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1d · 44
Calm
You can only love so much with your naive, blameless heart. You can only love me here, until this moment before the daylight arrives, settling gracefully next to my clothes on these hardwood floors. Palms like yours can never hold storms, and the ones in my chest have never known peace. I should've known in the first place that I was never meant to stay. So I'm leaving, without much of lingering scents or bedside letters. I'm leaving the exact same way that all storms do. I'm leaving, and I hope it hurts.




I hope the calm after me hurts.
1d · 39
Anne
Where do I start in letting you go?

It's not in the ruminations. All they'll long for are simpler, purer times, back when loving me was everything you ever knew — back when sighing your name didn't hurt. Now it's a whisper, settling on the ground long after the woodsmoke has stopped lingering. Now, it's just a memory settling deep in an open wound.

And love, where do I start in letting you go? My hands are still bruised from writing poems, when you already were handing me crumpled paper roses — all etched with endings I was afraid to write. The moment you kissed her lips, did you already let me go? Now here on my shoulder rests the weight — the mess of it all. Tell me, what do I do with these words, falling helplessly on my lap? What do I do with all this hurting? What do I do with all this love?

And where do I start in letting you go, when my shaking hands still refuse to confront your absence? When my throat still refuses to abandon all yearning — a wounded huntress that still screams for the moon. And I'd hoped it is easier to stop loving you after your skin had been tainted by her lips, ghosting gently — forming into the sweetest of smiles.

And I'd hoped it is easier to stop loving you after you had drowned August's promises against her hair when you'd deepen your kiss — after you had surrendered September's 4 a.m.s, November's love letters, December's midnight rains, January's stove-lit dances, February's moonlit walks, March's Irish teas and solitude, and April's quiet peace — all of it, spoiled, in the name of her kiss. Now all of it — in ruins, lying, waiting patiently for a can of worms, burrowing their way into everything I held dear.

Rome didn't burn down in a day. I wish I would. I wish we would; what's left in ruins won't ever hurt.

And so love,
where do I start in letting you go?




// "Tell me all the ways of letting you go."
August took it all away — the long peaceful drives before the daylight, the fresh sheets and coffee kisses and the scent of calm after the storm, the eyes — your eyes, deep brown in contrast of the afterglow.

August took it all away, so easily — all slender fingers and somber face — the comfort of the hearth, and the promises, and the sunlit, warm days of summer; how happy we were. Darling, how happy we were. Now the walls are oppressively dull behind vibrant photographs, and the room is cold, and the silence is loud. How could I have known that I was walking around the pitfalls elaborately built on your fragile skin? In all this obscurity, I only know that I loved you so. How could I have known all the impossibly cruel ways that you would break my heart, when all you did was loved me so?

And you loved me, right? You loved me, for some time, before all the wrong there is — before all the pitfalls gave in, spoiling midnights and tainting mornings, taking down everything that I ever called home. You loved me, darling; at least that you did. You loved me.



At least that you said.


Now August has taken it all away, and all I know is that heartbreaks are worse in the early hours of a cold morning.




I hope September is warmer. Brighter. Gentler.


I hope September is kinder to us.
6d · 58
Untitled
"Please don't ever leave me."

And love, I never would have left — not for all the serene mornings unsettled by these shapeless thoughts. Not for all the sanest kisses laid gracefully on scarring skin. Not for all the storms that had dissolved into the calm. I never would have left you — not for the world falling away into a mess of sorrows while the sun watches from afar. But the street lights are spent and mornings are colder and my hands are bruised from picking up all the pieces that you broke.

Did you feel most alive when you were killing me?


Now in the silence, my poems mourn over a loss that isn't theirs.


And in the silence, you say, "Please, don't ever leave me."



And in the silence, I answer, "I wish I never had to."
Aug 3 · 162
Diana
fray narte Aug 3
Mine is just another room lit in the cold of the night —
this just another poem in a bedside drawer,
written by just another girl
whose windows she left open to talk to the moon —

it's just another liar

to another naive girl, reading into every word,
splashing into every wave, rising.

Oh, to drown in grace
under the moonlight
was not something I'm supposed to know;
now, didn't you think
I already was broken enough
to have this dress, all drenched,
these cheeks, all wet,
these boats, all wrecked?

The moon is just another liar,
and epiphany is just a pretty word
for truths, finally unveiling themselves

as betrayal,
as ache,
beguiled by the moon to spread,
to map these bones and joints,
flooding,
claiming my body for its own;
now all this hurting is the ocean
and I, a whale carcass.

