You promised me a forever. I tried so hard to not let myself believe in that forever you painted for me. I knew one day you’d leave like all the rest and I knew that when you did, it’d hurt me like all the others. But maybe I haven’t been hurt enough, or maybe you meant too much to me, because I believed you like the fool I am.
I believed in that forever where we’d still have a place in each others’ lives. One where we’d still meet up and text and talk to each other. One where we’d still keep in touch, as if we weren’t going to entirely separate schools 382 miles away from one another.
You gave me hope that it wouldn’t end like all the others. Where I wouldn’t be waiting, always waiting, always hoping that you would still want to stay my friend. And I was bracing myself for that ending, because you meant the world to me, you still do. You meant so much to me and it hurts knowing that I didn’t mean as much to you. It hurts knowing that I simply cared for you more than you cared for me.
I let myself hope for a single second that you’d keep your promise. And just as I began to believe in it, just as I began to open my heart, just as I began to envision a future where the two of us were still friends, you broke your promise.
Because now I’m waiting for texts from you, whole days passing in between our messages. Now when I reply, it’s like you don’t want to be a part of the conversation. Now it’s like you’re forcing yourself to be my friend. And I have to wonder, what did this friendship mean to you? Because if it’s that easy for you to walk away from it, the laughs, the smiles, the fond memories, then maybe it simply meant nothing to you. Maybe you aren’t the person I believed you to be.
It hurts. I’m not going to lie, it hurts so incredibly much. Because now I’m left wondering if maybe I did something wrong. I’m left asking myself if you even still care for me as you once did. I’m left grasping at the question of whether we’re still friends or not. I knew it would destroy me, and that’s why I didn’t want to let myself believe in a future where we were still friends. And yet, you made me believe and I fell for those sweet lies, drunk on that taste of forever.
I wanted you to be a part of my life, I wanted you to keep having a place in my future. But I guess you didn’t think of me the same. I guess you were ready to say goodbye sooner than I was.
But do you know what hurts more?
Knowing that you hurt me and still holding onto you. Because I’m still waiting, I’m still hoping, I’m still letting myself believe. You put that knife through my heart, but I’m the one twisting it deeper inside.
I can understand you wanting to end it. But if you’re going to do it, then please just do it. Please just cut me off, because it’ll be easier that way. It’ll be easier for me to grieve, for me to mourn, for me to begin to heal.
if we were to meet again,
i'd imprint your face into my memories;
the mole under your right eye, the slight crease
on your forehead, the faded scar on the left side
of your nose, the way your hair always brushed into
your eyes, the way your eyes crinkled when you
smiled. i'd sear that moment into my memories.
if we were to meet again,
i'd say i'm sorry
for all the years i left you waiting
in this very same spot all those years ago.
i wonder if you felt this same way;
endless longing for something that no longer
exists, desire for nothing more than to see each
other again. enduring all these suffocating feelings
of pain, loneliness, & sadness all while clinging
onto the hope that one day i'll return to you.
replaying the memories we once shared over &
over & over again until you've replayed them so
many times, you can no longer bear it, but at the
same time you can't let them go.
if we were to meet again,
i'd be back on that hill where i first met you,
watching you smile under the moonlight
as you turned back to look at me again.
i'd be back on that hill where i still am, waiting
endlessly. & i'm living a life where i'm wondering
when the end will come, all while waiting for you.
if we were to meet again,
& you were to say you never wanted to see
me again, i'd say okay & i'd let you go.
because you should be happy, even if that means
it's not by my side.
i guess, it's my turn to wait for you.
even if you don't come back at all.
if we were to meet again,
i'd wait for you no matter how long it takes.
there was no moon out the night i met you
it was like it had been swallowed whole, hidden
underneath the night sky. and with it, everything
was swallowed in its darkness. no stars peeked out,
no streetlights flickered, there was nothing except
absolute oblivion. i was losing myself in that oblivion.
can i sit next to you?
it's lonely sitting by yourself.
but. then i saw you. and it was like the world lit up.
there were constellations in your eyes, supernovas
clinging to your cheeks. comets tangled up in the
strands of your hair. you were mesmerizing, as if
you were the one who had taken the night sky.
