pockets, follows me no matter how far i stray from the russet bricks of the school we once shared. it no longer displays your profile picture; part of me misses it even as part of me is thankful. i don’t think i could stand opening my phone to see your smiling face knowing i will never be able to see it again.
i am unsure of whether the ten digits are even still your number. it doesn’t matter either way. they'll forever be burned into my memory, forever linked to your voice, forever tied to your laughter, stifled under your covers as you fought not to wake your brother when the sun hadn’t yet risen.
more days than i would like to admit, i find my thumbs hovering over the call button. if you ever need anything, anything at all, find me here, you said when you gave your number to me all those years ago. does that offer still hold true when we’re no longer the children we were, no longer children at all? when we haven’t spoken for long enough that i missed your brother’s graduation ceremony and you now laugh at jokes that are not mine? when what i need is you to tell me that you’re okay, i'm okay, we’re okay? when what i need is you, just you, your voice in my ear, your presence holding my hand as i sit in my room alone, knees drawn and back to the wall pretending i am leaning on you?
our message history is unchanged. the last text you sent me: “i love you.” did you? do you? i did; i do.
to, @kenyudotcom
the moon that reflects in your irises
is the most captivating i've ever seen.
"The moon is beautiful tonight, isn't it?"
— i try to say
but oh; you turn to look at me
and all world goes still.
muddled and grey, my soul
and yours, so miserably beautiful.
please be selfish. be rude;
inscribe, and inflict upon me
all your words, forever.
the world is mine, you say.
ours.
but i could care less, darling.
throwing aside the world, my hands
only want to cradle your heart;
hold it close to mine.
adored by many, i am.
or at least, that's what everyone says.
always wondering, i am
if you truly adore me too;
love me, the way i love you.
foolish thoughts, i know.
yet, cleansing all my worries;
from these thoughts, you never cease to pull me out.
humans— humanity
i don't consider myself a part of;
naught i care about.
my wish, to be by your side
watch you be human,
make mistakes, laugh, cry.
watch you hate, live, love;
support you, see you achieve your dreams.
the permission to be by your side, it's all i want.
to be allowed to watch you be yourself
—so strikingly, undeniably human.
only in your eyes
i can bear to look at myself.
you, my dear, a star.
in your sea of admirers, me.
the only one i wish to see;
your light, always inspiring me.
i'm no good at poetry, dear.
i merely want to be fluent for you.
to me, you are love itself
for only when i'm loving you, i can love others.
only when i'm loving you, i can love myself.
i hope you understand, darling.
you are, my one and only.
angel, remember the poem you wrote for me, like, last year i think? i wanted to write one in reply to that, but unfortunately i never got the time. i hope you like it ahaha <3