And the moon is a liar and the windows are closed

and in these moon-forsaken sheets,
I do not know where to start healing first.
Jul 24 · 77
Eleventh Time
fray narte Jul 24
There are nights when I run out of flesh,
of skin and bones
to melt,
to offer,
to fill this glaring pit,
now just a rusting can of worms
There are nights when my soul wraps itself
in silken ribbons and velvet gowns
slipping slowly off this skin:
a striptease for death;
maybe more.

There are nights when my soul
waits,
stills in a corner
and readies itself for Plath to collect.

Get it all out now —
the linen is too short,
the myrrh, too little
for the allusions and all these twisted laments.

This wake is good for just one tragedy.

Get it all out —
the obvious references,
the tributes to another poet,
who killed herself —

get it all out, little girl.

There is no room for two in a coffin
in a world where
Lady Lazarus dies and stays dead.
fray narte Jul 24
it's almost midnight and i'm drowning in every ******* poem i ever wrote for you — in every ******* poem you'll no longer read.
Jul 24 · 77
2013
fray narte Jul 24
i always dreamed about this —
meeting you again
in our favorite bookstore
and buying our usual authors
and getting paper cuts from ****** novels
just like the old times,
before the words all
fell out of the books.

i always dreamed about this —
neck kisses and i love yous
in a yard we'd call our own,
while the playlists we made
echo from earphones left lying in the grass.

i always dreamed about this —
listening to you recite poems
under the sky and the meteor showers;
then again darling, every prose you say
is my spoken poetry —
is my love sonnet written
for matilde urrutia.

i always dreamed about this —
getting lost once more
in the space between your freckles
and in the outline of your lips
and in the scent of your cologne
mixed with early morning petrichor.

i always dreamed about this —
about this very moment of seeing you again,
in mundane places
and maybe years later,
dreams can come true
somewhere in grocery aisles
and casual talks;
except in my dreams:

you're not wearing a wedding band.
you're not lost in the way that he smiled.

in my dreams,
i'll be the one opening the doors
and carrying the grocery bags,
and you'll not walk away
and leave so soon
while smiling back at him, darling
and while holding his hand.

in my dreams,
i'll still be the one saying i love you.
i love you.
i love you.

and you will still
say it back.
Jul 24 · 144
lies in the seabed
fray narte Jul 24
the poets and their poems
say that
she is
an ocean,
vast enough — deep enough
to hold
all of the world's
sun-forsaken sadness,
to hold so much enigma
and twisted ironies
of how oceans — such as herself  —
d r o w n.


and here, we see
a search and rescue.

here we see
a body pulled out.

here we see
the poets.

here we see
the poems.

here we see
the liars.

here we see
the lies.
Jul 14 · 226
funeral songs
fray narte Jul 14
i have sealed all the papercuts on my skin;
they have become unmarked,
untended graves
and the willows have long learned
to do their weeping in the dark;
and now,
there can never be enough tears,
never enough mourners
dressed in all the shades of black
to share all this grief
in its most abstract form.

oh, to hear the farewells,
to feel the poems,
to see the wreaths
tossed all over the place
and yet, there can never be enough flowers in the world
to hide these wrists —
all scars and lines for everyone to see
and everyone to read
as if epitaphs to a gravestone;

these wrists —
all scratches from a girl buried by mistake;
the casket, the ground
can only do so much.

oh, such
morbid
thoughts
from such
a morbid
girl;

little one,
you write way too much about death
and his earthly belongings.


maybe one day he'll do the same.
Jul 13 · 108
2018
fray narte Jul 13
Maybe it's all still here, like storms made of bruises and the relics of Carthage under siege. Here, like the laments of a Sunday morning while staring back at tragic eyes. Maybe it's all here, somewhere in this layer of skin beneath the white lines on your wrists. Now the blade just feels like another stranger coming home at 4 a.m.

It was right here in the bones of a girl that once was made of sunlit blunders and curiosities; if you dig deep enough, you might exhume the remains of what she used to be — all purple vervains and the poems she swallowed whole.

