Olive Aurora 🕊️✨

Greetings! Welcome to the beautiful and painful world of Thorns and Flames!

I’m a creative writing student just here for fun, to post snippets of works in progress and drafts, to scream about writing stuff, maybe write a book review if I ever find the motivation to read again, and mostly to just post inside this little echo chamber without guilt about perfecting my work.

If you like anything you see I’d appreciate a like, a nice comment, or even a reblog! Thanks for stopping by!

About me 🫶

~ Fantasy & science fiction story writer + depressing poet

~ Queer & neurodivergent

~ Pronouns she/her + he/him

~ Chaotic academic

~ Coffee addict

~ Cosmic horror, classic sci-fi, and queer coded villains fan

For queer fanfiction find me on AO3 @ beyondtheskyline

we learned about flowers

about how Moonflowers bloom at night and are toxic to the touch

and that God meant them to be women but got the papers mixed up

the health teacher taught us how to tell if GHB is in your drink

but the bell rang before she got to scopolamine and rohypnol and—

the math teacher read us the rates of murder by intimate partners

and I counted that ten classmates would be dead by “I do’

we learned that Wolfsbane is sensitive to the sun, poisonous to the touch

and that God meant them to be women but checked the wrong box at intake

and the health teacher was fired for explaining the signs of domestic violence

which sent four girls home to ask their mothers if they were okay

the history teacher talked about the witch trials and the asylums and

the suffragettes and genital mutilation and making marital rape illegal and—

we learned that Lily of the Nile symbolizes beauty, purity, and fertility

and that God never meant for them to be women but lost the original files

and as she left the health teacher reminded us humans touch what they cannot own,

kill what they cannot touch, and that belladonna has always meant deadly nightshade

—

—

—

welcome to the masquerade.

peel back your flesh,

expose nerve endings to the sky;

you are a trillion connections

born of stars and electricity—

why are you crying?

leave your skin at the door

and bedazzle your blood,

glittering and gilded,

crystalline butterfly wings,

and white chalk etchings

where your soul was slain.

stop crying—

the paint will melt away;

no one wants to see you raw,

without the mask.

welcome to the masquerade.

where the king and queen

and all their jesters

float above the thrall,

titanium masks donned,

embellished with pearls and turquoise

stolen from under the feet

of someone else.

(Beauty is in the small details)

take your place on the floor;

you dance for their amusement

as the strings play a harmony—

the strings don’t really exist,

just smile and dance.

yes the mask hurts

where metal tugs on nerves

and remaining flesh

but stop crying—

you are entertainment,

not a person;

stardust and electricity,

not alive.

welcome to the masquerade.

silver trays float around the room

borne by butterflies with mechanical wings—

where did you think the crystalline decor came from—

take a bottle from their trays

eat me drink me fuck me

I promise the mask will feel better

if you distract yourself.

the king calls himself

Messiah

Brother

God

and the room applauds,

dizzy off the

eat me drink me fuck me

(Power is in the small details)

welcome to the masquerade.

the phantom strings swell,

a jester backflips off the ledge,

breaks their neck on the marble floor,

and the room applauds—

at least it was entertaining.

spinning, melting together:

the glitz and glamor,

amputated butterflies,

jeweled masks covering burnt nerves,

the jester’s broken body

with bloody bells and blank familiar eyes—

don’t look down,

don’t look closer,

keep spinning to the tune

of an invisible symphony

eating drinking fucking

the king and queen are entertained.

your flayed nerves and coveted flesh

still burn as the body tempts you.

(Ignorance curiosity is in the small details)

you

look

down—

your face looks back smiling

—

Golden Shovel For A Spider Demon

Reverse Golden Shovel For A Spider Demon

Double Golden Shovel For A Spider Demon

—

All of the above golden shovels written by Olive Aurora <3

—

“Tips for kissing lightning” by Olive Aurora

—

I. The mirror always has water spots on it. I never clean it because when I was thirteen my friends wanted to play Bloody Mary, but Emma cried so loud we stopped on the second one, and now whenever I look into mirrors I fear what I’ll see looking into my eyes. My brain can conjure worse things than a glass ghost without any prompting and sometimes they spill from my mouth just as easily. Misery loves company and I am a miserable parasite begging for a victim to latch onto. What do I win in trauma bingo? I hope it’s a fifth of vodka and mirror cleaner.

II. Nothing in my room belongs to me; it’s all fragments of a girl who was here for a second and then gone. What am I if not fleeting moments of lucid character held together by alkaloids and scar tissue? When I can’t sleep at night I pick a moment I wish to be back in, but that girl wanted to be in my shoes now and the guilt staples my eyes open. If I can’t be the hero to a teenager then what can I be? Maybe twenty melatonin pills will pick for me. My roommate has to lock her medicine cabinet again tonight; maybe I’ll remember to return her blanket.

III. Hints don’t work yet I still keep dropping them, as if I’ve forgotten your brain is as oddly wired as mine. Sometimes my fear is I could wave a banner in your face and you’d still never acknowledge it; maybe I made up the fire in my chest and the stars in your eyes and the way that living seems less hard when you’re by my side. The only way to know is a leap of faith, but I promised my younger self I’d stop trying to jump off cliffs.

IV. There are more ex best friends in my life than just exes. You’d think I learn by now how to move from stage one to stage two rather than tossing stage one into the incinerator. I keep telling myself they weren’t all my fault. Amelia wanted to be popular, Jenna never liked me, Emma’s parents wanted her away, Olivia made her choices, Makayla couldn’t talk, Maddy just followed orders. If you squeeze a kitten too hard it wails and never comes back; if you just let go it breaks its neck from the fall. I never learned how to walk a tightrope before I was balancing in the middle of it and the grass had turned to fire. My skin will always smell burnt but rose-tinted glasses make it shine.

