Understatement

Understatement

Perfection meets Perfectionist #1 | copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's Note: This is different from an archive! It is one of my drafts for one of the moments in the webtoon/written fiction that I talked about in my very first post. There is another version of this, which involves the two main characters of the story. But I thought posting this one first and then the one that is more personalised. Let me know if you would like to see the "official" one!

Understatement

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It was more of a rather nice night. 

Though nice was an understatement. 

Polychromatic, astral. 

The clouds were a spread of butter on toast. 

The sunset was the jam– maybe even marmalade. 

Salted caramel can’t compare to the sea’s mist. 

For you to show leniency on my heartstrings? 

The world will deteriorate, your devotion is interdiction.  

There isn’t much room for such an ambition to ruin my depiction. 

Your perspicacity scares me, 

Torment me next, hence my jonah complex?

Eradicated, irretrievable.

Yet what is there not to regret?    

Your hand is so much bigger than mine. 

Pleading to discard the truth, 

Everyone's hands seem to be more commodious than mine. 

My world fits perfectly in my cupped hands. 

I always hope to the heavens that the water wouldn’t seep through the cracks.

Is it obvious that I was holding my breath the whole time?

That night was beautiful. 

Beautiful is definitely an understatement. 

It reminded of you– a wistful memory meant to be kissed good night. 

Was I meant to kiss you? 

Attentive jealousy, trounce dolour.

My hands are tied, with the most winsome ribbon, crafted from fallen angels to trap my small cage of a mind.

Once I step in, I have to continue until the day I dwindle, the flower can wither from its sorrows. 

But your hands are so much bigger than mine, I always can’t help but wonder how steady you can hold my world.

Would you hold my world? 

Would you drop it when I let my sirens out to the poor sailors who only want to go home?

But I guess it's too late now, huh.

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Restless Sleep

Archive #5 | copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's note: Helloooooo! This one was taken from a pinned discord message between me and my art partner (@v-for-venus) a long time ago. But I kept the structure because I feel like it really embodies it as a whole. Enjoy :)

Restless Sleep

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what happens if the angels carry my sinful soul up to heaven? cupping my soulful heart around their wings straight out of my physical embodiment of a cage? during our time away from each other, while the moon is glistening in the starry inky sky— what if the angels take me to the grey, bitter clouds and beckon on my journey into the afterlife? I can't handle that alone, my love, because I know you will have fluffy, feathered wings that would be strong and delicate, while I will have tainted wings that are too small to uphold my wronged past of sin and regret... how can I sleep when I could be sleeping in your arms, knowing that you are wingless and that I will awake when the next sunlight arises— with you sound asleep beside me?

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Him.

Archive #6 | copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's Note: Damn, who hurt her- anyway, I found this in my embarrassing amount of 'Untitled Documents' in my google drive. You know when you are cleaning your room and you come across letters/diaries of when you were going through it? Yeah... but why was this so interesting to read HAHA (I don't even remember when I wrote it). Enjoy!

Him.

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He would’ve read my work. 

Not voluntarily, I would have had to definitely convince him. Though, it didn’t take much teasing— he always complied in the end. So much for his complaints that I “wrote too much” or my work was “too complicated”, he ended up taking extra time and care reading everything I sent through. 

Did he always understand what I wrote? Ha. Absolutely not. 

But he read it anyway, he always did.

I ponder about it, sometimes. I glance down to— nothing, really— and just relive all the little things and memories we shared. It’s definitely bittersweet, but I am not a picky eater; the taste of bitterness accompanied by the honey-suckle kiss on the tongue has soon become a fan favourite. It’s like a logical but irrational balance: good as a thesis, terrible for the heart. All those bitterness-cringing-moments won’t hide the fear of high blood sugar.  

Would he ever miss my writing? 

Really does your head in, doesn’t it? All those rudely blunt questions your mind comes up with when the world goes quiet. 

Does he even remember half of what he read from me? 

To be fair, I don’t even remember what I sent him— I just remember I used to do it all the time. 

Will he ever get to know that I have found a passion to write again?

Poems were my favourite way to convey storytelling. Commitment was miminial, because they are so short (surprise, surprise— my signature 14 paged spiel does take a lot of effort and energy which is not favourable), and I loved my little rabbit-holes of just finding the synonym for every. single. word. Anything that required excessive and proper sentences drained me, it didn’t feel right. But now— I have come to embrace it and oh, enjoy it oh-so-much. 