Oh, that cruel, cruel joke of delicate things, still withering at the wake of storms such as yourself. Has no one cared enough to tell you that maybe, this isn't what getting better looks like? Maybe you just learned how to seem less messed up.
Jul 9 · 101
clarisse
fray narte Jul 9
i wanna dive head first
into a map of the night skies
trapped inside our four-walled room;
maybe this is where black holes go to die
and they can all stare back at me —
swallowing a chaos of sobs
and a chaos of all your favorite songs;
regardless, i’ll dive into the night skies,
or what it used to be
and name these stars – the ones that remain anyway,
after you.
after me.
after us;
at least they take a long time to die –
long enough for flowers to droop and fall apart
on weeds and lonely epitaphs.

and dear, i hope heaven is holding you closer than i could ever had;
tell me, did you, like sylvia
write suicide notes and call them poetry?

and god do i hope that heaven is holding you so close,
you forget all of the world’s sadness
you once took for your own.

out here, the calendula falls and
my eyes mourn over petal-covered graves
poems cannot hope to beautify.
and i still wish this is something i can wake up from
fray narte Jul 9
It's that cliché half-past midnight scene:
you're reading her my poems, under the light of your cigarette, not knowing they were all written for you —


god, the words you read her —
as you kiss her,
they were all written for you.
Jul 8 · 62
sea nymph
fray narte Jul 8
calypso withers away in a lonely island —
a blunder away from crumbling
at the sight of seaspray and empty towns.

sweet one, this isle is too small
for heartbreaks too big and soon enough,
gods and grecian men
and sad, sad, dead-eyed boys
will be greeted by a mayhem of sobs,
like flies dispersing off a dead body
held together by skin —
pale,
porcelain,
dead —
skin, stretched across these bones,
like the sea stretches across all of its sadness —
and ogygia, a lost isle,
disappears —
a speck of black in a shade of teal;

a pity your heart is not big enough for these sorrows
and not small enough to vanish.

and perhaps, betrayals do not come from
temporary lovers but from your skin
stretching, growing,
making room for years of blunders
until  y o u  are
n o
m o r e
but a name baptized in the wrong side of the war
and caught in a blunder
thousands of years too late.


it's been a long while;
the sun remembers your smile in his death bed, sweet one.
Jun 28 · 81
alice in wreck
fray narte Jun 28
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
Jun 5 · 106
daughter of lilith
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.
May 19 · 171
hermione granger
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.
May 19 · 149
icarus and the moon
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?
Apr 28 · 218
spoils of war
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.
Apr 26 · 235
to beatriz
fray narte Apr 26
and yet, what are we but mere mortals
somehow caught in the world's anger?
what am i but just another girl
weaving these words
in the corners of a ceiling
where the moon doesn't shine —
hidden by dust and out of reach
and you are a victim,
walking straight to spider silk;
somewhere in the sky,
artemis is perched on the moon —
watching, warning.

and for all we know,
she knows, that apollo, too
had written poems for all his lovers;
i will borrow these words,
fumbling to write all the things
i cannot say.
but in the end, how can i write
about your love and its softness
when all i've known are wolves and shredded baskets,
when my legs are made for chasing the fog,
when my hands are made for ripping red cloths
and poorly folding them into roses?
alas, darling,
these are my pressed tulips and chaste kisses
delicately folded into words.
this is my testament;
these are my whispers in their softest.
these are my fingers in their gentlest.
this is my love for you.

this.
Apr 14 · 532
some bukowski girl
fray narte Apr 14
she saunters to the room
in white sundress and boots —
some girl bukowski would probably write about.
her heart, stitched to her sleeves,
leaving her chest
smothered with lilacs and cigarette smoke.

how do you know you got embers
that can start a forest fire
when all that matters
is walking straight to the arms
of a storm dressed as another girl —
a girl dressed as another storm
leaving behind casualty after casualty
after casualty
in leaky apartments and hotel rooms.

well,
poets don't tell you how storms kiss —
how they're made of moonlight,
dripping like ether on a sea glass
and before you know it,
your skin is the sea, reaching,
yielding with total abandon
to every curling of the tongue,
to chapped lips and to sighs.

this must be
what 'it' looks like.

then again,
bukowski never really wrote that much about love,
and it's no secret;

her feet are no altars
to offer your poems
and darling,

your lips are not where
storms go to rest.
Apr 7 · 225
revolution
fray narte Apr 7
my heart only knows rage
growing, crawling like wildfire
to which my bones will collapse like lilac twigs;

then again, honey,
we do not burn down with the fire — we become it,
should we fall like witches condemned.

then again, honey,
they do not burn; the fire knows its mistress' touch
and today, we have inherited
all the anger, all the wrath, all the names of the men
she held onto for centuries in her palms.

today, she will avenge
all her sisters lynched and effaced
all her brothers starved and gunned
by the very pigs who swore to protect
and the fire will
creep, engulf, and spread,
torching their money and their abusive hands —
their lying tongues and iron fists
burning in cauldrons
they will burn us in,
and the smoke will rise to the heavens
until all that's left are ashes
from where no cruel man will rise.
and the smoke will rise to the heavens
until justice,
like a goddess,
emerges from a foam of embers.

