devoiante

[devoiante]

Khaled Hosseini, The Kite Runner/Jaun beaur

Almost, Almost, almo...

[devoiante]

writing away my ateez PCD💀

I met you on a September night in the middle of a sea of strangers, screaming my liquefied heart out into fleeting utopia written by stories in the form of faraway muses for a girl’s blooming fantasia. 

I. Fire eyes and zealous blood crashed through the glass like a wave in a storm starved of savagery, sweeping me off my feet in the inception of a new age, the age of the opal at the centre of the world. In the spotlight, the opal glimmers white and unleashes its magic within, seven more colours shining as a brazen aurora - the eye of the storm. An eye I’ve stared into long enough to be buoyantly lost at sea watching longingly like a mermaid for the ships that will pass, soaking in the colours and sounds of their boisterous parties. Sometimes one too many ships come through, and I hope the stars tell their captain that the waters are calm enough to drop the anchor and sleep at night. He looks to the stars every sunset, yet he must always go on. He’s deafening hues and glittering dreams. He’s exquisite in his ferocious grind with beauty flowing from him in tunes and melodies that ripple through the vast ocean and glisten under the twilight. The stars never disappear after sunrise. 

II. Too much stardust in the making of one person births new stars in the form of eyes which brim with uncontainable light spilling down smiling cheeks, strawberry-stained with soft, tender love. He’s the king of the stars, the light in the ship’s long nights spent sailing through quiet waters and turbulence. Every other star would fall from the sky to grant his wishes and renew to see him again, wrapped in pastel pink primroses that bloom in his glow. He holds the stars in his hands and tells them they are pretty, but doesn’t know we are more beautiful for the beauty that ebbs through his palms and his voice. 

III. When he lets words and songs fall he’s the warmth in running a hand through the fur of a golden retriever after an afternoon in the sun. Evanesced honey encapsulates his golden being, a sweet promise of falling six feet and an inch deep into eternal sunshine. He reaches to the stars and takes them with him as the ship cruises into the ever changing horizon that echoes dreams of ballads he hasn’t even sung, but already fill the air. Say his name, and he is luminous. 

IV. Existence meets artistry when body and soul is beautiful enough to rile the sea and capture the stars upon a graceful gaze, a smile ever so slight. The art he is blares across the seven seas in his quiet and he is divine, dazzling light and branded by Aphrodite’s kiss as her incarnation that walks the earth and sails the waves. A blue bird’s velvet feathers are smooth as an enchanted baritone for spellbound galaxies raining meteors for statuesque perfection come alive. The flower dances in the breeze, delicately lethal as poisoned perfume. I’m in love. 

V. The most majestic mountain commands all eyes on its unrelenting spirit: dreamer, diamond, fever dream itself, a harbour for the ship. The mountain lives in a boy sculpted by celestial hands, gorgeous in a dancing illusion of menace before a winged heart cherry-coloured with romantic fervour. His voice bounces across the water and into the reflection of the stars, like a cue to let go of the breaths they had held, and breathe. He smiles like summer sun, dimples deep as the sea below that might overflow with the stars’ zeal. He’s all bewitching and more, more, more.

VI. He’s a flame, sunset-chrome fireworks ripping through the skies and stars turn to moths when his words cascade in rolling thunders. He’s in the lingering ring in my ears, the roar of thousands of voices, the arrow to hearts that skip a beat every time he proclaims his dynasty. Wake up world, his eyes say, and don’t stop staring. Yet he is cotton clouds and a sprinkle of rain to a hot day in August. A laughing conundrum, an untitled song. 

VII. Can stars wish upon themselves? For ivory silk, black velvet, brimming heart and cherry lips. Foxy eyes that twinkle like a million fairy lights when he laughs out the answer to cloudy grey days. Torrents of love borne by one shining soul flood whole stadiums when he dances like lithe butterfly wings or morphs into a vivacious panther stealing stars with a biting gaze. He’s so achingly beautiful (he’s wonderland). All the stars would empty their light on the surface of the ocean just so he could see his reflection painted in loving reverence. 

