sy ! she / her
22, infj - t, 8w7
slytherin, history major
your local poet, writer for caffeine & creativity
likes !
sage and emerald green enthusiast. richard siken, sappho, sylvia plath. musems, poetry, history, mythology, art. warm cups of tea, good books, sweaters, carnations, old books, letters, kindness.
dislikes !
boredom.
access my writings !
updates in tandem to caffeine & creativity !
poetry !
short stories !
this is a place for me to leave all my short stories as i finish them.
miscellaneous !
a place for me to drop blurbs of poems that haven’t fully fleshed out or writings i never finished.
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what happens when you get older is that you get over it. you buy flowers to set on the table. you say your prayers.
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you learn to live alone the way you learned to love everything.
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not dead.
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this is the way the world ends, not with a bang, but a whimper.
( unappointed, unwanted, wandering soul, tell me you need me, for you make me whole )
It’s the sweet smell of freshly peeled oranges, and a soft caress to your arm as she hands you half. The intimacy of knowing that the same sweetness on your tongue is the same resting on her lips. The solidarity of sitting in silence as you both let the stillness of the moment seep into your bones, burning it into your memory. Just a moment of solidarity that defines the relationship.But still, it’s the burn on your skin, as her fingertips blacken it just from a brief touch. The ache you feel, as your hand reaches for hers, ready to set yourself alight. It’s the moment you softly brush against her and decide that that was enough.It’s the way your hand flexes and she seeps into your bones, becoming a part of you. The way your eyes seem to be drawn to the action, as if it would take you back to the motion, as if it would give you the courage to reach over again. And maybe you do.She would meet you halfway, in that unsuspecting way, her hand curling around yours as she smiles like she always does, giving your hand the lightest squeeze. Maybe it’s not your hand she’s holding, it’s your heart, as it tightens in your chest at the brief action.And you can’t breathe. Your breath, it catches in your throat as she pulls away, the cool wisp of air brushing against you, caressing you as the soft scent of lilies surrounds you, mingles in with the scent of the orange. And the thought.
The thought, that if this is love, you couldn’t be happier? It settles into your heart and you smile back at her retreating form.But it’s not always so soft.
Sometimes it’s the scratching in your throat as you’re screaming what you feel. Sometimes it’s the ache as you’re tearing your heart out for her to see. Bleeding out as though the seeds spilling from that cursed pomegranate weren’t what bound you to her for the eternity you wished to spend.It’s the grip of her hand, so tightly wrapped around your wrist that the aching goes numb, and she pleads for you to stay. One seed more, just one seed more.One seed more and you’re damned all over again. You peel the orange, she carves out the seeds, and you both burn, numb to the ache, numb to the truth.
Every day on the way to work, I drive by a bouquet of orange lilies on the right side of the street. They sit nestled between the roots of an old Pine, grand and majestic, with branches so long they reminded me of arms, stretched out to the sky. I always thought they were there as a memorandum, maybe to a friend, maybe to a pet, maybe even to a memory.Even through sleet, snow, or storm, they were always there. Not today. As I drove to work, a hollowness seeped within my fingertips, an odd feeling as I looked over and noticed the lack of flowers. The tree looking almost barren without the stark orange of the flowers resting there.
I watched it almost hesitantly as I pulled over and made my way over carefully. It was stupid, I would be late for work, but that didn’t seem to matter as I made my way over to the pine tree. I knelt down to inspect the now hollow dip in the root of the trees where the flowers used to live when I realized that there was something else there. A scratch in the wood.I reached out, brushing away the debris of growth, of moss, and of knotted leaves. And when I did, I noticed it wasn’t just a scratch. It was a name. My name.
i am decayed. my lungs are full of thorns and mildew. my bones are held together by vines. i am fragile. be gentle with my corpse.