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I used to read
I used to write
Songs,
Stories,
Poetry.

I used to knit
I used to sew
Plushies,
Scarfs,
Roses.

What happened to the days
Where I found enjoyment from the little things?
Why is it now
That what I once loved
Feels like a chore
That tires me,
Bores me,
Makes me contemplate everything.

What happened to my carefree childhood
Where nothing mattered
Other than when I could write
Songs,
Stories,
Poetry?
When I uses to knit and sew
Plushies,
Scarfs,
Roses?

What happened?
And why?
"Alright, I've had enough of this."
"Yeah, what are we doing looking at drawings of plushies of Pokémon anyway?"
"I guess that's just go the Internet rolls; you just keep going off on tangents, forever."
zebra Nov 2021
THE SECRET RITUAL:
Irrespective of the wonderful *** you might have with others, or any ideals you may have about who, when, and where to engage sexually, sometimes the *** that you have with yourself gives you something impossible to achieve with another.

To be specific: what I’m speaking of are the internal mental constructs of performative ****** acts that are unrestricted in the imaginative world, and that one would never be able to consider in real time. Those masturbatory shadows of the deep and deeply ****** that few are able to acknowledge about themselves, and certainly remain unwilling to talk about with someone they maybe intimate with, for fear of its destructive impact on the relationship.

A shape of language
for the secrets of the body
for the secrets of the mind
in the flow of matter
physical and etheric
cyber chronicles of ambulated hunger
the cult of the body.

YOUR SEXULITY IS SACRED TO YOU, NOT SACRED FROM YOU:

Obviously moral sensibilities and the limits of temporal life dictate what we may do. We may be imaginative, bizarre, freaky and incredibly *****, but we are not crazy, at least not all of us, yet that doesn’t mean those shadowy ****** denizens of the deep don’t bathe in the great fathoms of our respective subconscious abyss.

My darkest desires
bloodletting streams
are a kind of ******
fetishy cognitive inventory
malformed denizens
of the subconscious.

THE PARAPHILIAS:
“Paraphilia is the experience of intense ****** arousal to atypical objects, situations, fantasies, behaviors, or individuals.”
Current data supports that about one out of every 6 people, irrespective of gender or ****** preference, experience some kind of paraphilia.
Here is a list of paraphilias that is a focus of ****** interest:

Andromimetophilia: Trans men.
Anililagnia: Attraction by young men to older women.
Anthropophagolagnia: ****** and then cannibalizing another person.

