queen_butterfly

life on mute. @sumiinked, my anam cara

Grid View
List View
Reposts
  • queen_butterfly 2h

    the season of regret~

    And its always been like this, the silent hues of vertigo, orange on a fading skyline. Its always been like this, twenty five degrees and still in uniform. Its always been like this, chasing after regrets only to be left in the dawn's dust, leaves wilting and settling on the soil bed.

    We haven't left home in a long while, eating happiness as takeout while the soft amber glow of the evening extends a hand to caress our shoulder blades, to enforce us into a dull slumber on the soil bed.

    Forgive me, but it feels like I'll never make it out of here, senior high school on an overexposed film, strumming guitar chords in the hell storm of this calamity. The classroom lighting up in spite of the mid summer rain falling on the soil bed.

    Its always summer here, the air greasy under my fingertips, stuck a season away. Too near the equator, too far from dreamland. We stand in sweltering humidity, clothed in our thinnest jackets, averting our eyes to the light of tomorrow. Hoping to become a fire rooted in the night sky, falling towards the soil bed.

    Maybe tomorrow I'll pick up the phone to call you, tell you how the days are passing too fast to count. Take out the regrets slow-cooling in the refrigerator and whip up a feast. I'll imagine that you will be right here, and that we will devour everything that once made the road hazy and dulled the smell of the moist soil bed.

    Maybe tomorrow I'll call you, and maybe my head won't hurt as much anymore.

    ©queen_butterfly

  • queen_butterfly 1w

    #confessionc #imor(12)

    What if not all of this is fiction? Would you still like me? You won't leave me, right?

    @burned_butterflies @theclevpoet @bluejay__ @ayesha_ahmed @vidhya_prabha

    Read More

    I am 14 years old and I go to school each morning with a pit inside my stomach. Adrenaline fills my veins and I am ready to run. I cry when I realise I am not supposed to run, it seems my feet are doing it despite my control.

    I am 15 years old. I sit inside my school counselor's office and wonder why it is grey. A kid killed himself and they want to talk to the rest of the students, as if they can undo the boy's suicide. When my school counselor asks, I tell her I do not know why the kid killed himself. I didn't know him, he was older. "Why did he not want to live?", my school counselor does not answer. He asks me how I'm feeling and I tell him today I feel like nothing. I do not understand how people can feel like nothing. He asks me if the ground under my feet is solid and I panic and say "Yes, I can feel it." I don't like the look he gives me, I think he knows I'm lying.

    I am 15 years old. I wait outside of the classroom while my teacher talks to my parents. I try to listen in but can only catch glimpses of the conversation that don't really make much sense to me. the suicide - we're afraid - therapist. The only part I can clearly hear is my teacher saying we fear there might be something wrong with her. When my parents come out, they tell me it was nothing but my mother's eyes are red.

    I am 15 years old. I sit on the yellow chair in my therapist's office for the first time and tell her about how I count my days in colors. Blue is for the days I cry and white is kind of scary because it feels like nothing and black is so loud that it makes me want to punch myself. He asks me if I always want to punch myself and I say only sometimes, on black days. On white days too, because it makes me feel like something instead of nothing. "What about blue days?", he asks. "No, not blue days, on blue days I feel like everything. It feels like there is no in between."

    I am 15 years old. I sit on that same yellow chair 4 days later, only now there are 2 more people in the room. My parents sit quietly and my dad chews his nails, a habit he used to have when he was young. My mom looks like she's about to cry. I pray she doesn't. My therapist talks about the possibility of this becoming more than a one-time thing, as they'd told me beforehand, we play a question game and by the end of that session, I am diagnosed with post traumatic stress disorder and social anxiety. He says my depression is triggered by it. They are big words and they send shivers up my spine. It is the first time I've heard them, but it won't be the last.

    I am 15 years old. I have been reading on social anxiety. It can be heritable, apparently. I think I may have gotten it from my dad, but his is undiagnosed, he never needed a therapist. His social anxiety did not have suicidal tendencies or the potential to kill him, his anxiety wasn't all-consuming, it didn't define him, it wasn't his ending.

    I am 15 years old. I tell my therapist I think I've had a panic attack, and when he asks me how it feels, I can't come up with anything. I cry because I think i'm faking it. He offers me a tissue and assures me I am not, but I do not believe him.