what's your name?
my name is selene.
i only saw you when the night sky was barren,
only saw your smile when everything around
was enshrouded in pitch black. but you were
always shining, always bright when everything
was dark. it was as if you came in my darkest times.
i'll come visit you.
so you won't be lonely anymore.
and i should've realized it then.
the reason why the moon and stars were swallowed
into oblivion the nights i saw you. the reason why
shooting stars shot across your irises. the reason why
it seemed like you stole the briliance of the night. i should've
realized that you and i were destined to be starcrossed.
do you know what that constellation is called?
it's called lyra.
only i realized it too late, and you were gone by then.
we were never meant to be. and i am left grasping for you
in my oblivion.
my name is sol.
i forget that it’ll be okay
i mistake heartbreak for contentedness. i lose myself in the i'm sorry's and i love you's and the i miss you's. and i never realized how much it quite mattered, never realized the weight of the words until one day i woke up in a world where you were no longer in it.
you strung along affections in broken english, kissed me another life, called me your own with blessings of virtue. and in between the smell of incense, the trips to the store around the corner, the falling of nickels and dimes, i find you tucked in between. yawg entertwined with the memories of forever yawg the mosaics in falling tears yawg the beating of this broken heart. you're there every time in every shadow and reflection, in every unsaid word and passing silhouette, and how can that be possible when you're no longer here?
and there's that saying time heals all wounds. but how come in these half-skipped beats the bandaid you once stuck on my elbow has become undone? is love even deserved to be felt when you know the answer at the end is heartbreak and pain? wouldn't it be better to never be hurt again? and it feels that way when i'm crying my last goodbye on that last day. i'm not weeping for just the ones i lost, no, i'm weeping for the ones going to be lost. because love and pain are the same edge on a sword.
you left me grasping for you, left us grasping for that missing piece in the hole of family. i wasn't ready to say goodbye and yet the word crept to my lips and fell like glass. in those fragments, i cut my fingers, and i've been collecting cuts ever since.
and yet even with the pain coursing through my veins and bleeding from my cuts, i know it's going to be alright. i know it is the inevitable outcome, i know that the bandaid that came undone was replaced by another. i know that the missing piece was never went missing, it simply became less visible. i know that when i grasp for you, your hand is the one i find holding. sometimes pain just amplifies love.
the answer is, yes love is worth feeling. love is worth the heartbreak and pain and ache and losing of oneself. it is worth the tribulations and tears and relearning how to move on. because for every day i've loved you i knew this day would come, and yet that never stopped me before. you're worth the cuts on my fingers and the tears on my pillow. because you loved me and i loved you and even if you're no longer here, i never stopped loving you.
that's how i know it'll be okay.
astraea, tell me, how do the stars look from where you are? #hbdastraea
i’ve never loved the stars. but when i saw them the night we met, i couldn’t help but be enchanted. was it just me or were the twinkling stars’ iridescence even more beautiful that night--as if the night sky shone brighter when you were there? and perhaps they were--perhaps the stars were blowing kisses to us from above, sprinkling stardust upon us.
you taught me the meaning of the stars, stringing together constellations for the two of us to cherish. you showed me the secrets of the night, and together we would spend up in the heavens above. and we would wave towards moonboy, throw roses towards our starprince, kiss foreheads of the children of the stars, bowing our heads in thanks towards plato; we would travel to universes unknown, gathering constellations along the way.
and my dear, we’re five months in the making--dreaming of otherworldly wonders and travelling through time again and again. for five months i’ve dreamed again and again, for five months i’ve wished upon stars so readily, for five months i trace the curves of the moon and think of you.
you taught me more than the meaning of the stars, you taught me what it means to smile again. you gifted me with nighttime lullabies and twilight stardust. and i’ve never told you, but dear, i think you’re beautiful. you have a heart of gold, and how your heart shines in the darkness. and when our constellations intersect, i remember the first time you gave me the stars.
and perhaps one day, we’ll see the stars from the same night sky and collect constellations together by the blessings of moon boy. perhaps one day we’ll travel through the night once more and whisper to the stars alluring memories. for with you, i find myself falling for the same star.
and on this day, i gift you the night sky, the stars, the moon, the planets, the constellations, the dreams we’ve crafted and shot up into the night. on this day, i gift you the stars you gave me that first day.
happy birthday my dear astraea.
if only we stayed amaranthine
Lila, my dear, I fear that I am in grave danger.