and the smoke will slowly lift —
so will this anger.
so will this wrath.

and it's the sun itself that awakes
to the promise of a new day.
Mar 29 · 158
Journal Entry #29
fray narte Mar 29
"These are but bruises not healing fast enough — bruises from all the black holes I swallowed. Then again, the ocean doesn't always spit back out what it has claimed for itself. Maybe it works that way as well, with all these black holes. Because, you see, if I'm not one at all, why does daylight breaking through my skin have to hurt this much?"
fray narte Mar 18
tell me,
if i tear my way out of this skin —
bash it, cut it all open
until all that's left
is a hollow beneath
a veiled sculpture,
if i peel these wound scabs raw
and adorn them with buttercups:
an offering to the god of death,
if i scratch on these wrists
hard enough,
long enough,

deep enough, they won't heal,
creating an outlet —
a crevice, nonetheless,
tell me,
can i finally escape myself?

can i finally escape myself?
Mar 7 · 313
Homesickness
fray narte Mar 7
My heart is a shrivel of miagos bushes,
uprooted, shoved, chucked in new soil;
the leaves between my lips,
now, in an unhealthy shade of chartreuse.

Regardless, I have taught myself
to shear them into tiny leaf crumbs,
making trails —
marking the houses, the buildings,
the roads of this foreign city,
safekeeping directions
into a catalog of things that aren't home.

My feet are weary and somehow,
they manage to find their way
back in this cold, oppressive room.
And yet, how does one sleep under the glare of these walls?
How does one revive a dying garden
in a city that only knows
the language of tires as they kiss the pavements,
in a city that only knows
the walis tingting's weary sweeping
of these crumbs of miagos leaves —
the ones leading back home?

Yes,

I can teach my tongue and all its browning, dying leaves
to remember these new ways of growth,
these new words, new schedules,
new routes, new streets.

Alas, even the waters, even the sun
can't teach it to love the language it doesn't speak.
Mar 6 · 255
the calm, settling
fray narte Mar 6
so here i am, walking away from cadillacs and city lights, as if skipping through soundtracks and photographs. above, the clouds have worn their black veils and the rain, it has started mourning each car i pass by, each block, each step taken. it mourns all the sorrows i cannot poke, all the letters i cannot write, all the words i cannot say.

the rain, it mourns all those summer days of pure bliss, with the sunlight peacefully fissuring through the trees. oh how we kissed, all soiled jeans and grass on sundresses. sweaty palms, hands on thighs, all yours prayers left on my neck. the cigarettes and dogwoods forgotten on our periphery.



i love you, i love you, i love you. you were the first, the last, the always.



and yet, how did we ever become that sweet summer’s downfall? the cigarettes are now ashed under all these spent lights and faint sunset colors. these mint breaths and sun-warmed kisses, now just bruises on my lips — now just memories slowly flaking off my skin.





and i used to love you. stupid, stupid girl.





now the rain has washed all those fields and the sins they’d seen. it has washed my skin of the lingering cigarette smoke, of your kisses, of your touch, and i’m not sure if i ever wanna forget. but even the rain’s heartbreak leaves behind the serenity of the last raindrops. lush grasses. damp streets. that distinct, morning breeze. that subtle scent of petrichor. that quiet settling of the calm.





maybe that’s all i need to know.
fray narte Feb 19
My 11:11s were made for sleepless nights
playing back all these scenes
when your heartbeat still melted against my ears,
every sigh that lingered on my temple,
every touch that lingered on my skin
11:11s were made for asking
this dimmed wall sconces what it would be like
to feel your body close the spaces,
to feel it next to mine once more,
of what it would be like to kiss you in the dark,
with complete abandonment,
like a wolf howling its heart out
to the moon after a sunset that lasted forever

It was 11:11, and now, I know
I should’ve closed my eyes
and kissed you that drunken April night,
and melted in your arms when I still had the chance.
Now, I close them, without you around,
wrestling with these fixations
trying to convince myself
that one more recall of the memories would be the last;
one more make-believe,
one more fantasy wouldn't hurt.
One more,

and one more,
and one more,
I said,

and it was 11:12
and suddenly,

it did.
Feb 19 · 218
this brain's betrayal
fray narte Feb 19
i couldn't remember how i lost my handmade bookmarks; maybe i crumpled them mindlessly together with receipts and coupons and grocery lists. maybe they're hidden between the pages of a borrowed library book. i couldn't remember how i lost my gel pens and markers; maybe they're somewhere on a bus seat on the way to a different city; maybe they're left untouched on an armchair or on a table in overrated coffee shops i vowed to never enter again.

i couldn't remember how i lost the flowers i'd grown; maybe it was on that prom blurred like city lights with a guy named drew; i couldn't remember how i lost my favorite bracelet and my love for reading books while sitting on the toilet, couldn't remember how i lost my childhood best friend; maybe it was because i cut her doll's hair, or because i wouldn't let her play with my plastic cooking set.

but it was a warm, sunday night; the table was stained with cold soup and soda when you set down the spoon way too carefully and gazed at my eyes.

