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cielsolwazi
Ciel Solwazi
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the definition of different...
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netthanhxuaan
nét thanh xuân
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Not to sound hysterical but I think that That One friend flying over and cuddling with me platonically would fix me
#You know that one hug#The one when you feel like they're cradling your vulnerable soul#And instead of squeezing it until it runs dry they give it lots of headpats#And say that you're safe with them and that they would never hurt you when you're vulnerable#And suddenly you're okay with being small and your chest caving on itself#And then we promised each other to do our best until then#And she told me to wait for her#I will I will I will#For you always
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To the groom, yours truly wilted ponders away (an answering letter to "at my funeral there will be no flowers")
Your story reminded me of a wedding.
There was no bride with a pristine white dress and a loving smile, or a future ahead of her. Only thing she had was a boquet of flowers and not written letters with thoughts left unspoken.
She wasn't brave enough to write them.
They left her buried in them. They're not the warm soil you spoke about but set on fire they did burn the body quite well.
She hopes to be scattered somewhere, content.
She was wearing a grey sweatshirt replacing the dress, clearly a hand-me-down from the cheesy line printed on the front. It suited her worn-down eyes, they needed rest from her own reeling head, she thought about it over and over again, just let her burn the letters please-
...
Her eyes wondered to the boquet. Forest flowers carefully picked out with damaged leaves sticking out of the holes of a plastic bag that she saved from grocery shopping with colorful splashes of green and red and a name of a supermarket.
She imagined it as herself.
She had no idea what were the wild flowers that she picked, they did not look pretty, blossoms small, they couldn't grow more because of the harsh environment(they weren't beaten by sticks and stones, but toxic water is just as devastating), leaves damaged from catterpillars and wind slashing into them everytime they took a breath.
Her blistered hand, clearly from the poison of the petals that already soaked in, covering the holes in the bag keeping it together.
They did not choose to grow up in that forest.
She pitied them, wheter she wanted to or not.
Maybe that was her flood, her grief, her regret.
And maybe this is not the answer to your letter because there was no question, there was no groom, and now there is no bride and her existence is made of the fact that the letters are burned and the boquet is not pretty and they're both dead.
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To the groom, yours truly wilted ponders away (an answering letter to "at my funeral there will be no flowers")
Your story reminded me of a wedding.
There was no bride with a pristine white dress and a loving smile, or a future ahead of her. Only thing she had was a boquet of flowers and not written letters with thoughts left unspoken.
She wasn't brave enough to write them.
They left her buried in them. They're not the warm soil you spoke about but set on fire they did burn the body quite well.
She hopes to be scattered somewhere, content.
She was wearing a grey sweatshirt replacing the dress, clearly a hand-me-down from the cheesy line printed on the front. It suited her worn-down eyes, they needed rest from her own reeling head, she thought about it over and over again, just let her burn the letters please-
...
Her eyes wondered to the boquet. Forest flowers carefully picked out with damaged leaves sticking out of the holes of a plastic bag that she saved from grocery shopping with colorful splashes of green and red and a name of a supermarket.
She imagined it as herself.
She had no idea what were the wild flowers that she picked, they did not look pretty, blossoms small, they couldn't grow more because of the harsh environment(they weren't beaten by sticks and stones, but toxic water is just as devastating), leaves damaged from catterpillars and wind slashing into them everytime they took a breath.
Her blistered hand, clearly from the poison of the petals that already soaked in, covering the holes in the bag keeping it together.
They did not choose to grow up in that forest.
She pitied them, wheter she wanted to or not.
Maybe that was her flood, her grief, her regret.
And maybe this is not the answer to your letter because there was no question, there was no groom, and now there is no bride and her existence is made of the fact that the letters are burned and the boquet is not pretty and they're both dead.
#poetry#sad poem#poem#im just a poet wanna be#i have no idea how poetry works#slam poetry#this is an answer to ours poetica#ours poetica#this is my first poem lol#(says while having no idea what are the criteria)#i liked the poem and maybe i did miss the point but who cares right (i do but dont point it out im already insecure as i am)#also english is not my first language so everyone shut up#should i tag this mentally ill???#mental illness#trauma
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The incessant want to rip myself to shreds and piece them back together in a way that feels right.
#i want to feel good about myself#mental health#mental illness#idk wtf im doing#someone send help#please send the nicest angel you have#i cry over menial tasks bc i cant deal with myself#at this point im not sure which trauma im dealing with#this for peopke who understand the I want to feel good about myself
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