Anthropophagy: Ingesting human flesh.
Apotemnophilia: Being an amputee.
Asphyxiophilia: Being asphyxiated or strangled.
Attraction to disability: People with one or more physical disabilities.
Autagonistophilia: Being on stage or on camera.
Autassassinophilia: Being in life-threatening situations.
******* asphyxiation: Self-induced asphyxiation, sometimes to the point of near unconsciousness.
Autogynephilia: ****** arousal of a biological male in response to the image of himself as female.
Auto-haemofetishism: Bleeding oneself (does not involve ingestion of blood). Type of autovampirism. [contradictory]
Autonepiophilia: The image of one’s self in the form of an infant.
Autopedophilia: The image of one’s self in the form of a child.
Autoplushophilia: The image of one’s self in the form of a plush or anthropomorphized animal.
Autovampirism/Vampirism: The image of one’s self in the form of a vampire. Involves ingesting or seeing one’s own blood.
Autozoophilia: The image of one’s self in the form of an animal or anthropomorphized animal.
Biastophilia/Raptophilia: ****** a person, possibly consensual **** fantasy.
Capnolagnia: Smoking.
Chremastistophilia: Being robbed or held up.
Chronophilia: Partners of a widely differing chronological age.
*******: Feces; also known as ****, scatophilia or fecophilia.
Coulrophilia: Clowns, jesters, and mimes.
Crurophilia: Legs.
Dacryphilia: Tears or crying.
Diaper fetishism: Diapers; considerable overlap with paraphilic infantilism.
*******: Trees.
Emetophilia: *****.
Eproctophilia: Flatulence.
****** asphyxiation: Asphyxia of oneself or others.
Erotophonophilia: ******, often of strangers (also known as dacnolagnomania).
Exhibitionism: Exposing one’s genitals to unsuspecting and nonconsenting others.
Feederism: Eating, feeding, and weight gain.
Formicophilia: Being crawled on by insects.
Forniphilia: Turning a human being into a piece of furniture.
Frotteurism: Rubbing against a non-consenting person.
Gerontophilia: Elderly people.
Gynandromorphophilia, Gynemimetophilia: Transgender women.
Hematolagnia: Drinking or looking at blood.
Heterophilia: Idealization of heterosexuality and/or people who are “straight-acting”, especially by non-heterosexual people.
Hoplophilia: Firearms, guns.
Hybristophilia: Criminals, particularly those who committed cruel or outrageous crimes.
Infantophilia: ******* with a focus on children less than five years old; a recently suggested term that is not in general use.
Kleptophilia: Stealing; also known as kleptolagnia.
Klismaphilia: Enemas, arousal and enjoyment in receiving, administering, or both.
Lactophilia: Breast milk.
Liquidophilia: Immersing genitals in liquids.
Macrophilia: Giant beings; the imagined growth of beings.
Maschalagnia: Armpits.
Mazophilia: Female *******.
Masochism: Suffering or humiliation; being beaten, bound or otherwise abused.
Maiesiophilia: Pregnant women.
Mechanophilia: Cars or other machines; also “mechaphilia.”
Melolagnia: Music.
Menophilia: *******.
Metrophilia: Poetry.
Microphilia: Very small people or small body parts.
Morphophilia: Particular body shapes or sizes.
Mucophilia: Mucus.
Mysophilia: Dirtiness, soiled or decaying things.
Narratophilia: Obscene words.
Nasophilia: Noses.
Navel fetishism: Navel.
Necrophilia: Corpses.
Objectophilia: Specific inanimate objects.
Oculophilia: Eyes and activities directly relating to and/or involving the eyes. Voyeurism does not meet classification for this term.
Odaxelagnia: Biting or being bitten.
Olfactophilia: Smells and odors emanating from the body, especially the ****** areas (as from breath, *****, feces, flatulence, etc.).
*******: Arousal from having a full bladder and/or wetting oneself, or from seeing someone else experiencing a full bladder and/or wetting themself.
Paraphilic infantilism: Dressing or being treated like a baby, also known as autonepiophilia or “adult baby syndrome”; considerable overlap with diaper fetishism.
Partialism: Specific, non-genital body parts.
*******: Prepubescent children, also spelled paedophilia.
Peodeiktophilia: Exposing one’s *****.
Pedovestism: Dressing like a child.
Podophilia: Feet.
Pictophilia: ******* or ****** art, particularly pictures.
Piquerism: Piercing the flesh of another person, most commonly by stabbing or cutting the body with sharp objects.
Plushophilia: Stuffed toy animals (“plushies”).
Pygophilia: Buttocks.
Salirophilia: Soiling or dirtying others.
****** fetishism: Non-living objects.
****** sadism: Inflicting pain on others.
Shoe fetishism: Shoes, such as high heels.
Somnophilia: Sleeping or unconscious people.
Sophophilia: Learning.
Sthenolagnia: Muscles and displays of strength.
Stigmatophilia: Body piercings and tattoos.
Symphorophilia: Witnessing or staging disasters such as car accidents.