“i’ve fallen out of love.”

i’ve fallen out of love.

and i couldn't remember how i lost all the other things, darling but to this day, i still remember how i lost you that night.
fray narte Feb 19
Love, I said I wouldn't miss the sound of your early morning voice.
These sheets were weighed from all the times the dawn sent its sunrays
like palms filled with love letters;
but maybe I too, had become all the dawns that lingered too long.
I said I wouldn't miss the outline of your body;
oh how I planted kisses on every uncharted curve
but this bed is now a map of strangers from all these towns I do not know.

I said I wouldn't miss the hands, touching,
fingers picking each stray breath away;
I wouldn’t miss waking up next to you —
all serene, all magical than lucid dreams.

But darling, it's ten to twelve and our memories,
they covet me as the summer rain pours outside
and now,

I miss all these stupid little things;
the brief way you wince at papercuts,
the secret smiles after eye rolls
and radios turned to the max,
the way red lipsticks and love notes
linger on bathroom mirrors;
the water and steam have erased them now,
love, I miss the way you hog blankets;
the threads have now come undone,
taking down your scent with them,
all too painful, all too slow, it slips
even from these memories,

And I know I said I wouldn't miss you
but it's half past twelve, and I'm in your shirt
and the rain had stopped
but I think so far — so far love,

missing you has not.
Feb 16 · 183
Heathens
fray narte Feb 16
But they stripped us of our robes, our faces and names until we're but calamities inside loose skins, crumbling and flaking off. And maybe that's why we started to believe that we're the ones who burned in *****, kneeled before the calf, and died in the lion's den.
fray narte Feb 8
so when you dissolve into a thousand poems you can never write trying to look for the way out, let go. even the moon melts parts of itself, and your skin, it is made from the cracks constellations have between its stars. and when december starts to breathe the last of its sadness — and how it lingers on your skin: a glass so breakable, let go; wilted flowers no longer flinch at a lightning's touch; you are made from the same matter — all cold lips and an ether of sighs. let go, darling. all this, because you are not just a girl. you are a storm without a calm.
Feb 6 · 238
atlas
fray narte Feb 6
somewhere in manhattan,
atlas carries the weight of his heart —
a suitcase of battle scars and cigarettes
that strayed too far from his lips.

each vein, a thread
for all these sorry poems
that cannot write themselves.
each valve,
a compartment for spent lights
and all these fallen dandelion clocks —
all centuries' worth
and his body, it longs to rest
like a mass of dahlias and complexities,
coming undone in the arms
of a funeral song.



i remember someone telling me it's easier to talk about yourself in third person.


and yet, how do you depersonalize and say that
in there,
sadness has lovingly grown its flesh —
like wild grass spreading free in abandoned lawns,
albeit carefully contained,
carefully covered by these patches of skin
so as to not flood —
to not spill at every sigh
and yet, there can never be enough
breaths taken,
breaths given away

to keep it all intact,
to fend off all the
pecking,
the gnawing at the skin from its forgotten corners,
now a feast to a flight of vultures.

i now know why it's easier to talk about yourself in third person.


somewhere in manhattan,
atlas shakes, crumbles, collapses.
the flesh gives in;
the arms cave in under all this mass:
this weight of a heart,
this weight of the skies — they just slip right off your hands
and words don't see the difference.
Feb 2 · 550
persephone and hecate
fray narte Feb 2
I. Persephone

Naive girls don't make good lovers
but I will sink into the comfort
of your clementine lips, grazing,
staking claim on my skin —
an offering to your kisses made of molten lead,
oh, how surely, how gently they trail,
like a river following its memory lane.

And yet, I have apologies etched on my skin;
I am a poem that bruises quickly
like petals on the soil.
So much for being the goddess of spring
when all I have are wildflowers
and moans scattered on the sheets of the dusk.

We know naive girls don't make good lovers
so cast me, Hecate, into firelight
where all your daughters burned.
Strip me of this sundress;
my chest was half of Demeter's softness
and half of the underworld's wrath.