V. When I see a lamplight at dusk I imagine kissing you underneath it. Like that will cure every broken neuron in my brain and make me who I was before. I picture holding hands in dimly lit convenience stores and leaving indents in each other’s mattresses; matching jewelry which comforts in absence and clothes that smell of each other's shampoo. But those lips aren’t mine to kiss and your love is not mine to have, yet you still come to me in my dreams to welcome me home. The bed is always cold when I wake because home has never existed except behind closed eyes.

—

I don’t want him to touch you

(that’s selfish I know)

but I don’t want him to not touch you

(if that makes any sense)

Sometimes I think saying things in verse

makes more sense than saying them aloud,

(I’m one step removed from this narrator)

I backspace most of what I write

because it’s too real

and I’m scared of what my brain produces

when it doesn’t have any barriers.

If I could scream

it would be your name.

My brain is full of documents labeled

untitled.

Notes app pages full of words

that read like a language I never learned.

(This road to hell is not paved;

it’s potholed with my mistakes)

I want him to touch you

because it will make you happy,

but I don’t want him to touch you

(because I want him to touch me)

If I could scream

it would be his name.

You said “I love you”

and I cried

because it was all I wanted to hear

just at the wrong time.

I want you to read my poetry

without it feeling like the aftershock

of a bomb—

and I’m so used to writing suicide notes

because no one ever taught me

how to write love letters.

(When I scream

it will be both your names)

—

Right pedal gas

Left pedal brake

Round the corner

Into a wall

Miss the squirrel

Hit the pedestrian

Green light go

Red light stop

Yellow light

Limbo

Want to hold hands

In between turn signals?

Headlights on

Wiper blades slow

Rain falls like petals

Hits like bullets

Slow drive

Around the parking lot

Let’s get a coffee

And go home at dusk

Green light go

Red light stop

Yellow light

Kiss me

Roulette at the

Four way stops

Anarchy in

Traffic circles

Look for deer

But hit them dead on

Meet that eye

In your nightmares

Let the big truck pass

Run the car off the road

Right lane slow

Left lane fast

Go ten over

After all

The speed limit

Is just a suggestion

Green light go

Red light stop

Yellow light

Home

I hope when you pass

Me in the supermarket

You remember this moment

And who taught you

To go fast

To go slow

To hit things hard

To avoid things sharp

To kiss in pauses

To hold hands at stop signs

To crash and burn.

—

They say you are fine

as you carve out a place in your mind // and bury the person you used to be there // you cut her up into palatable pieces // strew them about your neurons // where all the controls are flashing // DANGER // DANGER // EVACUATE

They say you are fine

as you build a panic room // more like a panic portal // and within it you store all the necessary items of survival // like kindness and self-love and happiness // and you hope that one day you’ll be able to get them back // once the danger has passed

They say you are fine

as you push everything you could ever want to be // brave // strong // loved // safe // onto a different version of yourself // slightly to the left // and let her be your role model // because the people they are telling you to look up to // do not act like people you’d like to be // so she will be your surrogate everything instead // locked safely in your panic room

They say you are fine

as you give her a name

They say you are fine

as one day you wake up to find the panic room door has blown open // and all your necessary items // all those role model attributes // every dream you’ve ever had // begins flying around like birds who have just discovered they are trapped in a cage // and try as you may // none of her will go back into a box ever again // as she screams // DANGER // DANGER // EVACUATE

They say you are fine

as you do what she says // you evacuate // and she stays

They say she is fine

and she is // because she was made for this // and you who did not deserve the house of cards you were born into // and the broken brains and broken hearts that molded you // and the burning ground you will inherit // relax in the panic room of your own design // and realize this is what it feels like to not be living inside a shark’s mouth // to breathe without worrying about drowning

They say she is fine

and she is // because she cannot feel // you forgot to give her feelings // but she can learn to mimic // and she can call upon you for help // you who are too full of feelings to ever properly exist // and she comes to rely on you // just as much as you rely on her // symbiotic

They say we are not fine

because she is not the original // meant to be living and moving and breathing and thinking // and I am not the creation // meant to be living inside a brain // but we don’t know how to play our parts anymore // and the danger is still not passed // so we have no reason to ever be // one // again

—

—

“Open mouth insert foot,”

says the comedian, telling a

(Quite funny)

joke about his words coming back

to bite.

(Words—they bite.

Have you ever noticed that

some people do not know

this? Because if they did,

then they wouldn’t say the

things they do,

right?)

“Get the taste of foot

out of my mouth,”

jokes the comedian,

telling a story where his

words tasted bad from the

beginning.

(Words—they taste awful.

Have you ever noticed how

that cruel phrase or statement

tastes like venom

as it comes out?

Maybe not at first, but always

afterwards.)

“You really ate those words,”

laughs a comedian

to his friend when their

words make them a fool.

(Words—they fool people.

The sweetest words are actually

the most cruel.

And the meanest words

will stay longer than the

kindest.)

Do people not recognize the

Power

that comes with words?

Did they miss the lessons on

rhetoric

in high school English?

Did they forget the lingering

emotions

that words evoke?

And especially, did they

forget

that we do not pick which words

we hold onto and which ones we

don’t?

(Did they forget—or do they just not care?)

And I also wonder, what must they be

eating in tandem, for their words to not

taste as bad to them as they do

to me?

Is it possible that, just as humans

adapted to enjoy sour food,

we can adapt to stomach the

Bite,

Sting,

Taste

of our own words?

We learn to live with the

flavor in our mouth

until eventually, when we are

without that familiar taste,

we feel as if we are

starving.

—

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