Funny thing, though— I never felt like my essays were the best. I’m sure the actual concepts and ideas I write within an essay structure have merit, but I never felt like my structural integrity of a normal essay spoke out to me. I also always felt like what I wrote for an essay could have been better— it just felt cheesy. To be fair— I never really got to the point of sitting down and reading poetry, the pieces I picked up were always too cheesy (even for me). But oh, how I loved writing it. 

Don’t get me wrong, I love writing essays. But–

Will he ever know that I found my own sense of writing style? 

My sense of writing is emotive language. I love symbolism, the play on words— I like the puzzling effect, the double take on things. I love to draw people in, make them confused and heart-broken. I want the real message hidden in deciphering, having to go back and reread it just so you can catch the missed hints and easter eggs. I love deep and dark themes— horror has always been my favourite genre, after all. 

And because I love the deep, emotive conception of writing— I want to always incorporate it into my essays. But of course, I don’t have the time to properly plan out which critical sentence to repeat later down the line— what metaphors and personifications really mean. But you’ll be damned to not see me try.   

Would he be damned? 

It doesn’t matter anymore, even if the current isn’t the direction I want to swim against.

Some people might read this and wonder: “Wait, is this about me?”

But the right person will read this and their heart will stop for a beat, because they know it’s about them. Well, if they can remember— of course. Can’t forget the fact his memory of us is so terrible, I would have better luck asking a goldfish to memorise the two times table. 

I did consider a lot of people when thinking about this umbrella of thoughts. Often, I would have left it to mystery and let my readers conclude what they thought I meant (though, I still can’t help but cringe when they butcher the meaning), but in this reality, I have been pondering about the thought of loneliness. 

I’m not alone.

I’m far from it. 

But I guess it's the closeness and intimacy that I crave. I have the people, I have the bonds— but I figure that being an arms length away from most of my friends for so long due to my personal business, I hesitate to be needy. It’s selfish of me to do so, it’s like the poem situation— I can’t just commit to something because it’s the bare minimum. 

Would he miss my face? I wear a mask consistently, sometimes I do believe that some of my classmates don’t remember what I look like. 

And most of all, do I mean mask symbolically, or physically?

Would he remember my face? It makes me want to take off my mask more, but it has become a comfort— plus, I get sick so easily. 

Every time I got really ill, he was who I talked to. 

He made sickness bearable. He cared and made me laugh. 

What a joke. 

Closure was never the answer, like a mouse that follows a snake— tailing behind the sharp-fanged beast screaming out the question for it to hear.

Why?

Why not? Why else? For I will never know. 

Because it is not worth knowing. 

Why would a mouse go back to the very place, the snake’s lair, where they were bitten once already— to ask why they bit the mouse in the first place? 

Does he remember the puncture wounds? 

Would he read my writing if it was about a snake and mouse?

Would he understand it?

…

Sigh

…

A fresh wound appears.

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Woe the building that falls

Archive #8 | copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's Note: Sooo I decided to post them all separately, but then probably do one post at the end combining them all. Because I lOooOOOooOve making tags... aha. If you guys can throw me some tags to put in it would be great, I never know what kinda tags to put. Enjoy! --------------------------------------------

Woe the building that falls

To seek a soul whose pictured as gold,

makes artless mortals sway. 

The siren theory is embodied as a place— 

that is known for its embrace…

of worship, importune and obsession.

But to pray to who is equivocal… 

they’re merely a god, merely a question.

You can’t treat a person like a church possession—  

the inner walls creak and moan

against the protest and crack of bone. 

Nicknamed Dulia for its glory, 

but it drowns those who try to adore thee. 

The plafond above our heads sing in pressure– 

haunting the thought of being crushed. 

Whilst they cry for their successor,

dust floated towards the exit as if being rushed. 

The sky tends to fall away; 

clouds imitate a chevet. 

The sight itself creates much dismay,

but time is an illusion…

oh, such betray.

But what a church with no heaven?

Sky, empyrean, and the ether

don’t judge a star's demeanour! 

Aperture with glass framework– 

edging feelings with a smirk.