During my last visit to our tree in the crepuscular hours, I had come across my father. The moment I saw him, this indescribable fear took over me. Our eyes had met, and I know that he had seen through my disguise of James. It is no longer safe to be here.
I have never told a soul my dear, not even you, but the time has come for me to tell you of my last night at home. Before I was defenestrated, I had overheard my father talk of marrying me off to a goetic man. The thought of it shakes me to the core, my dear. The goetic men are infamous for their use of black magic and voracity when it comes to power. They will do anything, even if it means sacrificing their own flesh and blood. To think that my father would do such a thing, it leaves me speechless at his skulduggery.
Once they had rid of me, I made the mistake of glancing back. In the window of my father’s study, I saw a strange man staring at me. I can only assume that he was my would-be goetic husband. When our eyes met, he grinned. My dear, his eyes reminded me of such crackling gleed. To this day, I can still not forget his smile of such toska.
I fear my father will take me away from this new life I have made, take me away from the future I have worked for the two of us. He is not one to act rashly, and it is only a matter of time before he finds me--and if he doesn’t, I fear there will be a far worse outcome.
You’ve always been my heimat, and for that very reason, I cannot come to you. I wish that I could hold you once more, wipe the stray tears from your eyes, and whisper sweet nothings to you--but to put you in harm’s way, I do not know if I would be able to live with myself if that were to occur. You know that my sarang for you will never fade, you know that I would do anything in my power to keep you safe. So I ask you dear, trust me once more. Let me keep you safe.
Once again, I find myself with a sense of drapetomania and once again I will mizzle. I am sorry that I have absquatulated, but dearest, do not think for a moment that I will not return. I will find another way for my letters to be delivered to you and we will have that future. Just wait for me.
I love you Lila.
And I’m sorry.
Trigger Warning: Sensitive Topics Mentioned
-2 cups white sugar
they didn't expect much. they never did. they learned from an early age that they must swallow the word no with pride, no matter how hard it cut down the esophagus. no, they cannot walk at night with their hood up. no, they cannot join us. no, they are not the same. no, they do not belong. and when they read history books, it was as if they could feel their ancestors in that sugarcane plantation. and they would trace the names stained in ink, scrawling them across their mind, remembering each one. and it was as if they could feel the names dissolve into sugar against their palms. and for once someone told them yes, you deserve the world.
-1 cup packed brown sugar
and they would coo to her with sugar's and honey's, each word dripping with desires and unholy things. and when you've been berated with words coated in sugar, you no longer can tell whether those sweet things are truly sweet or mistaken salt. and she chose the latter; holding herself tight in the middle of nightmares, glancing behind her back every chance she gets, clenching fists inside of jean pockets. she closed herself from everyone. no longer does she mistake salt for sugar.
-1 cup corn syrup
and he would douse his tears in syrupy delight. taking two shots of happiness before bed. the prescription said to take one a day, but gosh how his eyes would spill waterfalls and his head would scream. he just wanted it to stop, he just wanted everything to be quiet. and if one shot can work, then two would make the screams stop two times more, right?
-1 cup evaporated milk
and it hurts fae to know that fae doesn't exist. fae was never a he or a her or a them, fae was just a fae. but they tell faer that it isn't real, that fae isn't real. and it hurts faer to be erased, it hurts faer to know that fae does not fit in the box that confines society. fae is fae, and why can't they just let faer be?
-1 pint heavy whipping cream
and zie watches the stars set in milky bliss, dreaming of long ago fantasies and beginnings of endings. zie counts the stars upon zir fingertips, grasping at cassiopeia and the big dipper and orion. and perhaps if zie wished hard enough, zie would be up in the night skies, dancing alongside the stars. but for now, zie is content lying on the grass feeling the breeze sweep over zim, and humming the tune of the stars. and oh, how zie could dream.