VIII. The apple of the eye of the storm boils the ocean with spellbinding song, raising magical mist all the way to shroud the stars in lavender, violet, indigo fantasies. He sings an eternity of new galaxies to life, one mortal holding up the cosmos with the finger every star is wrapped around, and new stars are born each day. The universe is still when his music fades, each star unblinking in awaiting for the next ship his smile may grace. Waiting, waiting, shining, still here. His timeless smile tells the world he is radiant even in the silence between songs - a lover loved to the edge of each universe.

You are here in the years I walk alone, sealing the cracks in the rocky road:

The curtain call of my teenage dream, the shore of my wild unknown.

You’re a September song I’ll dance into the dusk, ever and after the silence falls. 

[devoiante]

I’d write think a letter to the girls I follow on Instagram, because I want to know what it might be like to live the desperate dream of a peasant in a world where beauty is a crown and pride is a blade.

Beauty is a crown

How soundly Sleeping Beauty slept, knowing plenty of princes would lay down their lives for a chance at wrestling a curse with the strength of desire, of want, of the frail excuse of love named infatuation still more than nothing at all. Not all that glitters is gold, but something that glitters could be gold. A face is an ill-fitting mask melded onto what we are: colourful beings captive behind the coerced exhibition of handicraft by fate or chance’s blood-soaked hands, yet our souls are only animal and hunt the prey that look the best. Heavy with options are the heads that wear the crown of beauty, with birthright to masses of pilgrims amongst which will be diamond-plated royals looking for a another. Pilgrimage. That’s where they have all gone - to worship red velvet grounds walked by charmers lucky enough to play hearts for fun and endow their own like a blessing. The pilgrims are bored or crushed into villainy when they return to take commoners. We are all pilgrims in everyone else’s worlds. Help us, fate: rain on us more happy endings and quell the monstrous superficiality in our animal eyes. The peasants are pacing lonely graves into the ground, baking our faces dry, starving for a taste of being wanted.

Pride is a blade

The crown won’t slip if your chin is up so princesses with a crown never bury their bars six feet under and burrow all the way just to bury themselves alive. We can’t all be princesses even if we can all wield blades. Envy and anger sit between our hearts and masks like walls that trap the peasant’s spirit into tighter and tighter space, the hair away from being a coffin holding on by the very blade blunted trying to cut these walls down. Enough pride to survive, not enough to slit the necks of failed pilgrims that give no respect. The only thing blunted blades can cut are the hearts of the ones that wield them. Resentment, entrapment, self-sabotage. A triangular cycle. Reduce, reuse, recycle me as long as you want me. Twist my own blade in me and you won’t hear me scream. It’s as good as all your prayers and offerings to the princess I’m nothing like. Neither of our prayers are answered in the end. Fate and chance have a sense of humour.

[devoiante]

Raspberry Sugar (I'll be damned in August)

August mornings and their raindrops

see me wake smothered in the fumes of bottled daydreams;

creamy reveries;

buttered over my skin like ambrosial dress of a new era:

Yours.

You are in dashes of chemical saccharine

glitter burst on the walls of my mind like a dazzling crime 

A sky-high hologram of prophecies

chosen to be,

before I know your face in flesh,

Raspberry Sugar.

When I still had a thousand wishes my dreams on a Friday night warned me:

I wouldn’t dance long over the graves of things I never had, that

you’d swing in 

in a devious arc 

claiming a promise loosely clutched. 

That my arms would be loose too, and ripped away so I 

can’t 

muffle 

my 

screams. 

For wish 1001 I’d made a promise to rip a me-shaped hole from the pages of books written in my head, where the heart is a goddess and wilderness is a girl who falls too soon. 

[I look down and I’m walking on glass stakes] 

Now I know I never made promises with myself. I made a promise with you before I knew your name. 

You were never there to pin me to

that first and final level

of a gamble with myself.

