flatten your tongue
slip it between your teeth

n.

your little lips
forming an elipsis

o.

put them together
and may you declare
a word you’d so carefully deny—
no.

you spell it out
on table tops
shout it
from the rooftops

and when cursed hands
seek to defile your shrine
may you exclaim
"i am mine"

How does loving him feel like?, my sister had once asked.

I couldn’t put together my words back then,
so here it is now.
Words bearing the weight of the universe,
transliterated into a language you can comprehend.

Loving him feels like Christmas mornings at Hogwarts. When little Harry arrives in the Great Hall, and tasted magic for the very first time. It’s the same feeling Percy gets when he tastes ambrosia, the same satisfaction you’d get when Percabeth kisses underwater.

It’s the safety of your covers when the night had passed, and you still couldn’t bring yourself to sleep. It’s staying indoors when it’s pouring outside, occupied with the company of a book. It’s getting lost between the pages and not minding the time. The fresh smell of your favorite outfit once it’s out of laundry, ready to be worn again.

It’s warm,
it’s soft.

It’s not another cliché,
it’s love.

darling, don't be afraid.
it's okay
to be jealous.

don't be afraid,
don't let it **** you.
become jealous of the idea of him,
of all he could have given you,
and all you have to share.

do not become jealous
of the girl who's now there instead.

darling, don't be afraid.
it's okay
to be jealous..
to have an itch
and a wish
of what he now has
that you don't.

don't let it **** you,
don't let the fear get in your head
and warp your beautiful mind.
you are real and kind,
and more than he deserves-
do not become less than that.

do not become jealous
of the girl who's now there instead.

you will never be forgotten.
ever.
your name twisted into metaphors and colors and distractions will forever
be painted across pages and pages of her favorite brand of notebook,
no matter how many she burns
there will always be one she forgot,
and she will only find it once she had almost forgotten you.
she will find the one Papyrus notebook
and all of your metaphors and colors and disractions will come flooding back,
just like how the ocean in your eyes
flooded her heart all those years ago.