-1 cup butter
and gosh does e look beautiful soaked in the rays of a rising sun. e soaks up oranges and yellows and bits of stardust along eir being and e is beautiful. oh how e is beautiful. but what no one sees is e hiding the bruises dusting eir skin. e pulls down eir sleeves a little lower, hiding purple wrists as dark as the night sky. e smiles when with friends, but when e is at home, e cries and burrows eirself in the corner of eir closet. and when e is smiling in the sun, e is sobbing in the moonlight.
-1 1/4 teaspoons vanilla extract
and listen, do you hear that? do you hear the beat of your heart pounding in your chest? dear, you are alive.
Step 1: Grease a 12x15 inch pan.
and slather the truths you hear with lies, because you are human. and humans like to be in control. so pretend to control the one thing that you have no control over, pretend you are in power if that helps to soothe your fragile ego. and perhaps when you're looking Death straight in the eye, you will be able to say that you are in control.
Step 2: In a medium-size pot, combine sugar, brown sugar, corn syrup, evaporated milk, whipping cream, and butter. Monitor the heat of the mixture with a candy thermometer while stirring. When the thermometer reaches 250 degrees F (120 degrees C) remove the pot from the heat.
and when you combine their, her, his, faer, zis, and eir stories, you find yourself knowing only a sliver of a fraction of the world. and you find yourself turning blind eyes to the stories that sing to you in the crevices of reality. tell me, what will you do now?
Step 3: Stir in vanilla. Transfer mixture to the prepared pan and let the mixture cool completely. When cooled cut the Carmel into small squares and wrap them in wax paper for storage.
and dear, i do not know you, and you do not know me. but i know your heart beats on the other side, i know we stare upon the same stars at night. dear, we are alive.
and you're skipping stones on the lake made of your tears, sitting by the lonely mother goose who lost herself in the search for her goslings. and she's mean and vile and you're a little scared of her, but when she's lying by the lake reeds, head bowed towards the gray clouds, you can't help but feel yourself cry for the goslings she's lost. because she's a mother without children and you're a child without a place to call home.
and you could never skip stones, you just like the feeling of throwing and watching them plop with a single toss, always thinking that this will be the one that'll ripple across the water. it never happens though and you're left listening to the way the stone is engulfed by the water in a single gulp. and when the mother goose sobs in her sleep, you stroke her feathers and feel the way they're wet with your tears.
the weeping willow trees blow in the slight breeze, branches reaching out in a half hug before falling away. their leaves drip with the colors of green sorrow, grey drizzles soaking them void of daydreams. and they try to hold you, they reach towards you, always falling short of comfort. perhaps you don't deserve it or perhaps you're just not even there to begin with.
sometimes you look at the lake instead of skipping stones. gray ripples with tints of seafoam green and blue stare back at you with your marred reflection. and sometimes the lake is half full or overflowing until it's flooding the rest of the land. with weeping willows brushing the waters gently, and when it's flooding, you feel yourself sink, chained to the ground. and it's then that the mother goose awakens and bites you, she's shrieking and flapping her wings and flying away. and you're alone, drowning in nothing more than your own tears.
and you'll always be skipping stones on that lake--perhaps one day you'll finally be able to make the water ripple.
youth is strewn across the room,
pieces and parts haphazardly thrown around,
and when she looks for them, it seems she gets older,
with every passing moment of longing and venturing.
how was she not to treasure the thing she had beheld?
and when she's crying over the lost of something dear,
she calls to God, who turns blind eyes to sinners,
and she is a sinner now. and now she calls for love
from the demons below, calling and calling towards
the fallen angel, and that is her God now.
he flies upon the wings of Icarus, feathers and wax
melting into his skin as he glides above the clouds,
tasting frothy forgiveness against his cold cheeks.
but that is until his wings give out, because materialistic
things fall apart, and deep down he knows his wings
aren't the only things made from materialistic fantasies.
spiraling down he plummets, the earth swallowing him whole,
and even the wings of Icarus cannot save him from his fate,
as the wax and feathers bleed in vain; of dusty truths and
hidden beginnings. and he falls, swallowed into nonexistence.