And yet, I, too, am made of papercuts
forged to look like carmellia buds
lost and slow dancing in broad daylight,
your hands on my waist —
a quiet breath,
a delicate touch:

such curious ways of coming home.
Naive girls, they don't make good lovers
but I will pick you stray sunlights and goldenrods —
leave them by your bed;
these sheets know that
I belong to no throne.
I belong to no man.

And they say that naive girls don't make good lovers,
but only just;
darling, your walls are an eyewitness
to your gaze and my corruption.

So much for innocence
now neck-deep in mildew and anomalies.
So much for springtime,
its fields, now made
for us coming undone.
And so much for winter, darling —
so much for winter.

It may never come.
Jan 24 · 239
testimonies
fray narte Jan 24
tell me, how long do heartbreaks last? it has been a long while now, darling and i should have gotten over you already, but here i am still mailing my heartaches to september, hoping that its rains take it all away. i should have gotten over you but still, i have learned to hide my love in the crumpled edges of every unsent letter. i have learned to tuck it in a box of overrated heartaches. i have learned to silence it, just as i have learned to silence all the songs i can never listen to again without breaking.

i should have gotten over you by now but my here i am — palms made of longing and rust, reaching out for empty couches and empty beds — a stubborn instinct, a muscle memory carved in my brain. and despite all the fumbling, all the reaching — all these spaces can offer are poems spilled by these telltale lips, like lilies crowding a grave of what we were and what had been. i should have gotten over you by now, but what's the harm in failing? after all, i have nothing more to lose but made-up metaphors and midnights.

so these are all my high-hopes free-falling once more to the ground. so this is me, straightening up the crumpled edges. this is me, tearing boxes and looking at heartache in the eye. this is me, drowning in the songs we ruined no matter how much it rips my heart. and this isn't another one of those unsent letters; this is an apostrophe i never dared to write seven years earlier, cause darling, some heartbreaks, you turn to poetry; some heartbreaks, you just don't. this is a testimony about what it's like to say 'i love you', and you can hear the hesitations from the tip of their tongue. this is a testimony about what it's like to have someone slipping and fading away amid all your denials. this is about what it's like to kiss someone and see someone, and the living with the pain of not knowing it's your last. this is about what it's like to wake up one day, and one month, and one year after they leave without the emptiness getting any lighter. this is about what it's like to lose someone — to just lose someone right before your very eyes. this is a testimony, darling, about what it's like to lose someone — to just helplessly lose someone when you still love them so much.
Jan 23 · 754
creatures of the night
fray narte Jan 23
it's an all too familiar, all too ironic situation —
knowing safety, softness —
lingering tastes off darkness' tongue,
now trailing down our skin.

the dark has taught us that
safezone is having the night skies
perched around us
and the moon rises from every touch, slipping,
from every kiss, ending;

and yet, how can something so dim, so obscure
remind me of the sun and its clarity?
darling, these rendezvous have taught me that
you are the lovechild of the night and the day
and i am likened to a vampire
whose fatal flaw is its
longing for the sun.

oh, to see you,
touch you,
kiss you

in the daylight

without burning.
without hiding.
without fears and pretenses.




and yet, we can only be in this all too familiar, all too ironic situation;
we can only be, in the safety of the nightfall —
we can only be, darling, in safety of the dark.
Jan 20 · 112
safe space
fray narte Jan 20
No longer will the daybreak find letters
sent in a rush to the last of the stars.
No longer will it find
a box of fallen eyelashes and wishbones
and birthday candles
and all the remnants of these lips
wishing for cancelled plans and library dates
and warm Sunday afternoons
spent on kitchen floors,
running high on shared laziness and unwashed shirts.

Darling, love’s eyes are never ours
to behold in these daylight-tainted
sheets;

so if it’s darkness that shows me the safe space,
that allows our eyes to collide like seas
if it’s neon lights and the noise of the bass that look at us —
like we’re a well-buried secret
like t h i s,
can be poetry
just underlain by permafrost,

then maybe this —
you.
and a white flag waved in the dark: a fair trade —
can be beautiful, can be enough in itself.

Then maybe it’s fine not knowing;
maybe it’s fine not being yours.
Jan 14 · 140
all the loose threads
fray narte Jan 14
i am no longer a girl;
my body has played host
to the fourth of the Fates,
and this is the twilight, unfolding.

the midday has seen clotho, spinning the thread
has seen lachesis measuring it, atropos cutting it.

and here i sit, a figure in the sunset —
a silhouette of a weaver in tattered dress

my heartbeat, a substandard thread,
a mess in my pockets
getting shorter and shorter
with each wound sewn shut

and yet,
a seagull's flap,
a poke of a stick,
and all these stitches come undone.

a cautious breath,
a loosened thread,
and the sunsets learn a new shade of red.
Jan 13 · 114
journal entry #50
fray narte Jan 13
Today,
I am the emptiest space
and in the center is a black hole.
The sun, dethroned;
the planets have seen it all

and they can only witness so much.