    I am 15 years old. I write down everything I can find about depression on the internet. The sentences are not always accurate, but one says I feel like I was never alive in the first place and I run my fingers on it again and again because it makes me feel seen.

    I am 15 years old. My best friend calls my name on a black day and I forget that's what I'm called. I forget she can see me. I forget I exist. I answer and she calls me again and again and I answer and she asks me where I am and I tell her here but it comes out like a whisper. She will not be my best friend for any longer if I keep forgetting my name. It is the first time I make myself bleed.

    I am 15 years old. I show the tiny scratches to my therapist and he explains how it's not a nice thing to do. He says I do not deserve to hurt. I do not tell him that I am selfish; the reason I did it was so I could know if is bleed, to make sure I exist. I know I do not deserve to hurt.

    I am 15 years old. I realise my brain tricks me into thinking things that are not true, but I can't tell when it stops. I can't tell the truths from the lies. I deserve to hurt. Who is telling me otherwise?

    I am 15 years old. I believe my brain is stupid but my therapist says it's just different, I think different is stupid. My friends don't understand stupid. My friends have been calling me a freak and I don't understand why I keep calling them my friends. But if I stop calling them my friends, I'll be alone. No one wants to be friends with someone who is afraid of them.

    I am 15 years old. My therapist asks me if I want to punish myself and what kind of question is that to ask a 12 year old? but my anxiety doesn't ask. I don't know, I say, sticking my fingernails into my palms. "You're bleeding," he says, and I know. I like the way it feels. Don't do that, he says, and I say okay, and do it anyways. These days I don't care about anything at all.

    I am 15 years old. My therapist asks me about the boy's death in my school and I say I still don't understand. He had the choice in front of him, he had the opportunity to live, why did he not take it? We're not asked if we want to live or not, right? We're just thrown in here. I learn that most people want to live and I get mad at whoever ruined it for me. I want better. I want better. I want better. I-don't deserve better.

    I am 15 years old. My therapist thinks I should use medication for my anxiety and depression. My mom cries in the therapy session this time. She asks the question I was thinking. "Is she really that bad?" It feels like a punch to the gut. Am I really that bad? Why "she"? Why "I"? Shouldn't it be "it"? I don't listen to the side effects of the drugs. I spend the entirety of that therapy session repeating to myself "I am not my anxiety I am not my anxiety I am not my anxiety". When I go home, I want to write it in blood, maybe I really am that bad.

    I am 15 years old. I take the medication for the first time and spend the whole day in bed, throwing up. My mom keeps sniffing and I hate her for it. I hate how she acts as if her daughter has died, maybe I am dead. I think I'm dead. I'm not breathing, how can I keep breathing, I want to die. Oh god, I want to die. I stand up and my sight is blurry but my mind is so certain. I start to walk but my legs give out. I fall and my mom rushes to my side. I tell her I want to die and she says this is my medication talking and I say no, no, it's me. Mom, you don't understand, all of this is me. You can't separate me from the anxiety, from the wanting to die. My mom holds my shaking body down as I cry and I can't remember the rest of the first few weeks after starting my medication. It turns out it was the wrong dose for me, but it awakens something in me. The feeling of wanting to die doesn't leave.

    I am 15 years old. Some days I am afraid to leave the house because crossing the road is too dangerous and some days I want to walk in front of moving cars. Some days I want to stick my hand in boiling water and some days I don't feel anything at all. I learn so many new terms. Dissociation, intrusive thoughts, suicidal tendencies, they are so scary, but I'm beginning to get used to fear, it is slowly turning into everything I know. Fear is shaking hands and breaking bones, it is a body that keeps on bleeding, even when you put a bandage on it. Fear spills out of the pores and onto the floor and it evaporates and I inhale it again and the process keeps repeating itself, it is never-ending. I'm so tired.

    I am 15 years old. I don't think the boy who killed himself in my school ever had a chance.

    I am older now. I have panic attack after panic attack and I have still not gotten used to them. The sweat in my forehead is so fucking uncomfortable and the scars in my hands and arms are so fucking ugly. I'm so angry all the time, but most of the time I'm still nothing. I finally understand the boy in my school. I wondered why he didn't make the choice to live but I understand now what it takes to make that choice. I finally understand how you have to make that choice each morning when you wake up and each night when you go to sleep and each second you breathe on this earth. I finally understand all the fucking sacrifice and the blood and the tears and the sweat and the plans and the feelings and the black abyss of nothingness it takes. It's exhausting but there are these moments that make it so worth it. Someone understanding me doesn't feel triumphant, or earth-shattering, but it feels warm. It feels like a chance.