Reflection shows a shining gleam,

but true colour is never seen. 

The sun has a shaded costume 

using the moon as hecatomb.  

It may use perfume as a facade…

but mien flares hearts exerting ballade.

If darkness plummets beneath our feet

may I pray for a deathless greet.

The devotee, 

limp in their extremities, 

served one purpose…and failed.

It drifted into sea like a dead anemone– 

with no avail or memory. 

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In truth

Archive #15 | copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's Note: Hallo, second poem of the new series is here! Enjoy :)

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In truth

The Queen’s light-hearted winter.

Cold, bitter, 

We always knew he was a quitter. 

The heavens, the uranian,

Look at the new Heather!

Romanticists broach vastly

To a new moon.  

The witless prince thought he could swoon?

Ha. 

Praise the rise of the skies, 

Praise the rise of the star clusters.

My heart, oh my, 

To see someone’s whole life in a night’s sky. 

The yearn, the mourn, the emptiness, 

For something that wasn’t even there.

A new moon, or a new dark age? 

The Queen’s dark spring, 

Pasque flowers and lilies of valleys.

Worshipping a wedding ring,

Bewailing a regrettable demise. 

From dawn to nightfall, 

From love to loathe. 

An oath meant to be broken.

Flatter thy, satisfy he

Who dares question the crown. 

Hate, hate. 

Ball gowns and wedding cake. 

How can one forget

The Heather, heaven, heathen?

I’m not one to shiver and click

When one thought they were slick. 

Who thought a royal like me could see a fallen crown? 

I can be sincere, 

I don’t need the roses to be red. 

Just listen to me

And there won’t be bloodshed.

Who dares to question the crown?

Who dares to question me? 

Pasque flowers and lilies does not mean you’re free. 

She had to die,

The skies were aligned. 

The new moon is my oath

And it will not break. 

Which they seem to not understand…

I’m always awake. 

Oh, welcome the new dark age. 

Oh, welcome the new cage. 

Pixies and fairies does not belong to me

But what’s the point of trying to flee? 

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The Bathroom

Archive #2 | Copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's note: Day two of posting pieces that I really like. This one is a bit more dark so slight trigger warning (?) to easily sensitive people. Let me know if you like it! Suggestions and feedback is welcome, enjoy :)

The Bathroom

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Dark and hideous, 

I stare at my reflection, blurry from steam. 

My shower, cold droplets on glass— I tried drowning my sorrow for hours.

The shadows that grasp at my skin drag me back down from my high— 

The pleasure that lingers on my lips, 

Tongue numb from the biting of my stained teeth. 

Lips cracked and blue; 

I do not recognise those who have seen me. 

Resentment is the familiarity I cling onto— 

The smell of gore bores into my mind like a surgical drill. 

If you wish to mush my brain, it will take more than one pill to convince me. 

Betrayal and words; 

I will stab my eyes out. 

Pickled for your cocktails; 

Watch your back as you swallow me whole. 

I am mute, silenced by mistakes, 

I see their pain, damned for their torment. 

Blind and tears. 

Do you regret?

Do you regret?

Do you regret? 

I know,

I know…

I know.

Everyone knows.

I will take this to my grave, 

But you will use it to your advantage in heaven.

When it comes the day—

Where I crash into the walls I hastily built up, 

My defences crash as you stand by and watch. 

Will you penetrate such a fragile structure? 

Vulnerability is a sought out weakness from those who grew out of it. 

Endings and virtue; 

I will end this on my own terms.

But I ended the wrong thing— 

Tumbling and spiralling; 

I will see you in hell. 

I scream as you floated, 

What goes around comes around…. 

I was never a part of this equation. 

You cheated from the beginning, 

Your reflection must be hideous. 

But the steam is blinding, 

And the dust clings onto skin. 

The pleasure was hidden burns. 

I am resentment, that familiarity that cannot be described.

You choke on the dark olives in your drink,

Saw heaven for a second, but the screaming drags you back up from your low.

Did you picture my brain on your platter?

Your pain is my torment;

I do not recognise the shadows, the madman that slams into the shower door.

My walls shake,

Cold droplets down the drain.

Will you regret?

I stare at your tears, whispers come from my silent, blue lips…

Hollow eyes stare back.

You will regret it.

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