Then again,
what happens in space is unseen by the naked eye.
fray narte Jan 13
hey.. i'm sorry i didn't call. i actually wanted to, but, well, you know me.

you remember that first time we stayed up until five in the morning? i told you that i only know the kind of love that slowly rips your heart. maybe it's because all i've ever known about love was from the kind that came from ****** up people — my mom, my estranged dad, charles bukowski. her. there'll be always be something in me that will crave the recklessness, the emotional distances, running red lights and messing around. you see, to me love was walking straight into greek fire, but you make me feel like it's divine — just staying put and watching the flames with your head laid on my chest.

so it's not that i don't want this. maybe i do, with a newfound intensity that terrifies me. there, i said it.. and it's unsettling, you see. cause i don't know how to love you with the kind of love that doesn't involve destruction. i don't know how i can love you without greek fires burning us — sinking us. so it's easier this way. telling you that this is going nowhere and that i can't love you. i can't love you. *******, i can't love you.

please. forget i ever said anything.
fray narte Jan 5
I have mastered the art
of making myself small;
the years have taught me
how to fold myself
step by step,
edge to edge
into pinwheels and paper lilies
mindlessly left in infinitesimal space —
an instinct —
a secret slipping into the unconscious,
left beneath the mattress,
left behind the doors.

The years — they've taught me
how to take my heart out —
take it apart and fold it
into a thousand paper cranes —

all cooped up in my ribs.

Their wings, decaying
with all the wishes
I never allowed myself to make.

Their beaks, pecking on the flowers,
on the wheels,
on my skin:
an obsession, a compulsion,
a ritual for symmetry,

a constant flipping,
a ceaseless folding,

until i am small enough —
insignificant enough to attract no attention,
to remain unseen, unheard,
unnoticed in the room.

And here, in this infinitesimal space
I have mastered the art
of making myself small.
Jan 1 · 245
hospital walls
fray narte Jan 1
too bright —
too light —
the hospital walls
offer no place to cry.
too flawless —
too white,
and i am the spot in the middle,
the blemish,
the stains,
the discoloration
to a scrutinizing gaze.

i can feel them shying away
from these black candles i lit —
burning away like a sacrifice —
the melting filth of wax
that dared defile
something so holy as a savior's robes,

i can feel them flinch
upon the touch of these hands
and yet i am a woman unhealed,

upon the sight of these tears —
a baptism,
a renaming ceremony

in honor of the graveyards
i dug in secret,
in honor of the coffins
lowered in my chest,
in honor of the soil filling in the depths
all too careful,
all too slow
until i am reborn as Mourning
and until mourning fades into specks of dust.

and the hospital walls still look spotless.
and the hospital walls still look too pure.
Inspired by Sylvia Plath's Tulips and my own share of grief
Jan 1 · 227
nyx and erebus
fray narte Jan 1
out there is the vast, primordial space. empty. infinite. timeless. and for billions of years, the stars had been killing themselves.

sweet one, isn't that very telling?
Dec 2019 · 322
before sunrise
fray narte Dec 2019
and i love you like this:

in these freshly washed sheets,
with our limbs tangling,
with your breath on my skin where my shoulder meets my neck
under your gaze,
under what's left of the stars,
in the air, the scent of coffee, and apple crisps, and something that's just purely you,
in these cold, quiet hours before the daylight,
in the every silent ticking of the clock
with newfound honesty
with newfound softness
with each calming of my breath,
with each time it's taken away
with the high of knowing you're here and we're here.
and with the fear of that high,
with the sunrise so far away
with us just lying here in the stillness, in the dark
in the inadequacy of poetry — darling this is peak experience. this is perfect.
Dec 2019 · 268
asteria
fray narte Dec 2019
here lies asteria.
and her falling stars —
they crash faster than they rise
here inside this starless chest —
a foreign place,
a refugee camp —
all leaden lungs and a leaden sky.

here she sleeps
under a blanket of nightfall one might mistake for the golden fleece,
but then again,
alchemy is a long, forgotten lover
all bag of tricks,
and sleight of hand,
all doves and swords
and a fickle heart.