    ~some days, living is the bravest thing I can muster

    ©queen_butterfly

  • queen_butterfly 1w

    #imagery #ceesreposts

    Thank you WN for the kind repost��❤️

    Read More

    Ebonized, navy waves crash against Earth;
    cyan streaks braid upon its surface.
    The moon bakes us in its paranormal aura,
    chastising the impurities day had left us.
    Melancholy sits beside me, a message tossed upon its tongue:
    Nostalgia has a tinge of sweetness like that of blackberries,
    But they, too, have a bitterness—
    Their lips smack as the crashing echoes upon the heavenly void—
    Time is unforgiving, for that you must forgive it;
    It is pinnacle of bittersweet and suffering, is inevitable.
    Long carefully, for you may eat too soon.

    I reach for their hand, grasping the airiness of emptiness.
    I reside within absence, finding myself once more
    along the embankments of my troublesome mind.

    ©queen_butterfly

  • queen_butterfly 1w

    #anaphora #ceesreposts

    Yayy! EC!��
    Thank you for the kind repost @/writersnetwork��

    Read More

    I want the umber earth that resides beneath my feet to split into two and swallow my existence whole, just to remind me how it feels to be alive, but the best I get are blisters and cuts from walking barefoot for too long.

    I want my breakdowns to be like forsythia in full bloom, a paroxysm of golden tears. Instead I'm stuck with panic attacks that seem like a loop of nightmares.

    I want the rain to wash away every human touch that was ever planted on my skin, but all I get is an ephemeral peace from the weather.

    I want my scars to look like a beautiful tapestry of everything I have overcome, but they're just an unbearable reminder of an innocence that died with the beginning of a new end.

    I want my past to make me as invincible as they think Zeus to be, but the ghosts of my past have rendered me as a haunted house that people are just too afraid to enter now.

    //I keep longing but it all just feels like a distant cry that even I can barely hear anymore/ will you save me from the sin of being myself? devour me raw so I can feel. I'm still longing but the once distant cry that now seems to have faded/ I'm still longing.//

    ©queen_butterfly

  • queen_butterfly 2w

    #start #ceesreposts #soulraabta

    It's going to be okay.

    Gosh! EC!
    Thank you for the read WN��

    Read More

    Spring, the season of hiraeth~

    I love how the sakura wafting from the trees feel like ethereal parcels, a kaleidescope of warm scents, signaling that it's okay, if this is cynefin, if this is being, alone.

    ©queen_butterfly

  • queen_butterfly 2w

    don't mind me fressing on some cadavers, after all you are what you ingest

    I gaze into the eyes of fate and it retches off nebulas. I start to call it my territory, self marked and cursed. Y'all need to leave this corium and sit in the palace of golden trash, resting your head on the devil's lap. My outskirts overlap so well with death that I feel like "Am I death or is death me?" "Or am I simply what I eat?" The night aches and long laments for the sober psych to come back, dissecting my tongue to destroy every shard of everything in me, kicking me off this carnival road towards the street of nothingness; the vamp in me or the death in me? or is it both, that wants to takeover? this is my truth, where I die on the bathroom floor, sink myself to death in angst and confess my love only to insomnia. I hug every inch of this blood soaked life and beg for everything I've lost, that I'm, that I was. I'm scooping out my eyes off myself, punching in needles, to be the black hole god, undead. I look for my disgust and wash the roseate in the toilet. I'm painted in everything I'm not. Burn me bad or take this shroud off. I love the smell of lonely terrace corners, exuding tears and smoke out of emptiness. The cactus misses my cigarette leftovers and grievous touch of me rubbing my wounds against it. Switch these lights off and lacerate my carotid, sponge in all that unwanted breaths of exist I never wanted my lungs to absorb. I'm forgetting who I was and who I want to be. I want to scratch off everything I'm not. I want my ravaged self back.

    I want to get over the reticent voice, I wore before; the winter coat/ look closely at the black rose stuck in my ripped jeans, it's stifled/ wrested like my jinxed winter skin. I am all these years of unstripped nakedness. I'm the swallowed shivers, inhaled trauma, volumetric areas filled with lies of fate. I'm leaching the viscosity of grief. Don't mind me feasting on some cadavers, after all you're what you eat, so warm, yet so cold.

