sevyyi

[sevyyi]

“It was an act of self-preservation — however misguided it was”.

[sevyyi]

Joy Sullivan, from Instructions for Traveling West: Poems; “Instructions for Traveling West”

[sevyyi]

nobody’s going to hate or think differently about you bc you made a mistake is such a simple thing to hear that we all know but sometimes you hear it and feel it in your soul

[sevyyi]

[sevyyi]

loves me not

a simple want to pick a flower, yet hesitance remains between each finger, intertwined like a crown of daisies. it’s sticky nectar clings to me along with detest,

for desiring.

my left holds a vine of insecurity, thick and heavy, entwined around the fourth and alongside the finger of promises. i swore to never utter the words ‘i do’. though, fated suffering is not easy to subdue.

should i, depict and debrief each petals affections towards me? if the flower loves me?

or loves me not.

the mindless greed, for such a selfish need, as the petals and leaves will only wither and corrupt, under my touch.

yet i still pluck each petal, questioning if the flower loves me, or loves me not.

when left with nothing but a stem and pile of defaced beauty, i realise too late that i had murdered over my need of security.

[sevyyi]

the scary part about getting better is that there's this constant fear that things will go back to what they once were

[sevyyi]

nao-chan the woman that you are

[sevyyi]

a petal for every year

it was the day of my birth it bloomed, stretching its hundred faces wide and proud, till even i could only stare in envy.

mama always said i had a curious nose. a good one too.

it housed a vivid odour, one that brings clarity with each whiff, drizzled with the works of a honeybee.

to stuff your nose between its petals fulfils your childhood dream, of touching the tufts of cotton floating above.

yet with each passing year, i begin to hide my nose to diffuse its pungent aroma, and to admire each face meant to be pricked by its thorns.

how long must i grasp its cunning stem? each silk front only masks its deceitful glare underneath.

a celebratory ritual, for yet another petal, that has fallen from the lone centifolia rose.

the symbolism of a century. a petal, for every year.

and a measly seventeen lay by its stem. yet, you were gone before the petal could still.

you were gone before the clasp of my hands and the flutter of my eyes.

you were gone, while the candle still burned.

and that is when i grasp the thorn filled stem, no matter the blood, and ignite it alongside my birthday cake.

[sevyyi]

i like writing. i get to pour out my emotions while simultaneously creating a work of my own. i like creating things, makes me feel proud and gives me purpose, like i am someone of my own. it acts as living proof that I’m not worthless, that i’m something more than the empty shell i bury within. though my muses are always dark and gritty, exposing the deepest of my secrets. it is all i’ve ever known, all i’ve ever wrote. i now wonder if i heal, will i lose my inspiration?

will i lose my love for writing, my only way of expression? am i able to give that up for my wellness, or endure my endless solemnity just to feel the tip of self love for mere moments with every paragraph i produce?

i do not know, i do not know.

[sevyyi]

pomegranates

meticulously peeled, and not a speck of white between each tear drop.

with each droplet of vulgar crimson, i can only think of Ceres and Persephone. between the stolen innocence and foolish curiosity,

a mother and daughter, a bond so destructive yet could crumble under muttered words. is this your way, of telling me that i am drifting away?

our hearts use to beat beside one another, then we held the pulses of our wrists. now, i can barely graze your fingers.

and i fear most, to be met with a rotten pomegranate, and you, somewhere i cannot reach.

i would only play a fool to think it is inevitable.

[sevyyi]

the cold is unforgiving.

still, a thousand apologies tumble, from my lips to a void, even with no soul before, or within me.

i am nothing but a shallow shell brimmed with excuses for my burden. though what goodness will they really do? and how long, will it take for my people to get sick?

i am only met with the ghost of my breath, and even they seem to abandon me too.

[sevyyi]

Bitter

Each day, before the sun,

I rise from my tangle of sheets

and run against the cold wind,

or, alternatively, jump and gesture

until I can feel the soft parts of me

getting ready to come back harder.

I remove the evidence of effort

with hot water. I make myself slimy with

moisture and absorb.

Next is brushes and compacts

and powders that floats in the air and

enter my lungs. I choose the parts of

me that should shine and those

that should be flat as a stone.

Hot wind in my hair until it goes in the

appointed direction. Oil to reflect the light.

Zippers and buttons and tights to step into.

A mirror to confirm in.

Glass bottle full of what’s one hundred dollars

an ounce. Just enough to smell sweet.

But if you cut me open,

I know I’m bitter.

[sevyyi]

learn to show kindness. not to others—anyone could do that—but to yourself.

you deserve the same sympathy you save for others.

[sevyyi]

Body & Mind

It starts out small: a feeling that, perhaps, your lungs have shrank slightly in size; you try for deep breaths but you find yourself limited. At the same time, a quiet current of static runs through your arms; it becomes hard to hold them still by your side, it feels like if given the chance they would float away, so you wrap them around yourself. For now, your mind has not caught up with your body (though it seems it should be the other way around) so you ask yourself: why does my body feel worried? What should I worry about? And then it’s like you’ve opened a drawer that should have been left closed. Things had the appearance of being neat but the truth is out. In the drawer, a tangled mass of cords (their corresponding parts long lost), jewelry (rusted because you didn’t take care of it), notes from old, loved, friends (who you lost touch with). I should close the drawer, you think, but you can’t, it’s too full. Whatever order you had it in before that allowed you to shut it away is now lost. You can force it shut, if you really want, but that will mean irreversible damage and to what you already hurt. You can try organizing it but that means extended time with what you try to avoid. For now, you close your eyes and breathe.

[sevyyi]

the cold is unforgiving, but the warmth of your palms hold a thousand apologies. it is when we clasp hands my anguish begins to melt away.

[sevyyi]

Salve

Hello.

In a wash of thin, wintery light,

you are here.

I know it’s not easy.

But still your breaths go back and forth,

back and forth, constant like the ocean.

It’s felt like some higher force

has done its best to flatten you.

But every morning

you make yourself tall

and you get up.

I see it.

I see that you’re strong

when you feel weak

and you keep kindness in reserve

for others even though what you kept

for yourself has run out.

So please,

when it feels like every choice

you’ve make is wrong and every

step a fumble

remember the sweet words

you save for others. Apply them

as a salve.

[sevyyi]

the longer we are apart, the clearer you are in my mind. i miss the fog filled forests i’d search through for you, and i miss the cloudless days i didn’t know you.