clinging to the fragmented truth, they withheld the realities,
calling to Dionysus for that last taste of ecstasy. because who
would want to die by the hands of Titans, and they know they
will not survive, and their efforts are in vain, but the taste of
dripping wine from eternal yearning springs to mind, and
Dionysus appears. torn apart are they, heart of jaded longings
buried into the depths of forever ago, and was that taste
of ecstasy worth it? was it worth dying in nevermore?
the river Styx covers it, blessing it with the shield of
eternal suffering, and it is drowned in the Underworld,
swallowing the griefs of the dead and the lives of the dying,
it feels the way it burns their esophagus, the way it feels like
screaming and clawing at the thin layer of being in its throat,
it tastes the fiery bile of grief and the willingness to throw everything
away for another day to live, and it sheds tears in solace,
droplets of grievances dipped into pools of grasping hands,
and it is eroded away in the depths of the Styx, its being forsaken
in the hands of eternal suffering and longing for another day.
and decorate your hands upon the grace of Olympus, dipping
your fingertips in the dying facade of bliss and dreams come true,
oh Achilles, it is no wonder you have bestowed upon us the only
part of you that had not been protected and guarded, for if we
were to become Gods, we would fall into the depths of madness,
and forsake ourselves against the mirage of vanity.
Moonbows and Dripping Wax
I do not need to write your name to see it stained into my hands, I do not need to say your name to feel the syllables saturated against my tongue, I do not need to call you upon memory to hold your presence dear.
Oh how I think of you when I peer at the caelum above, thinking of your smile etched into the moon's craters.
Worry seems to be the reigning thought for the two of us dearest, and I fear that caligo will overwhelm us if we are not to be careful.
Darling, privilege does not make me worry for you any less. And some may call me the scum of the earth or even the poorest of the poor or even a morosis, but I am blessed with the vim of holding dear a seraphic being such as yourself.
I wish to keep your mind in a state of felicity when the thought of me comes to mind, but alas lying to you tears me apart inside. The poorhouses have begun to fill, with the influx of poverty and exclusion of proper housing. I fear that perhaps I'll be forced to find a new means of residence soon--if I am not kicked to the streets first.
These days have been filled with such alamort, with me taking on another job as a lamplighter. During the early mornings to midday, I clean the chimneys of the fortunate. And by dusk and nightfall, I spend time lighting lamps that shine with the eternal glow of your rantipole spirit. My hands have been covered in soot and ash for so long, I fear I do not know where I begin under the layers of agathokakological.
There has been little time to write darling, with the days passing by so rapidly. Every twilight I spend constructing letters to you by the ways of dripping candlewax and penning the emotions of bliss and yonderly.
During my times here, I have never faced such atrocities and discouragement. I have learned that hope is such a trivial thing. And it's only with the thought of you that I find such meaning in it and dare to sominate again.
Do not fret over my conditions though, for they keep me tied to my rationalities, and they allow me the thought of woolgathering when sleep gently kisses my eyelids shut.
Under the fading candlelight do I dare to say your name, my dearest Lila, because it is then that I can believe in the cosompoietic bliss that is us. My leal for you burns bright, but the vitality of it has begun to fade with the tearing apart of my being. I wished to keep you apart from the darkness that terrorizes me, but you and I, we are connected by our souls, and I know that it will only cause more pain if I keep you away from this part of me.
With each passing day, I have begun to feel that our childhood fantasies of paracosm have ceased to exist. For how can we afford a living when I can barely support myself, how can I grant your wishes true? Are we to be reduced to those ashes of a burning flame? Because darling, I hate to say it, but the reality is dampening the colors of our world, and I do not want to drag you down to poverty with me.
And my dearest Lila--
How do I remember the memory of Josephine etched into my blood, when I have been molded into this man of James? I cannot differentiate between the two, and I have become muddled between them--because who am I if I am not your darling Josephine? And who am I if I am not the metanoia of James? I have been reduced to scintilla and I cannot begin to pick apart who I have become.
I have never loved you more than by the solace of a vanishing candlelight.