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fray narte Feb 16
no i am not kind, i will pull your heart out of your chest — stain it with fleeting moments of softness before running it over with my train-wreck hands. i will pick you wild roses — they all die in my palms; maybe so will this love. i will kiss you and hold you, as we slow-dance our way to disaster; all we can do is sigh and crumble like greek ruins dying in a modern city. is it so bad, then, loving you with the kind of love that breaks and terrifies, and leaves you hurting and burning and wanting more? is this so bad, then, when it's the only way i've ever loved, and the only way i've ever known?
fray narte Feb 16
These fantasies always end with you staying. Here, my heart can afford to break itself, over and over for you. Here, I never had to let you go again. Here, my love for you always — always outweighs the heartbreak. My love, these fantasies — they always end with us staying.

I guess some things, I wish we had. Some things, I wish were ours. Some things, I wish were us.
fray narte Jan 31
How much more breaking do I have to do until my heart numbs itself? I am sick of this routine — my chest sewing itself just to be ripped apart once more. I wish I can leave it be — an open wound for the flies. And yet, how many more wounds are there until there is no healing scar left to tear? I am sick of this routine. Tonight, I wish my heart would just tear itself into a handful of benumbed pieces. And tomorrow would stare at me — an aftermath of a storm. A heaving curiosity. A girl, lying in pieces and with no heart left to break.
fray narte Jan 21
dig me a boneyard in a field of daffodils —
beneath their sunlit softness
and rustling leaves;
they aren't the first things
my body would ever taint.

i used to tremble as sunlight ran down my skin:
a crouching, wounded fawn
that knew no god —
and if there was, it would be of death.
i used to tremble as sunlight ran down my skin,
before dissolving into
a thousand foreign sorrows i cannot name.
now, sunlight just leaves a trail of smoke —
a forest fire beneath my feet
and no ashes to rise from.

now the rain just falls passively on the soil
but what good is petrichor
when it's your body that rots beneath the dust?

for out of it were you taken;
and unto it shall you return.

dig me a boneyard in a field of daffodils —
beneath their sunlit softness
and rustling leaves;
they aren't the first things
my body would ever taint.

dig me a boneyard and call it transgression.
i was not the first thing
i did ever taint.
ChinHooi Ng Jan 15
A sip of tea and
looking into the distance
twilight closing in
birds returning
on the windowsill
a cat walks by quietly
beads on the wrist are numb
shadow is moving back and forth
scrawling the lament of life
sound of falling leaves
gently falls to the ground
thoughts with soul
floating around
facing the emptiness of a world
not a bright word
staying silent.
fray narte Jan 7
hold at your risk; it's such thin skin —
delicate until it's not —
until beneath each layer,
gracelessly peeled back
isn't a doe-eyed girl
but chaos,
coming undone at the seams of a cold, pewter dress.

stare at your risk,
until what stares back isn't a doe-eyed girl
but lashes made of papercuts;
yet, wounds don't heal in silhouetted figures —
all barefoot on the ground where peonies fall.
all cold and bruising skin where the daylight hits.

wounds don't heal  in silhouetted figures
and the quiet morning cliché is that
it's the softest thing that leaves you hurting the most

lately, these poems are becoming mere abstractions
but the wounds, they remain tender
and the chaos still tries to find its way
outside this skin.
after all,
delicate things aren't meant to hold
this much obscure aching,
these much fragile bones.

lately, these poems are becoming mere abstractions
but the wounds still remain tender
under this cruel, pewter dress.

and they are tender, until they're not.
they are delicate, until they're not.

this is soft. until it's not.
fray narte Dec 2020
I find myself chasing highs only to jump from them. But no, I am no comet. I am just a girl — all sunset eyes and gasoline. All dust grain and stale cigarettes. Shaky lips and broken mugs. Broken matches. Scissors running over my skin. Is it so bad then — wishing for my bones to finally break this time?

I find myself chasing highs only to jump from them, so save my poems and all my tales. Save me the apologies I cannot say. I am sorry. I am sorry. I am sorry.

"It's not enough."

"No, it's not. It's okay."

Save me the apologies I cannot say.

And once more, I find myself chasing highs only to jump from them. And this time, darling, there is no way to survive the fall.
Orange Rose Aug 2019
Classrooms are what you make of them
Empty faces, cotton filled ears
The spark of something new in the eyes of a few
The glaze of sleep in most.
Anticipating the day they are freed.

One day.

Professors who do their best not to reflect the boredom
That they sense thick as tar in the closed up space.
Windows shut, blinds down.
No distractions,
They hope their pupils make something of themselves.

One day.

One girl in the corner jotting down notes,
Too slow before they're erased.
She holds on to imagination as much as she can,
It stretches thin as it flees from her.
She hopes she can make it strong again.

One day.

The boy in the back always has his head down,
Never fully present,
Never to be whole again.
Loss is a bullet none can dodge.
He hopes the wound will heal.

One day.

And the ******* her laptop before class begins.
Typing what she sees in the guise of prose
Desperately hoping the creativity she lost,
Can find it's way back to her.

One day.
fray narte Dec 2020
i would dip kisses on your freckled back, as though it were an arched door of a baroque cathedral. i would strain my arms cradling the frailty of your sadness. i would weave to my lips your whispers, made of cold and lonely december rust. i would dust my bones and flesh, and i would lie there next to you — a clean slate, in silence and awe and uninhibited longing. my love, we could stay like this for a while.

the streetlights flicker and the sunset blurs. but they know —
my heart has always been yours to break.
fray narte Nov 2020

i. october
i am a house burning down
and if i cannot make it out of this body,
at least, let me knit lilacs on my skin
where my wounds are in their softest —
where they hurt the most.

it is easy to look at a girl
and call her trembling poetry.
it is easy to look at a girl
and not see an arsonist.
it is easy to read a poem
and not see the disconnect.

ii. november
i am a boneyard of butterflies —
and these roads know too well the way
a grass blade wounds my feet.

i remember their faint way of hurting —
oh how it had dwindled into normalcy.
and yet maybe when you play numb long enough,
everything slowly does.

iii. december
i remember reading epitaphs as a kid;
it is eighteen years too late
for a half-meant apology
and soon enough,
when the woodsmoke lifts, you'll see
wisterias tying the noose,
swinging lovingly from these corpse-cold fingers.

i remember writing epitaphs.
each word — a love child my tombstone never knew.

iv. january
say my farewells to summer, i cannot wait.
soon, someone will walk me slowly to a river —
all pressed tux and a lace wedding dress
and hold my head down,
gently, softly,
until each tiny breath has escaped
this mad house.
this boneyard.
this mouth.

i do.

i do.

i do.

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