Telephone scatologia: Obscene phone calls, particularly to strangers; also known as telephonicophilia and scatophiliac.
Teratophilia: Deformed or monstrous people. The term is also sometimes used in a more literal sense (from ancient Greek τέρας, teras, meaning monster) for attraction to monstrous mythical and fictional creatures such as werewolves.
Toucherism: Touching an unsuspecting, non-consenting person with the hand.
Toxophilia: Archery.
Transvestic fetishism: Wearing clothes associated with the opposite ***; also known as transvestism.
Transvestophilia: A transvestic ****** partner.
Trichophilia: Hair.
Troilism: Observing one’s partner engaged in ****** activities with another person.
Urolagnia: Urination, particularly in public, on others, and/or being urinated on. Also referred to as “water sports”.
*******: The idea of one person or creature eating or being eaten by another; usually swallowed whole, in one piece; also known as vore.
Voyeurism: Watching others while naked or having ***, generally without their knowledge; also known as scopophilia or scoptophilia.
Wet and messy fetishism: Messy situations, including, but not limited to, being pied, slimed or covered in mud.
*******: Animals.
Zoosadism: Inflicting pain on animals, or seeing animals in pain.
~~~~~
A REAL-LIFE PROFILE OF A WOMAN ACUTELY AWARE OF HER DARK FETISHY SIDE
Primary Fantasy: Dehumanization, objectification. I love the idea of being kidnapped and converted into meat.
(Fantasy obviously!!)
I also enjoy preservation, taxidermy, dollification, weird stuff like that!
Other Fetish Interests:
Hucow
Medical
Lab scenes
Necro
Morgue
Hanging
Lethal injection

MAKE THE UNCONSCIOUS CONSCIOUS:
There is much written in-depth psychology about ****** pathologies caused by repressed or shadowy disowned parts of ourselves and how those neglected forces may determine unwanted fate. Shame and self-deception is not our friend. Know yourself.

Pleasure is so close to ruinous waste
nakedness wrecks decency
degradation feeds the bonfire of hunger
and the wound of desire bleeds away within

leave nothing
but the bleeding edge
ruin me she said.
~
Beyond hearts mastery
hullabaloo crime scenes
like night jungles
of tooth and claw
in corridors of neuron ghosts
while **** licking succubae
*** livid pornographic hieroglyphs
fed by the dreaded
excesses of testosterone
towards some ruined
blood spotted
hanky-panky *******
just to remind me of you
and how it hurt just so
and how you loved me for it
whoever you are.
....
https://medium.com/@4zebra2u/the-secret-***-life-we-keep-from-our-selves-7f227dbc6c4a
Ali J Mar 2021
in shiny black shoes,
with tiny knee highs
things were different,
life was simple
people were scary
my friends,
my interests
were imaginary.

four little walls
sealed with a door
whispers and giggles
stuffed plushies
strewn along the floor.
looking you in the eye
struck me with fear
raising your tone
twisting your face
into disgust
disappointment
or simply blind rage
made me want to melt
deep
into the contents of the floor.

when I grew older
I felt I was stronger,
the will to cry
when I looked into your eyes
was suppressed much longer.
my friends,
once imaginary,
started having faces
going by names
like Susan
or Gary.

the little flower
still waiting to bud
began to bloom
to blossom
to develop new fears
from choosing
the right spot
on the
big
blue
rug,
to rejection
in my high school years.

now
here I rest,
in a dormitory bed
short, velvet hair
spread across the pillows
night after night
snuggled close
to my plushies
picked up from the old
floor.
nightmares,
night terrors
panic attacks
low-self esteem.
a smile on the outside
isn't as it seems.
I may grow older
may shut off my
emotions,
grow colder,
seem stronger,
the strength not to cry
lasts longer,
I still am that little girl,
that moonchild
sitting
waiting
eager to burst through.
ready to expose
my weaknesses
like moonlight
upon the river.
james Oct 2019
fun and games
and bright lights on strings
stuffed plushies & autumn leaves
and kindness from every
person i see

until
you remove the carnival glass
and im seen for what i am
and the carnival goers
in all their own carnival masks
do not understand

ive spoken my truth
so they pack up the stands
pile bright costumes
