Mysterious Night

But I sleep in room that shudders me awake

As for pink, it was for the girls, and black was for the night.

TW: something I drew

It's unreal not to hurt these days, even after the facts. My heart screams like a wildfire, burning away everything at once. The voice in my head cannot be put out even with water, not tonight as I lie awake. What the day cannot always reveal to me, the night does. You are not here beside me, and I am alone, wondering what to make out of a mess like myself. And I cannot help but cry into a sleep.

This summer, I am melting into a thousand fragments as I think of you and everything I love about you. My identity is erased of its senses; I have no idea who I am without you. I then return to writing, sounding as if I were seventeen or eighteen again. The hue of my skin turns blue-ish, and the facial expressions revert to those of the girl whose features have remained burned into my memory; I find myself spinning in a vicious cycle—like a giant Ferris wheel impossible to break. I am melting and draining away, much like the wax of a red candle lit by my own heart; yet I see how your candle gets extinguished by an icy chill, like a harsh winter night.

What do you all think of the little setup I have going on for me tonight?

Who am I really...a piece of meat. Another neatly wrapped package out on the deli section for your liking? Because that's what I have been told, seeing things as they were through the gaze of a young girl, and now as a woman with more experience. That I was meant to be sold and branded eventually if I took very good care, grooming myself, playing perfectly and beautifully, yet smart, and of course, marry off to someone rich to provide the essentials, like an expensive purse and good perfume. Then all the other women would finally respect me and even men, especially if I ranked higher than them within capitalism in our society. "Be smart, be hot but decent, and always get good grades so that it will soon pay off". So that means stop being so much in your head and get shit done, fatass. Because why not? I already feel like scum. And stop telling me to stop being mean to myself while at the same time mindlessly sabotaging me because you too take part in this very world. I can't stop being fucking tired, I am sorry.

“Just a Jestress”

“Lost of identity”

But am I disgusting? Truly, how disgusting am I? I am, was, truly disgusting, for eating rectangular pieces of cake, ignorant I was in that moment, for the impression of its taste, yearning to touch my tongue and fall down my throat, sticking inside my head. A sweetness of comfort unnegotiable here. Creamy, crammed, sugary treat, whipped cream, frosting, neon red jelly letters carved to it's life-less body, were calling to me for the same reason why I hate it. It lands below my belly, melting down like a disgusting sea creature. Oh, truly, oh God, how disgusting I am. But I cannot stop for the same reasons I do what I do. Without knowing why, I deeply despise my body, weight, and nutrition labels attached to sons of bitches, so it ends with Cake as a mockery of my sanity. Cake, so sweet to the mind and a broken heart, until it sabotages you through day and night. Of how disgusting you are. The jester, unlike Cupid, does not love me here.

inspo: "The eyes are the window to the soul."

I want to miss this little room someday and not hate it as much as I do today. It was the room where my adolescence came and left. A room cast by spells, and a room furnished with flowers in a vase that screamed back at you or gave you a sense of joy. And a room with four lonely corners, vigorously pondered at, has now left a scar—what did I ponder? I pondered, wondering of my self leaving my little room, growing as tall as Jack’s magical beanstalk...or something. Reaching point B from point A, eventually.  All while the world grew. Doors open, lights awaken after being dimmed for so long. I stood stagnated until I detached myself from the walls that sealed my identity. Could I have been tickled by the grass stalks and buds beginning to sprout beside me, among my vulnerability? My flesh, which had yet to find a source of warmth after being so cold for so long, found its source. My hopeless notes became poems, ballads, or some form of meaning to dissipate the misery I bore in me. A mind and a stomach finally waking up at ease, waking up to a world that isn’t just in my head, waking up to true characters, the awakened troll who left their tavern, who at first detested. It was the poem I wrote about myself when I was 12. Now, 16, soon to be 17 (now 18, soon to be 19) [now 20, I find myself reading this again]. And once more find myself in the same squared space, encompassed by thin walls. In a constant rearrangement frenzy of furniture for a better change within a new slate. The only change was the room—subjective as I could be, the clothing rack was black, yet now it is white. Yet still, a rack is a rack. How can differences be broad yet at the same time slim? And idk where my head was at the time, but ever since I lived here, I could only overshoot the past or the future. The echoes of my fears hardly seem to be tamed. The misery clutching my bust never seems to want to let go, the world around my body was unfortunate enough to rise to my head, the world up above my neck is thicker than stone, tormenting me. “Help!’ I yell, yet I remain unheard as the cry is never out loud but in my head. Because the trauma is continuing, from the tip of a stem that hopes to bloom a flower. The time ticks—my time is frozen, slowing, freezing until the ice breaks again, back to water. Or my time is rapid, as is the speed of sound. This everlasting cycle is yet to subside and let me have a solely present time