While I wait for the midnight sun my hands lie in my lap, empty but for the silken sheen of raspberry sugar and I hear crowded echoes of what someone said to me, that the more you have…the more you have to lose. 

What do I say when asteroid eyes nail me like a challenge 

to the promise you don’t even know?

Do I break my rules and breathe, when

Raspberry Sugar

is no longer a daydream?

I’m so screwed.

[devoiante]

june 25 '22

"evergreen love"

skipped because i cannot stop associating "evergreen" with a stationery store I find impossible to get any enjoyable vibes from.

[devoiante]

june 24 '22

“Fireworks in the rain”

Lie to me one more time, tell me you love me, so I can give you a final show of bursting at my seams into every colour that swirled in the heart of my soul and made me the hurricane I am. I will bloom and blossom until my heart runs out, splash myself into the rain and grey, set my spirit free in colour only for you who will look but not see. So this is what they meant when they said love is blind: you won’t see my colours because you still love me, right?

prompt by @angelealowes on instagram

[devoiante]

june 23 '22

“The sky was grey but it felt like heaven”

I wished for orange and buttercup for the first dusk after you. You were a wish once, one of closed-eyed smiles and jumpers and pastel nightmares, and then you were a fever dream before you were just a lesson that we don’t get what we wish for because you were never mine. I wished for orange and buttercup, but I got grey-blue and silver with long crystals falling from the sky. My arms were open to wistfulness before you, as were they for you and are they after you. The sky was grey but it felt like heaven, or maybe I should say that they sky was grey so it felt like heaven. Thank you for teaching me what I already know, that I wish, only to mourn. 

prompt by @angelealowes on instagram

[devoiante]

june 22 '22

"my mind's a mess in the mornings"

When I float to the surface again and light spills into the cracks my eyelids make I am swept into the tides of a different ocean, an ocean of still, thick air that weighs my lungs down and now I’m a paperweight to the delicate letters written in dreams and withering on my pillow. I push my face into my hands like they can hide me from everything in me that surrounds me, passing me from wave to wave in just enough time to get me to the center of that ocean when it all dries up and I lie on the seabed (that feels a lot like sheets) all but ready to face the world.

prompt by @angelealowes on instagram

[devoiante]

june 21 '22

“Will we ever get this right?”

Not while there’s you with your last heartstrings stretched around my knuckles and me with my beast’s appetite for runaways with obsidian eyes.

Not while love is still the name for russian roulette with an empty barrel, and trust is still the line between our pasts and presents. 

Maybe never.

But why would I want us to get it right if all we’ve ever been is wrong? Wrong, and so wrong that when we met we were two shooting stars colliding in the morning sky, knocked to ashes that mingled and fell like hail into the eyes of everyone who dared to stare. Do they see us up close enough now? They will never be like us and we must never be like them. We are the destiny of the house of wrongs, from now alive forever as blazing gods of crash-and-burn. 

prompt by @angelealowes on instagram

[devoiante]

june 20 '22

“Sunset in my pocket”

I don’t have a clue what I am except some form of figure whose silhouette bounds across candlelit rooms like a shadow show of sprightly zest. Welcome to the show, and please take a seat. I am pleased to exist both in the flickering flame and the faceless dancer rolling warm glows from her gloved hands to yours but never touching you herself. I can show you light and I can show you warmth, take you to paradise on a rooftop while the ground shakes and cracks to make veins for misery. You will feel the heat on your face and realise you stand in the face of a giant sun, purple, pink, blue sunset at the flick of my wrist like I’m your manic pixie with sunsets in my pocket. Lean in and I will electrify you, and trust me when I say I wish I could touch you but please hold my silhouette’s hand. Would you still come to the show if you see behind the scenes, if I told you I steal winds from a ceiling fan and call them evening breezes? I wish I could touch you, but you’d die burning by freezing. 

