peachyreflections

[peachyreflections]

The Haunted Doll Manifesto

For the pretty blue sundress and maternal caress Two french braids on her shoulder and a fear of getting older

She'd cry behind locked doors, Perform like she's on tour Hidden behind smokescreens with a fading wish for more

For the love of her For the whine of the leaky faucet For the dreaming in confinement in her home

[peachyreflections]

Radium Girls

We’re painting watch dials, you and I We’re painting watching dials, Ignorant to the radium on our tongues, In our jaws You could see my skeleton Glowing green beneath my skin Did you have the pleasure Of watching my jaw disintegrate Was the wreckage bright enough for you? To see as it got cleaved in two?

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Late September Walk, 7:26 pm

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ARC-EN-CIEL

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Considerations—

Folly it would be not to consider the possibility that I may have been a little bit—I mean slightly, just a tad—

In love with you.

Unknowingly I fell, and unknowingly, you cut me open. Gutted, heart fallen beneath the floorboards, silence ringing in your ears. In retrospect, I could hear it. Though I know it’s likely that I was not

In love with you,

I can’t help but put heartbreak on a pedestal—an indication of a life lived, I suppose; an echo of guilt muffled by a sense of fulfillment; an illusion I romance when I fear the worst, when I’ve embraced the droning of my own heartbeat as it flatlines. How else am I to justify the ache in my soul? Though I never told you, not directly at least, I was

In love with you.

Or at least, I could have been.

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You, my demise

Left hand ‘round a bottle’s neck, the right around my own What do you want me to say? “I need you, baby—it’s carnal” Tell me what you think I need While I savor in the sickly sweet

I wish you were a sweet perfume— Fill my lungs with floral fragrance while you  Swallow me whole

Yet I choke on your noxious fumes Spewing doomed desires  To you, my demise Laying the foundation of a house by now aflame

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To whom it may concern,

By the time you’ve read this, The pale starlight has melted into warm and vibrant dawn The melancholy morning breeze has washed away the lunar haze The dissonant birdsong melody has stolen the silence from the still air And the night’s vicious storm has calmed, the wounds inflicted now but a dull ache But a dull ache I can’t bear, a pain I can’t continue to face

By the time you’ve read this, My bags have been packed My flight is long departed And my name is only heard in whispers

By the time you’ve read this, You’ve heard the last of me

Goodbye and well wishes, Yours truly 

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Tell me about your body

Tell me about your body— How it moves, how it follows a natural order

And I'll tell you you're perfect In a way I never could be— Frozen in concealment, opposing your discernment

And I blow smoke in your eyes so you can't see my disguise A blurry-edged projection, incapable of perfection

Who can tell me otherwise?

There's always something missing, and it's tearing me apart; Ribcage empty, unlocked closet, foreign beating of the heart

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Perhaps...

Perhaps it is the way the streaks of sunlight through the blinds draw cuts across your face Perhaps it is the way the warmth of your body against mine scalds and burns Perhaps it is the sweetness of your smile as your teeth tear through my flesh

Defenseless.

I wake at night, aching and alone I peel off my sheets, my clothes, sweat covers my skin, sticky, salty.

Perhaps it is this, Hot and sweaty and naked, Cumming into my hand As I think about the absence of you

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The you that is in everything

I can't help but wonder— Who do you become in my absence? Who have I become in yours?

I wonder, I wonder, I wonder Time has healed, at least I think it has Until the you that is in everything retaliates The you that is in everything refuses to go down without a fight

Your power, I've flown too close Now I ask—

Have you?

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Sylvia Plath, aged 29, in a letter to Clarissa Roche, 3 months after discovering her husband's infidelity, and their subsequent separation (dated Friday, 19 October 1962)

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May 2025

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so soft it hurts

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May you be my little house of clay (English Translation)

If others asked me to define the word “home,” I would sink my voice into the sea of your name.

But when you asked me what home means to me, I fell silent.

Because you would expect an answer about a tangible space, but your arms were the only corner of the world where, for the first time, I felt that I was home.

In your arms, you buried me with roses, because you knew the pain of being buried with thorns.

And it is in your arms where you quieted the torment of my existential reflections, because only your touch extinguished the questions that the gods planted in the dark well of my subconscious.

In your arms, I understand why the gods molded me from clay and breathed life into my fleshly shell, as fragile as winter leaves.

I understand why they imprisoned me in this fragile and brittle armor, a shell of earth and dreams, a carnal cage that I carry with me.

They wanted me this way: to rot, but so that, in my decomposition, I could bloom beautifully, like the last leaf of autumn, leaving its fragrance in the wind.

✦ @dervishlatino | NNF نشوان نازاريو فيريرا ✦

[peachyreflections]

from "To Be Alive"

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Metal in my nose. A slick, warm stream of blood works its way down my face, crimson cuts splitting my jaw in two. It’s cold and dry out. Dry and cold, bleeding my nose. Drip. Drip. Drip. Three drops of blood on the kitchen table. Someone tell me why the blood still flows, when we’re now well into spring.