into dark vans

and i find myself left
with an empty field
of cold air
such is the harsh reality of being known
BW Feb 2018
10:39:47
She should be married by now
I watched
The black hand on the white basel
tick on, reflecting my poker face
with the Patek Phillipe logo

10:41:35
Numb. Pain. Pain or numb?
It should be me, she was the one
I had her, she was mine
She likes tomato juice, miniatures
Black Louboutins in size 4 and a half
Tatler, oreo cheese Dairy Queen blizzard
Mint tea, kebab and omakase

10:42:23
Dance. Pole or Burlesque?
body rock hard, eyes on me
It should be me, down the aisle
Her lips always red, her eyes
curl up when she smiles
cat eye, plushies, flowers on fields
Books, panels, her wit sharp as knife

10:44:45
She should be walking out of church
Eyes stared at the door
I had no blue in Tiffany, red in Cartier
Blood on my hands, pyramid top
No time for her, I made it all for her
So she left me in the middle
Of an Hermes store

10:45:13
I saw her, white dress smiling
She didn't look at him
the way she looked at me
10 years ago, today, 10:45
First time I saw her, in a red dress
I opened the car door.
I crumpled my Loro Piana in the rain

10:46:34
I grabbed her, her mother screamed
Her best friend laughed, her dad sighed
The man reached for me,
I am not letting go
a very weird poem about a story of a guy and a girl
Miira Jun 2018
Why do I have to go through this?
When will the chattering ever stop?
Am I capable enough to follow my dreams?
I wonder as I turn the doorknob.

Every cell in my body was hated
by every cell in yours
I was only a child
Would you rather suffocate me in drawers?

What do you even benefit from it?
Being happy in front of others
But spit hateful words without people knowing
Oh what a hypocritical pretender

It’s like being
Chained up
Whipped up
Getting all messed up

Or like the cool cyan water
Being ferociously consumed by
the swift fiery orange
Rushing through like the high tide Seine delta

But Plushies,
Blankies and
Aromatherapy
Radiate through every inch of my body,
Experiencing tranquillity

Faintly hearing...
“Are you alright love?”
“I was afraid you would.”
“I’m glad that you’re okay!”
Elizz Apr 2019
Calico sits against this bone carved seat
Two black ears a brown patch next to the left

And

A pink nose
Obsidian stitched whiskers held high

A pink fox hides under this crypt
An adorable trade in
Heart skips

Content with this deal
End pieces smile in glee
It's not so bad having two plushies
Hallo!
Skyler M Mar 2019
The concussion of my life,
The timeline so out of order,
Beating me across the head,
The confession so out of place,
And I’m scared what they may see,
If I say anything to someone.

Hello, little stuffed animals,
And elusive little illusions,
The day wasn’t so great,
Could I get it all out to you?
Though you say nothing-
I’m feeling somewhat better.

Shadows in the corners of my eyes,
Encourage things so inevitably strange,
I’m so inevitably strange,
And I can’t wrap my head around my own complex emotions,
I’m trying my best but I’m getting so ******,
Once again I turn,
Back to the plushies on my bed.

Hello, little stuffed animals,
And elusive little illusions,
The day wasn’t so great,
Could I get it all out to you?
Though you say nothing-
I’m feeling somewhat better.
galatella Oct 2024
***
Blood. Red revolution
hero her narrator
invented the derailer
for the train spinning in spirals
driving in loops.
I can still see the looping point.

World-ending catastrophes, world wars,
crises,
had become cliche.
there were only personal tragedies
shovelled onto rows and rows of dingies.
I ******* love statistics, I'll throw myself in too.

Dear.
Hug your plushies.

she's too **** kind.
who am I to speak,
a passive dead partisan
who never even was with the front
against an empire of evil ready to **** us both
with comorbidity of another ******* spiral
a victim in a roomfull of monsters
unfortunately too weak to die
with random icons of a red hero
the closest can only make things worse.

I hugged her plush. It was ergonomic.
2024-05-20
Dzdturtle May 11
Gets into the laundry,
the refrigerator,
the trash—
a search for what’s in every space.
Clings to objects
from the past and present,
filling her bed
with plushies, drawings, and trinkets.