so what of her?
what of a lonely girl?
what of her history and all her scattered bones?

what of a fallen Titaness?
what of this diaspora of all her dying stars?
what of this sepulcher for all her nameless stars?

here lies asteria
with her unbaptized stars —
here, where the dark side of the moon
goes home.
here, where wisterias and howling wolves
and stifled screams
go to die.

here inside this starless chest,
these pallid lips,
this leaden skin of mine.

here lies asteria. here lies her host.
and this is how a black hole sighs.
Dec 2019 · 246
spoils of war
fray narte Dec 2019
and lately, these poems have become nothing — nothing but just mere spoils of war from inside my head.
Dec 2019 · 246
12 • 25 • 17
fray narte Dec 2019
there were christmas days when we would binge watch on friends and other 90s movies while greasy take outs under the fairy lights taped on leaky ceilings and lanterns that looked out of place.

there were christmas days when we would engage in pillow fights and lie on the fake snow in your room, reading the letters we'd written each other while waiting for the carol singers to leave.

there were christmas days when we would make trees out of the pile of stephen king books and hang polaroids on decorated cactus plants and rock to simple plan's christmas list.

there were christmas days when we would make a mess in your kitchen; me, wiping whipped cream on the tip of your nose and you, force-feeding me soggy graham floats.

there were christmas days when we we would kiss under fake mistletoes and read the saddest poems on the struck of eleven and miss eating on christmas eve because, love — there were christmas days when listening to your voice and getting lost in your eyes were enough.

there were christmas days when we still would cuddle in cheap sofa beds, wrapped in ribbon and christmas lights, as if that was enough.

there were christmas days when christmas still felt like christmas, and not just another day of ripping my chest out cor my heart.

there were christmas days when we kissed and we kissed and we kissed on the dinner table and next to the fire; there were christmas days when we kissed like it was our first; and kissed, without knowing it was our last.

there were christmas days when you still loved me darling.

and there are christmas days like now, that you do not.
Dec 2019 · 193
the song in the taverns
fray narte Dec 2019
you should know better than sacking hopeless places,
it is no glorious feat:
white hands,
erecting flags in the wounds of a pagan soil;
i wish i could've returned to dust right then.
white hands,
caressing softly the marks left by your whip
on my skin — now, a blank sheet,
wide open for your kisses;
but by now, your tongue should've known that
papercuts wound all the same.

my chest had been a burial place
for the nights i couldn't name;
and tonight,
my heart wants to leave behind
the very tomb —
the very body you seized for yourself —
the very host to your planted flags
and romanesque cathedrals
and brothels,
and tonight will be the crusades
for all these captured, lovely ashes
and all these captured, lovely bones.

and into the wind i'll be scattered.
and into the wind i'll go.
and honey, you may think you have won the war

but this is the song waiting in the taverns
that women will sing for you back home.
Dec 2019 · 183
lucius
fray narte Dec 2019
nothing good happens after 2 am.

and yet here we are —
a rather curious pair of star-litten messed ups;
they say that liquid mercury and bare skin
are never a good combination
but kiss me nonetheless;
hold me nonetheless,
burn me nonetheless —

after all,
temples get burned down for the idols they host.

nothing good happens after 2 am,
but then again,
this is no place for sunsets and poems and sunday dates;
this is the apocalypse —
trapped for centuries inside our skin.
so go on,
break me — crack me open and lick the wounds,
and then maybe we'll know why persephone keeps going back to the underworld.
and then maybe we can call it love.
so go on,
kiss me until running breathless
becomes our way of breathing;
this may not be something we survive.

after all,
the daylight is an estranged lover and we are this house's walls trying to forget.

nothing good happens after 2 am,
but you will be the reason for every word, darling.
you will be the nightfall-colored eyes,
the nails all painted black
from when you dug for the dirt in my chest.
you will be the forgotten histories,
the impenetrable groves,
the coffee shop clichés,
the storms that never pass,
the nights that never last,
the secret places and warzones
and cotton dresses and fallen peonies,
and a threefold heartbreak
personified —

after all,
heartbreaks feel better when they come from you.

nothing good happens after 2 am
but t h i s already is a cautionary tale, anyway,
even without the 2 am
and tonight will be us,
crying wolf and coming undone.
tonight will be us,
tiptoeing through a minefield of mistakes,
mistakes,
and mistakes.
tell me, what's the harm in another one?

tonight will be our mayhem
and our foreboding
and our free-fall —
fatal. irreversible. majestic.
tonight will be us —
foreign lands mapping each other,
baptizing each other, darling.

and tomorrow will be ours to regret.
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