lynde-x - Tumblr blog

[lynde-x]

messy explanation of the previous piece, written on my phone with my finger

[lynde-x]

shaming with the day, sighing with the fright / bestowed upon those who live in past-tried,

summery silk-ness and soft-est of lies, bestowing a dream, dangerously surprised;

kissing the wounds, flying finches on fringe(s), french kisses with wishes of stunning contrition;

standing with this,

kneeling to these,

I succumb to scorched salt[ing, ]water [saying] “breathe”:

moon(-less)(-lit) nights, a star, comprised, composing a galaxy of tears and ice /

flowers, they bloom, beneath shallow moon,

reflection,

deception:

illusion /

of passion ;

　　　　　　unknowing of this,

the sweetest of lies:

ending of nectar,

of honeyed sunrise;

sweet to the taste,

bursting on one’s tongue,

riddled with guilt:

expiry: none.

[lynde-x]

sometimes, I wonder what will take me first: the insatiable hunger, (un)tied threads, or the bandaid: ripped off, with half of my heart. sitting in this room, surrounded by only material accomplishments, I had shunned my “self” before they had taken their [last] breath, cheap shots at double-meanings take beatings and, what is seething out of these perforating, festering wounds is —

milkweed flowers, after all,

my dying wish —

as shallow sun blooms in moon, mallow takes its final form; retaliating, I laughed as the world was fleeting, disappearing, slowly nearing a shallow show; I had mistaken the sudden end for a burst of fireworks; beautiful breath-(less )breaking, tragically stunning, tremendously tainted purity. painted and painted scarred nights, sacred sighs with stars in-eyes — / you were blind / — to no surprise, sun(-)rises as always, flight /

less birds are last to die,

and I, too —

must keep filling the margins with placeholder words, even though hand’s cramping — it hurts — take me, tell me, a story, won’t you? break me a dream, tear me anew —

sweet solitude (shut-in’s debut),

original sin: a forbidden fruit,

bleeding new colors, rose-glasses are blue;

dying(,) a wish(:)

forever untrue.

[lynde-x]

spinning gears, sinning fears,

turning clocks and destroyed tears,

night terrors and harborers of

sea-fared sickness,

at-home illness,

describing dreams with thinning threads, and

splitting straws around one’s neck, sad /

dened draping curtains, concealing lead, scab /

bed(s) of nails and coffins, wooden, hurling insults at what one couldn’t /

see, drinking of mirrored realities, palaced pleas, our plated dreams, such scenery — we are to feast:

gardened missed opportunity,

red-eyed beast, are you free?

or,

　　is it perhaps that you are me?

see —

　　　　I believed in honesty,

until this point, tabled for tea;

ruinland draped certainty,

yet even I was (last)

to be,

kissing a broken bone(;)

(the key),

beginning to / (dis)trust my seams,

splitting them,

becoming free.

[lynde-x]

take my jealousy, my greed, my deceit, make it your own with the cascading word-cases of a tear’s waterfall, flowing, everything I couldn’t tell you, everything I promised;

even when I was half-dead and living through waking night-terrors, you held me, nurtured me, into the one I am now, a year has passed between us, and — (you did nothing wrong), it was me, always me;

so afraid of the shallow streams and ice-water in winter that I became, too, like the glazed-over lakes, scared of losing you, whom I never loved, dancing between dreams within dreams and soft set-lists, interviews in which I would never say those four words, still searching, weaponizing, running, running, running,

stopping;

blue, bourbon, beers, breathless, stage-lights and scarred nights with starred skies and, always, me, mine, ours, yours, you, you, you, taking my hands in yours and writing, sculpting, telling, a story of two (I never knew), resembling cast-away caricatures and castlescapes of the stories you’d read me to the sweetest sleep, dreams, deaths;

giving me a feather’s kiss and week-long bruise — I thought I loved you.

the darkened dagger that reaches into my heart, maddened scalpel blade-deep in my insidious skull, self-inflicted, self-depicted, self-conceived achromacy, desired and undeserved dreaming depths of darkened days and drowned nights, deep in your sighs — our own severed ties;

may the things I took from you come true, spelling,

spilling,

the letters of your name into the sand, washed over by me;

may you, too, find greatness,

in soft misery.