Once, she bounced her head
on the pillow before bed.
As a baby,
she made soft, intermittent
throaty ahhh—
a sound that rocked her to sleep.

We shared fears of Dahl’s witches—
both of us anchored,
then and now.

In childhood, she slept like the dead:
arms crossed, perfectly straight,
never moving.
Holding grudges—
like who caused her dog bite.

Independent—
won’t ask, won’t wait.
Online mischief.
Leader of the pack.
Animated
and bright.
Opening up about her life
in late-night talks.

She saw me once—
cut too deep
when the darkness called.
Later,
she found her own blade.
Hiding the pain
behind a cruel mask,
sharp with thorns.
“I hate you,”
“You’re bullying me”—
but inside,
her heart knows.

She calls me cruel—
but still,
she is my anchor.
Althea Colline Dec 2024
Oh God... When will I meet my wife? Every year, month, day, hour, minute, and second that I've lived my life, I would still include you in it-even when you're not by my side.

While the Earth orbits around the sun, while the moon guides us through the night, while people go about their business, while animals rest in their nests, and while my plushies stare at me... I, too, gaze into the distance, wondering if the world might end soon, and all my thoughts lead back to you.

Like how the waves going back and forth along the shores, and the usual salt sea, are now sweet to me.
It is for my wife
Kai Jun 28
Laugh in the dark at your own clever spin,
turning meaning to mischief with a smirk and a grin?
Are your nights stitched in velvet, your mind wide-awake,
with your dog at your feet and the silence you make?

Veil your affection in jest and disguise,
saying darling or love just to watch my reply?
Ever wonder, like me, if your teasing might stay
longer than you meant it to linger that way?

Lace on your wrist smells like citrus and rain,
is your scent a soft story you haven't explained?
Are your plushies arranged like an audience unseen,
watching matcha-steeped mornings unfold like a scene?

Vanish mid-text to float in your head,
do your thoughts wander far before coming to bed?
Even now, I don't ask for more than you give,
just to wonder like this is a sweet way to live.
ash Jul 2
i came across this post today—
it asked me if i wondered
what would be the best place to leave my heart—
even if it's bits and pieces, like shells in the sand.

made a list for my own peace,
but here to share it, if you seek to leave a piece
of your own:

the sea, people claim, carries the tranquil
and provides the cool;

the empty temples and churches,
where your heart prays and reluctantly admits;

graveyards at night,
protected by those who left their own behind.

libraries and dusty old bookstores,
in between the pages and caskets of the used shores.

sun-dappled shades of yellow, green, and orange—
once settled, the purples and pinks of the similar hues.

gardens of thorns and flowers,
the sleeves of your last lover;
knots of the willow trees,
in winter blues and heated blooms,
risky texts during the night,
with strangers i met online,
in midst of late monsoon showers,
not to miss out the midnight hours.

a few bits i leave
in the misty mornings of the early summer,
the drenched evenings of the spring shimmer.

the company of my closest companions—
in the fur of a cat,
the nip of a bunny,
the smile of a pup,
sometimes in a sunset,
in the lush green of the forests,
often in the foil of the autumn trees.

mostly on my bed,
in my tear-filled, forsaken pillow,
and against the one i sleep so dearly.
plushies and teddies,
keepsakes of childhood memories.

with all those i've met so far,
and cookie crumbles at the footstep of my life—
for those who are welcome
and those who are not.

i have left, and leave, a lot more pieces.
i wonder if my heart is a cake-a-piece.
a bit old, mostly new- i keep on editing
what can i even do
ash 22h
putting the tracks i liked
out there, on my stories
hoping, wondering,
maybe they'd see me for how i dream
and not for how i've been coping

except a step further
a path up ahead
i realized, they didn't really care for all that i had
prized possessions of mine, these lyrics so simple
they don't deserve bits of me, if the surface excites them sole
if they don't like it whole, not worth the lengths i go