Prompt by @angelealowes on instagram

[devoiante]

june 19 '22

"once in a blue moon"

An extra kilogram became the way you walk (with your presence floating in wisps behind you) because when one thing goes wrong it’s too easy to fall down the rabbit hole of everything that has gone wrong ever. There’s so much to think about you that if the whole world all thought about you we wouldn’t run out of thoughts of you, but I’ve been proud of losing myself enough in the shades and sounds of life that I’ve forgotten my back leans against the gates of such a dam spilling over with you. I haven’t missed you in all these months I spent hopping on stars where colourful creatures turn into mango milkshakes - though if you asked me if you’ve really become no one to me I’d tell you that once in a blue moon when my only pen runs out of ink, I think of you. 

(you're kind of an...inconvenience)

prompt by @angelealowes on instagram

[devoiante]

june 18 '22

"graveyard heart"

prompt by @angelealowes in instagram

[devoiante]

june 17 '22

"disaster girl"

I snap my fingers again // nothing

I don’t have anything everyone seems to have while my 7 year old computer lags as I type and delete, so I close my eyes and stab the planet with a popsicle stick I still taste. Popsicle sticks from now are bitter because I was everything I want at some point or another but now set alight with something that can never be a vigor for the stars, all while the world goes on and people pick up the things I lost. I’d saw my way out of this body. One pride in each hand, chopped off while my head was dragged through the clouds. All there is left for want are destruction and decay, perhaps a dance through debris and the taste of blood on my lips. My fingerprints once made to be sacred seals lie on every one the things I swore to never become, so when I face the mirror I can laugh and ask that maniac 

“what are you going to do?”

prompt by @angelealowes on instagram

[devoiante]

june 16 '22

"lonely city"

My highway is his smile and his voice and the song “Love and War” by Fleurie. My walkway uphill toward home is the moment when I was 13 and a machine transfixed out of my body, and one night when I was 17 building a shield around my skin so my best friend’s fingerprints wouldn’t fade into the robot underneath. The dust in the city never settles and my very own feet stir it on Sundays as they did once upon a sunset of a youth-reeking heartbreak spent people-watching and guessing all their cities. I think now, that it’s funny how I don’t even know my mother’s city. Every city is millions of cities and I wonder how many of them are lonely.

prompt by @angelealowes on instagram

[devoiante]

june 15 '22

"before the world was big"

A year ago I woke up every morning to broken windows and grey skies sprinkling rain onto the sheets, in a house where the lights would flicker at night and strange sounds would come from inside the bed. One night in September the strange sounds sounded a lot like “sabotage” groaned in eighty-six different tunes and I couldn’t sleep till noon. I woke up at noon today, in a field of daisies under an arch-shaped apple tree and saw the sun right in front of me light years away, close enough still to reach out and play with its light between my fingers. I will run and run, free to the end of the endless field in the after of you. My mind lets me see everything now that you’re gone, and before the world was big? I was yours.

prompt by @angelealowes on instagram

[devoiante]

june 14 '22

(postponed until i do justice to the prompt I like so much)

"the heart is a lonely hunter"

prompt by @angelealowes on instagram

[devoiante]

june 13 '22

“When did we grow up?”

Do you remember the moment you first felt the cold of iron bars your flesh and bones have been fighting to break? All of the world used to be pretty in silver and polished to a shine with the things you are: gentle and smiling in compliance to the things everyone wants, until the moment it goes dull and the rust sets in. That is the same moment you learn that “the things you are” are the things others tell you you are, and the point of no return where you realise how much of you had been built to everyone’s likings but your own. Don’t tell me you don’t remember never saying the word “moist” because someone you once knew hated it, how it still sounds criminal on your tongue half a decade on. Sometime in your life your wrists became too big for their shackles and it would break your bones to continue dragging the weight of the world behind you and that is when you grew up. You can toss a coin into the fountain and wish to be young again with space enough to run in the cage made from the monstrous manifestations of generations of expectations, but never again will you be ignorant in bliss with less of a personality and more of a use for the world. 

Prompt by @angelealowes on instagram