[lynde-x]

Once the wings had been torn from my back, I was left with a mark of remembrance, so gorgeous in its shameless imperfections: a chasm of guilt left on my vessel of a body. No, no, I am not who you think I am — take of this what you will, but even the halo’s light had failed at illumination; boundless years have cursed me to such resignation.

Even the white clouds, soft air and harsh winds, such were not for the likes of me, so stained in my stubborn impurities, a cycle of soiling and obsessive cleanliness. Perhaps, then, it is fitting for my beloved scarlet flowers to wilt; springtime is the time of birth, after all; their death is ensured, a beautiful passing into forgotten, withered carnations.

I could not bear to wash the permanence from my skin.

[lynde-x]

I screamed a prayer at the walls of my cell,

　　　　fifty-seven,

sixty-four,

the serenity dream of hell.

with a prolonged life,

I walked towards the end,

wishing for a savior’s hand

　　as I steered you from death.

you claim me as your angel;

you had me write a book

to cut out all the parts that made you wicked (as I should)

and now that you’ve left,

and the pen is in my hands,

　　　　　　perhaps

I can finally distance

and understand.

[lynde-x]

With a single press, I am perfumed in its scent: soft floral cleanliness eroding the corroded impurities so desperately hidden. Compliments burn invisible criticism into the fifty-seven walls of my mind: a maze made in heaven, designed far in hell, for there is no use to deflect the truth-seeking words preached upon me, by me, for me, myself — a stained bouquet of white lilies turned sour, reddened by the rising sun, wither with its setting. I am no different. Indifference is cast by a fleeting gaze, cascading cages of cotton wool, hurting oneself through fear itself as if “to fear” is divine gospel; words themselves are useless, so let’s speak in riddles, so-called “purity” is for the faint-of-heart. There is no such thing as “eternity” except when prolonged by an IV of false promises; surviving is not living —

and I, who can do neither, am surely dead …

[lynde-x]

Finding solstice in transparent eyes, an invisible throne of lyre’s lies, fragile hair and fleeting smile, the angel waits, waits for a while — until, then, no one came; realizing this, its halo breaks, thrust into loves of underground, the fallen one is now unbound. Silence! Dance with the whitest of gowns, torn wing now becomes unwound, deepest sin,

pain within

(no one wins the game therein);

a loss of oneself is as brittle as hope;

realizing this,

　　　　　　　“divinity” choked.

[lynde-x]

meet me at the seam of all-under-heaven, where the mirage-like moon and mirrored flowers dance on the surface of the water’s depths, double-sided, don’t dive deeper, what you see is unclear, a sleeping half-slight lighted fire of building pyre, a funeral dance, with a path of red spider lilies beckoning until you, too, are stained in their soiled purity.

meet me in the tall-grass, in which my voice dances around you like a waking dream, do you see? hide-and-seek, a hideous thing inside the body called “me”, invisible, now, calm clownery —

no. meet me as dawn steals night, as songbirds fly, in the cage of my room, transfixed a palace for a shut-in’s absolute justice, the turquoise walls: a sky-bound, sea-salted wound of summer’s solstice, solitude.

[lynde-x]

Silence. To the fakest flowers, bloom, burst in shows of fire and ice in one’s eyes, dance to the light of fireflies’ flight, take with you a dream of self-fight, kill, laugh, laughing, have laughed, noisy, noisy, too loud — quick crash.

Slashing births a crimson red,

so utterly beautiful,

spilling out dead; I will fall in love with the same four sceneries many times over, until at least my throat is parched, my voice — impossible is for the memories reflected within my eyes to forget, rushing, running, overdone, I’m

stained into the color of you, beloved listener, silent stalker and comfort of mine, listening to listed rhymes, practice and princess-play pretend pieces posing a poser into my place — same face, destined fate, costume crate and dinner-plates, left unscraped and untouched, touch / me, do not leave be

the rhythm and prose of make-believe.