a girl's room is her own museum
or so they said
mine's a beautiful chaos
trust me, a letter to self

and so i stopped
a step further even
ahead i moved
watched, smiled, told them they had all i could
share without breaking, without giving them the key
that could threaten my volatility—my being
and i hoped they'd accept

except fools require everything whole
even if they can't accept it, they need it only
for the pleasure it brings, the joy of knowing
not to like, to love—but to show—
the world always required proving

i have my own cocoon
won't term myself ready to bloom
or a butterfly for that case
but i hide, intending to forget the world
my room, the paradoxical mapping
the stars chart their own course during the nights
up on my ceiling as i turn the lamp and let it burn bright
it's simple, heady space
there's posters and pictures on one wall
the other holds a heart collage of all sorts
lomographic detailing, i've always found myself dreaming
one picture, and i tend to stare deep
whenever this head gets too loud, i sit and stare at all of the meanings

there's a magnitude that hides
read every picture, uncover—but it comes with a price
safe spaces, meant to be kept hidden
posters—the movies that stayed, the artists looking back at me
quotes, written in an unhinged manner
my favourite, i'm yet to choose
but it all kind of gives away what i can't hammer
across my skull and at myself every time i go out
i wish to carry it all, to show them what i'm all about

don't try to rewrite my scars
just don't add any new ones to the already existing
and you could wrap a bandage
i'll keep all the rough edges sealed
and edited for flow

there's carts—more like shelves weakened with a multitude of books
i counted them, turned out to be a lucky 151
now i wonder which i ought to read
to throw caution to the wind and forget all my seams

there's stands, holding tiny little things
a layer of all my bracelets, of all that i intend to wear
one with the skincare, and other little prizes i just keep
there's pens, a vast multitude—I could never have enough
in all colors, i think half of them already dried up
a couple things for journaling stay at the very back, at the very bottom
right above, it holds all the things i could use to paint—to bring my dreams to mortal realm
except the skills lack, i tend to procrastinate
so they stay, gathering dust—unless i air it out—once a day
every day

the last compartment holds a stack of pencils, a glass quill—intended for magic
couple washi tapes—perhaps i'll wrap them around my wrists
and a few paper cutters, having gathered rust from being washed—every time i stuttered

a red ribbon, and a golden one, tied around both my shelves—reminding of who brought them to
vines hang in one corner, right beside the balcony
i'm yet to minecraft the windows, perhaps i'll let them be
there's pages stuck to the walls, and a multitude of sketches
nothing all too special—but there's this one of an eye that speaks
couple stars, the phases of the moons—waning and waxing,
full one too!
a paper leaf string—maple leaf except i made little hearts
hangs over the bathroom door—completely out of place, held in a purple thread
the pages wall is of a comfy book—before the coffee gets cold
the curtains are a shade of violet and silver in the middle, indication of what couldn't have been told
silver almost looks like a grey, a bit shiny, a bit neutral
but then there's another book stand and it holds a few candles
hardcovers at the bottom, they hold too much weight
the paperbacks balance the top however
and wrapping its corners is a string light—a heavy mistake
it goes over my wardrobe
multitude of tiny bulbs if i were to turn it on
phases of the moon again, cut out
and beneath—like scribbles on a notebook—stuck album covers in tiny, varying shades

a sign that says smile—i can't say i do
but it stares back at me, every time i sit on my bed—so i try to
a blue ribbon bow—gifted, i remember just who
stuck to the handle bar, i grip it every time i pull the door through

my desk is a messy messy affair
to put a name to things would be like listing down what i couldn't bear
but here it goes—
my laptop, the one i barely use—it's new
yet to find my way through, i rely on the old one
tho it's been barely working
