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someplace else
alice never bothered leaving.

i know a thing or two about girls who jump rabbit holes —
all dead eyes and ripped laces and cigarettes;
there was no white rabbit to begin with.
i know a thing or two about girls
who run away from themselves.

alice — a wildflower as they say:
with limbs made of wilted dahlias,
with wasps nesting in her chest — alice,
has the cat not told you that
one can only lay too much flowers
on just a single grave —
just a single hollow body,
before they grow into forest of trees
from where all your nooses hang?

nonetheless, tiptoe and fall.
this way to wonderland —
this way to the rabbit hole,
this way to the cemetery,
this way to your eyes,
to your chest,
to your palms.
has the fickle cat not told you that
there was no white rabbit
in the advent of your own apocalypse?

this is your fairytale, sweet, sweet girl.
light that cigarette and set yourself on fire,
your mind already is hell anyway.
and i know a thing or two about a girl who descended to hell —
you are proserpina without the weeping.
you are proserpina without the crown.

but in someplace else,
alice never bothered leaving.
no one's waiting back at home,
and no one's waiting to be found.
fray narte Jun 12
and i will wait for you here on the other side, where the earth and her fields await the footsteps of that girl who dared to swallow pomegranate seeds — each one holding a tenfold of unsaid apologies. i will wait for you here, where the storms i brewed found themselves pressing against the softness of lilacs, where the nightfall forgives the sunset for leaving, where morning smells of teakwood and rain. and you will realize that each sigh does not have to weigh like a thousand bent bromeliads — that each breath does not have to ache in the presence of morning light. you will deserve every bit of softness you tried so hard to ****. you will deserve every bit of moment that doesn't hurt — someday, you'll get here and you'll know. you'll know.

— to my younger self
fray narte Jun 5
tell me how to strip off this breastplate
and dress myself in pure, lace bodice
washed in all shades of subservience,
when lilith herself taught me
to bare to no man —
bow to no man.

the soil of these lands are built on liberation;
your ribs stake no claim
to what they do not own.
they merely return to dust and ashes —
the very material
of the land you betrayed —
the land you watched burn down,

and i'll tell you this:
this land, it will drift, shake, crumble
to create a catacomb big enough
for all the deaths
you deserve.

honey, this is no prophecy.
this is no threat.

this is justice out of the ribs
of those who'd fallen;
this is justice at the hands of the oppressed.
fray narte May 19
and my fingers will trace these scars on your chest — they're no fault lines but darling, i can fall and fall and fold myself into wildflowers on which sunlight unfurls. but this world, it's a battlefield and red roses bloom not from the soil but from the skin and every death feels like the first.

every kiss feels like the last.

and darling, tomorrow, we have all the time to be broken. we have all the time to grow up. but tonight, let me hold you close; my hands are weary of writing elegies. tonight, let me drown in your seastorm eyes; i am tired of looking for temporary ports and for all the wrong shades of blue. tonight, i will read you poems about a girl named helen, who loved despite the war. tonight, the world can crumble down and i can stay right here, safe and sound in the comfort of your sighs, like a girl resting against bruised lilacs. i can stay right here watching you sleep until the earliest hours, forever asking myself how can someone so ******, so broken by this world possess this much softness.

this much gentleness.

this much peace.

regardless, rest your weary bones, my love. morning still is far away.
fray narte May 19
if only icarus had fallen in love with the moon,
for the sea is her pining lover.

if only he had fallen in love with the moon this time,
then maybe,
the seafoam would have understood the heartbreak,
would have been kind enough to caress his dead body
onto the shore.

sweet one,
poems are for when you fall in love
with someone who just breaks your heart,
and this is
an elegy.
fray narte May 5
but what is forever, if not days just numbered too slow? then, love, we have spent forevers with a couple of sighs and a cigarette away from breaking under the moon — such a devastatingly beautiful sight. then, love, we have spent forevers with cherry-red lips against the thinnest parts of the skin, like dahlias pressed to the pages of a coffee-stained book. then, love, we have spent forevers naming skyscrapers and dying lights — calling them magic, calling them ours. then, love, we have spent forevers crafting words out of our pulses, leaving unintelligible whispers in the wake.

this no storm; this is the calm's betrayal.

and yet, i will hold you the way december holds onto her nights made of hours slipping too slow. i will recite to you all my unwritten postcripts until we have a word for emptiness, so searing — for forevers that end too soon. i will kiss you for the last time, even when these kisses are but the final blunders. i will slowly strip all this remaining love — i have nowhere to leave it in but here — in the space between these words. and i will depart amid the night's silence, leaving behind a briefcase of poems and dahlias bent at the stem, knowing that we have spent forevers against each other's skin, on each other's lips, in each other's arms.

but then, love, what is forever, if not days just numbered too slow?
fray narte Apr 28
by now, the moon knows that my chest is just a burial ground for this thousandfold of sighs — in their hands, all different ways of my undoing, and i am a breath away from one. you see, some nights are for the softest, gentlest moments of lunacy. some nights, for waging wars and succumbing into these sighs, barely held by the petals tightening around my throat. by now, the moon knows that i had once been a battlefield and it's a pity — growing poems on such an unholy ground, only to fall apart like aster leaves and ancient city walls.

darling, it's getting dark, and this is starting to look less like poetry — and more like spoils of war from inside my head.
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