    ©queen_butterfly

  • queen_butterfly 3w

    #imor(10) #travel #ceesreposts

    Woah! EC!��
    Thank you for the read WN❤️

    Read More

    It's 3 in the morning and sleep seems to have become a foe

    It's 3 in the morn and I'm staring back at the phantom of everything I'll never be. But the sin of who I already am wins the stare off. After all, mended corium doesn't stand a chance in front of spalled unguis and knuckles as flushed as cherry wine because what's war without the cicatrices/ my reflection is adjuring me to stretch my labiums into something other than this daunting, verklempt silence, but all I can come up with is a thrawn frown. I think I've forgotten how chiseled my gnashers are; maybe a soft smile wouldn't hurt but it does, and now I don't know when I'll see a grin that's not plastered strenuously on my face. I try to think of all the good that's still there but my mind only takes me back to all the loci I've astrayed my love to. Like the arms of desertion. Like the tiles of my bathroom. Like the café that's trashed with innumerable souvenirs. Like the four walls that feel more stifling than affectionate/ Restless nights nix to leave me alone and discomfiture is the only one who wants to stay by my side willingly. Maybe someday, I'll be reincarnated as uneasiness herself, in a body just as hideous as this one and in a house that seldom feels like a home. But until then, I'll keep glowering at the prospect of the abomination that stands in front of me.

    It's 3:15 now and I still can't slumber but I swear I want to. Maybe if I just lie as still as a corpse, sleep will come to me without me having to exhort. I don't care if it's ataraxic or not, I just want to stop being pensive for a while/ It's going to be 3:35 now and soon it'll be 4 but by the time Helios wakes up and falls asleep again, all my troubles will seem to have dissipated along with the day. I'll have tedious afternoons and cloying vespertines all to myself and the only thing I'll have to worry about would be falling asleep again. But that's alright because the world's gotten it way worse out there. So, even if I feel like instigating a sciamachy with my own reflection at 3 in the morning out of nowhere, I'll just suck it up and beseech sleep to accompany me for as long as he can. I'd anyways rather stay asleep than wake up.

    ©queen_butterfly

  • queen_butterfly 3w

    #nostalgic

    Thank you for EC, WN❤️

    Read More

    Oil clings to the tips of my fingers,
    black tar encasing amber bones,
    aeons trapped in the bleached marrow
    of a body aged too quickly,
    young veins strung around brittle joints
    with blood creeping sluggishly.
    I am a carcass, deep down,
    I wear someone else's skin,
    I breathe the carbon monoxide
    and the flies nest in my thoracic cage,
    maybe that is why
    they have always sought me out,
    they know I'm putrefying,
    they smell the scent of festering meat-
    they are waiting.

    you pulled me from a calcining detritus,
    plucking pieces of metal and glass shards
    from my hair in the heavy, windless space
    between the nostalgic past and the scary future,
    smoke hung between us
    when we stood in the rubble
    and the fires are still alive around us,
    smouldering between cracked walls and broken pillars,
    why didn't you leave me behind,
    under the mirky stones, within the ashes-
    a breath of oxygen as lips touched my forehead.

    I am the inferno, with rust growing under my talons
    and blood spilling from between my gnashers,
    I'm a different kind of destruction,
    the one that pries tongues from mouths
    and opens up kytes to catch a glimpse of life-
    I would be the arsonist to your architect,
    I would love your opuses,
    the marble, the aedes, the statues
    and I love them until they begin catching fire,
    until the marble cracks and fire spills from its core.

    you buried me in the marshlands,
    just outside your house in the little clearing,
    you let me sink into the wet earth,
    brush away my hair from my face
    before it sinks down into the deep,
    the cold encases me
    and I am finally at peace,
    as moss grows over the remnants of who I was,
    what I was, and you loved me
    but you knew to keep me here would be selfish
    and so you let me go.

    you are a different kind of destruction,
    you are kindness.

    ©queen_butterfly

  • queen_butterfly 4w

    #haiku

    2 ECs?! Thank you so much��❤️
    Thank you for the read WN❤️

    Happy today~23 Sep, 2021.

    Read More

    amazing sky light
    of this evening's night, tonight
    sun fades lovely bright

    ©queen_butterfly

  • queen_butterfly 4w

    #haiku #cloudsc

    Thank you for EC, WN❤️

    Read More

    And just when your day
    is looking cloudy and grey
    a prelude to May

    ©queen_butterfly