comfort i guess—is one step away from despair

fake purple tulips, standing in a lilac bottle that i'd painted
a pastel of the same shade except it's an hourglass
30 minutes, i'm yet to check if it lives up to its truth
three scrapbooks, incomplete, the kits emptied halfway through
a candle, a chalkboard, tiny—a slate of all sorts
with one side a black, the other a white
i tend to use it black over white

a clock, stuck on the wrong time, currently giving 11:11
some wisterias kept in a green plastic vase
and a succulent that's as real as it gets
i water it every now and then, the bubbles breathing a sign of life in the room
there's a bunny enchanted almost in a glass sphere—a lamp i don't turn on
a shell, one you'd find at the edge of a sea—except it's a gift too
sets of little trinkets i opened in kinder joy
pen stands holding my sketch pencils that i rarely use
my keyboard is a heavy affair
doesn't really fit in the room with its peachy aesthetic
it seeks repair

a bowl, huge ceramic one i'm yet to find the perfect place for
it carries several stones, i think i'd use them someday to break a skull or two
kidding—
the wall above—black and white, epiphanies printed on pictures
"human being"
"anxious person"
"creative block", "parental advisories"
"life of an artist", a quote between viktor & jayce  and big moon

a wall hanging on the wall, carries a humidifier i don't use
the three figurines of harry, hermione and ron from the wizarding world
the second ron hides just behind the three
a kuromi sits atop a small tin, holding bracelets that specifically need no calling

there's a couple fake plants, sure
books everywhere—on my bed
a set of few that i personally cherish
a dictionary of dreams, a history of time, grimms' tales and a comfort book to carry
it all together

my current read, a lighter for some reason, a diary i write poetry in
and a notebook to remind me why i do it all
add to it- a pen in white, one in blue
a highlighter just to mark the lines i already knew

oh the plushies!
a penguin, a bunny, a koala, a seal
an octo changing moods, a slytherin pillow, and a kuromi
a strawberry hiding a bunny again, and teddy—ages old from when i was a child
three pillows, and two comforters, i think i might get a weighted blanket
the grip feels familiar

there's a tapestry, right above my bed—i tend to forget its existence
since i'm always facing away
the sun and the moon, staring at each other
and a couple random trinkets that define me
don't ask of my drawers, or in between my books
my cupboard, or my wardrobe
i'll mention downturned black butterflies, a cloud with a storm symbol
a party mask, and a phone charm hanging off a circle
a small stool holding japanese authors' best works
a snowflake candle and a few marbles

it's all my own
sacred, hidden
drapery of the lights—different moods, different nights
why i wonder i hide, or spend so much of my time
but it's a galaxy here within
like in my eyes and in my being—whole

my brain resets, works to a rhythm—on nice days
i tend to keep the balcony open and wind flows
everything whispers and takes a breath of relief
the rain pours outside, as i sit and speak
little secrets to my walls
lying on my bed or sitting at my desk
wondering, circling—the reasons to live

the grandest—my baby bunny
wondering, sleeping, napping away or speaking
she stays with me
her own space, her own world a part of my own
we've got an ecosystem in here
the most prized possession

and every time i step
i carry this armor
laced with all the time i spent in this room
gathering strength, putting a piece anew
even if you're not it—
would you like to come see my room?

why'd i let the outsides visit and steal it solely
to murmur of how it all seems obnoxious
it's bits of me, pasted, put together
clumsy, messy, chaotic
i'm quite a few issues when you hear
so close your eyes, listen to my speaker
as i play the playlists i've kept hidden
tonight's the turn for prologue by cloud koh
and if you haven't even tried to read mine
how can i let you read the story directly just for show?
framed in messy corners,
it's me and my place,
so close your eyes to sense a glimmer

this is messssssssssssssssssssy and imperfect, ugh.

i intend to do a rerun of 'perfect days'

— The End —