[lynde-x]

On the day she died, thunderstorms stormed the sky, with a cloudless downpour (over)casting a spell on those beneath. A final burst of sputtered fireworks reflected on the back of her eyelids as she slipped in and out of sub-consciousnesses, the prospect of consuming food has already reached record lows, see, and the heaven she so yearned for the welcome of was slamming its fist down on the pitiful world. More time. A wish so uttered by those left behind without a passing thought of its implications is emptier than the fractales of ice forming on her eyelashes in cold-comatose. The only thought remaining was —

it was a good day to die; the sky wasn’t particularly heavy, and the air amongst the people was lighter than usual with the coming summer. Perfect. A cross of straw and red adorning her neck, she hoisted herself up to the heavens, un-needing of even a guardian angel to guide her; her soul whispered its final words as the end-credits of her life rolled, until finally,

she slipped into an eternal, peaceful slumber;

final rest,

sweetest night.

[lynde-x]

Laughter flies between the lifelines of stories and poetry spoken to dressed-up delusions, a garden of tendered ideas and blooming bouquets of broken words,

birthing more,

breathing less,

a weary pair of scissors clip the petals to perfection: a game of chosen-mutism — between the spider-strung lyricism of lycoris and an azalea’s growth despite soiled starts, a yellow flower sows death: chrysanthemum,

dancing in this nursery of stolen words: a flower-thief curses herself to the confinement of eternal praise.

[lynde-x]

How many people have died before in this room, I wondered, as an IV of unfamiliar familial love and morphine pumped consistently into the unbeating heart of someone I once knew. A graveyard for empty burials, unrequited time and failed attempts at acceptance, it remained dull, even with pained paintings and pretty pastels adorning every wall; at the noontime of my life, hers had slowed to dusk, then night, perfuming the sky in fumes of cremation: one’s final disposition, stuck in a permanent past one-frame, like a movie without closure, no end-credits — emptiness.

[lynde-x]

frowned upon by the millions of tearful clouds,

love finds a way, even if, in the end, it is

only possible after every word has been ripped and

worn by time; see, I have looked into Her

eyes and they hold nothing more than pure,

red, hell-born hope.

[lynde-x]

Forever was in the vernal words and autumnal thoughts; “eternal” stayed in my dreams: a constant mockery, for it exists not for us. I swore upon the morning sunlight to make a bouquet for stars — Her — thus I clipped, stole, with dirtied hands and heart, soul — but, for her, for her I would dye black into white with only a pinch of salt. Burning. Breaking, my time is! Daring deity, you’ve torn me; write, rewrite, verse upon page; and let me, too, paint all of Her days —

into my book: a blank slate — fail me no longer, and let me breathe Her life, sew it into a quilt of patchwork staccato, allegro, vivace — subito. I shall beg of the stars to-night and ask them, plead them, to extend each moment into double, triple, their time, for they are too short … far too short … too little, too slight…

lungs at half-capacity — steal my breath away! leave me with the lycoris, blood-flowers, marigolds. I shall rot away, turn to stone; life-delay — forever, like a feline, arching my back and baring my teeth — em-dashes, en, dashes, hyphens; stop; I am but a child, now. Yet I wish for more evenings, mornings, as many as possible — but such are not for those on Earth, is that not so?— for it is not our decision, but that of Moon —

When every tear

is criticized,

who am I to cry?

to judge a life

— at the slight of a hand

a candle tips,

(spills)

my grains of sand;

to-night, I think

—alone

of a plan —

to extend my time

and then, understand.

[lynde-x]

On the first night of her arrival, I sat with childish wonder; naïvety, yearning. The woman, with a scarlet robe and porcelain skin — pale, paler, than the full moon, soon crescent, then none, as if one autumnal breath was her only, and verity held no vitality — whispered sweet words of Summer, with a gaze akin to its polar. How lovely she was, cascading, speaking diamond words in velvet boxes, the one she gave me,

it was too small, yet I accepted it nonetheless.

My fingers lacked warmth, now, intertwined with hers; subsequently, I saw a flower lovelier than any other; it filled me with the deepest dread. Sorrowful rains of past springs affected it not — no affection — and I tumbled, laughing, into the deepest reds, her lips, I pressed to mine, wishing for them to take me, too, to a world without tomorrow — to a future without “you” —

that came to a halt —

Life — life was beautiful, with colorful petals adorning every day, drowning in danger I couldn’t say; soft pastels, harsh blacks; I ran from her, Death, and fell in love with the vernal leaves. Like them, she crumpled; like them, she died, with beautiful dishonesty framing her face in a feverish light — the small child who chased her was no longer living; a metamorphic mess, without rhyme, nor reason.

𝓮𝓷𝓭