There's something magic about dusk.

The morbid slink of darkness,

A cool breeze sweeping in and usurping

All that is bright and warm.

The rich Spring-tasting flavour of air,

Dyed a bloody burnt-orange, crumbling like burnt paper

Then stained with quickly mixing paint, ink seeping

And dancing and whirling

And climbing like gravity-seeking vines.

And yet, you still exist, at the centre of it all.

In the dimming world, you are what stands out.

And yet, as a part of this world

You can feel yourself dulling too,

Becoming one with the grey abyss that is Night.

And for some reason, it makes you feel alive. 

You are no sun or moon, but that is quite alright,

You belong in this strange world somehow.  

After all, in the end 

The smoldering glare of dust, 

The purple lint drapes set to cover the sky,

The stars that slowly, hesitantly, blink open their eyes

Like the dainty nocturnal beasts they are --

None of that can take away from you;

You who are the centre of this Universe. 

You, who despite being its master

Cherish like it is the higher existence,

The colours tickle your insides

And squirm

Like they want you to sing,

Some beautiful melody, a gorgeous yet unsung sonnet,

Something that will capture their beauty and free them,

Unshackle them from your conciousness,

And send them floating to their own reality.

But they really are too lovely, 

Plus they have no words to plead with you with.

And so you hold onto them,

Let them whisk you on a journey,

A frozen rollercoaster, filled with faint emotions,

Soft and light as the breeze that brushes your cheeks.

Indeed, they may have no words,

But you hold their unspoken truth in your hands,

You can taste their slight melancholy, a sadness-tinted silence;

Smell their airy tears and swallow your own resonance

With what lies before you.

It enters through your eyes

And squeezes you at every inch of your skin.

It swallows you in a way nothing but Night

Or warmth should be able to.

And yet, you feel cool.

You feel them caress you on thier way to sleep,

And you are cold to the touch.

For they have now gone.

Now all that is left is her Majesty.

Inky black and purple stains have won,

As they always do.

Somehow, watching your colour-friends' death 

For the 'nth timeloop in a row isn't quite as bittersweet,

As melancholic as it should have been. 

It doesn't feel like a love story, a courageous battle, some great tragedy.

Just painfully pitiful.   

So now

All that's left

Is black

And cold

And silence.

This is your world.

This is what you've done. 

I'm always getting left behind.

I can run ahead and look to scout the area

But somehow I'm always the one stumbling by

Not quite failing completely, but most certainly not winning.

Everyone leaves and moves on and away

And somehow I'm always the one

Left behind. 

Whether it's hanging out with my friends

Or looking for partners 

Or anything that might or might not actually matter.

Sometimes I leave early or stumble into a relationship

Just so I can pretend to be ahead,

Pretend that I'm not all alone and so far behind.

But it's a lie, and I can't tell if they know it

But I certainly do

And it only makes the aching hole within grow worse.

This is why I can't be a good friend.

I always feel like there's something in between

Me and the situation.

I get jealous of divided attention

And yet try to push it away when it's focused on me.

I ask to talk and hangout but have nothing to talk about

And grow bitter when I introduce people

Who then become closer than they ever were to me.

Why am I always the one getting cheated on,

Forgotten, traded-out, or flat-out ignored?

Why am I always there, but never seen?

Why is it that people are able to move so fast

But I've been plunked, limbless, into a vat of molasses? 

made for this (and only this)

don’t hurt me is not something i’m used to asking of people

but here i am asking it of you

which says a lot -

you know you can make me bleed and you probably know you have

but you don’t care

you are a merciless, cruel, but unfortunately beautiful and terribly manipulative person

you’ve got me trapped in your gaze, wrapped around your finger

i’m dying at your hand but i’m convinced i’m doing it for you

and every night i go home weaker but i do it willingly because all i want is to be anything to you and by now i should’ve given up and by now i can hardly remember my name but

my name doesn’t feel important 

the only name i ever want to hear is yours because it brings a lightness to me that i’ve grown addicted to

and even though in the beautiful, vast galaxies that hide behind your dark dark eyes that i was born to look into, i do not hold any significance 

it’s okay

being here is still all i’ll ever do 

until the sky goes red, and i fall to the ground, thinking i’m losing you but realizing at last that i never had you at all

(and still i want you

but more than that i want you

to want me)

.

a poem for my grandparents:

Grief Leaves Purple Stains
A splash of dusky purple paint
stained the white fibers of
my grandmother's carpet,
soaked into the middle,
spots near the edges.

The carpet is gone now,
rolled up with the rest of her things,
in a dusty attic
with weak sunlight streaming through a cracked window.

The purple stains have spread,
steeped into her favorite song,
coloring the chords of her old upright piano,
and I can hear her husky voice singing,
"Imagine all the people..."

A man hurries down the street in the rain,
collar upturned against the searching wind,
his raincoat the same brand as hers,
and his footsteps leach lilac tears
into the puddles.
("...Living life in peace...")

I sit in the dark late at night,
and purple tears come flooding in
without warning or reason, bringing
memories of gardens, pianos, babka.
I blink away the wine-colored haze covering my world,
the drops falling on to my white blouse.
The color didn't wash out, only fade.
("...You may say I'm a dreamer...")

My neighbor plants orchids in the spring,
and all I can think is,
She was buried with orchids in her hair.
I bury golden daffodil bulbs next to my walkway,
and greet him every morning when we
water our gardens.
("...But I'm not the only one...)

Entire city blocks have been splashed with purple,
as if caught in a periwinkle rain.
The awning of the bakery
where she would buy me oatmeal cookies
drips cold viscous paint onto my face when I pass,
the sound of it splattering in the ground
covering the murmur of the light voices inside.
("...I hope someday you will join us...")

The day after I had rolled up her white rug,
I invited my loyal follower over,
gave it lavender-infused tea in her favorite teal mug,
and it whispered cruel reminders,
sharp predictions based on the dregs of its tea.
It left sweet perfume lingering in the air
and purple stains on the seats
the same shade as her lipstick.
("...And the world will live as one.")

A grieving monster lashes out and spills blood.

Song lyrics from "Imagine" by John Lennon

My English class is doing a poetry unit and we had to write villanelles (it's a very specific structure, you can look it up if you're curious) so I am making a brief & rare appearance on this beautiful thread to share mine :) It's titled Hestia, after the Greek goddess of home & hearth, who gave up her seat among the 12 major gods to Dionysus. 

You represent all that which women should.

Existing like a fire in the night,

warmth, comfort, peace, and motherhood

They expected you to kneel when he stood,

no one was surprised when you complied.

You represent all that which women should.

A virgin goddess tending to the wood,
a spark that you could light if you had tried.

But you never asked to enter motherhood.

Though eldest, you never vied for queenhood.

That path fell to your sister, with her light. 

You listen to your brothers, as you should.

Do you ever wonder if your choice was good?

Give up your seat to fill the dark with bright?

You cannot exchange peace for motherhood.

They think they know your mind beneath your hood,

but you hide a quiet wisdom deep inside. 

You represent all that which women should--

warmth, comfort, peace, and motherhood.