Understatement, Draft Two

Understatement, draft two

Perfection meets Perfectionist #2 | copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's Note: Here is the second version of Understatement! (if you remember). So in this version, we have Etta (mc) and Quinn, the story plot essentially is surrounded by these two lovely folk. This is obviously taken out of context, so let me know if you like the snippet!

Understatement, the butterflies

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Quinn smiled bitter-sweetly, eyes glowed with much sorrow.

“I really like butterflies, you know? So beautiful, so free… but not free from the ticking time of death’s wing plucking embrace.” 

Etta looked up to the sky, with much dolour in her cracked irises. 

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?

I lost you, my beautiful love.    

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,” Etta thought.

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?

If I have found all of its species, 

And put it all in one book; 

I would still be left empty, without your butterfly wings. 

I should’ve admired and not touched, 

I should’ve been devoted and not lost.

Etta’s burning heart soured as Quinn’s butterfly wings touched their aching strings,

Once more.

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Mágoa

Archive #29 | copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's note: can you believe I wrote this one on instagram? lmao being a writer is weird. enjoy!

Mágoa

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Our love was like home to me. It felt like a physical place for my mentality to lie.

On days where the world seemed colder, I seek warmth near the fireplace— cuddling up with blankets and hot cocoa. On days where it was spring, I would be dancing on the deck over seeing our garden— you always believed dancing is best in silence, the only sound was careless whispering to each other. Such sweet nothings filled our house with warmth and my heart with comfort.

Of course, it was never easy— the belongings in our home were the memories and bonds we have made and shared together. If it wasn't for me, the house would be bare to the bone— only left with the original wallpaper that you put up after breaking down my walls.

I know you tried, and you would visit the house as much as you could— but we both knew deep down it wasn't enough. Soon, it wasn't only the world that seemed colder; my breath is shaky as I puffed out frost from my lungs. The fireplace was no longer used, even when I tried multiple times with the damn lighter you gave me. Our garden started to wilt, and home felt more like a distant memory.

But the belongings were still here— and so I kept them near me at all times. Hugging them to my chest like it provided me with the warmth and care I needed, ignoring the distinct coolness that came off it every passing day.

'When will you return home?' was the question I used to always ponder. 'Am I bad at maintaining our home?' I scrunched up my face in frustration. It started raining a lot during that time, it was salty— and made the skin of my cheeks feel dry afterwards.

One day, it stopped raining. Warmth came back— tenfold— but the fireplace wasn't the source. The draping wallpaper had caught on fire, I guess I have sparked the lighter a little too close to the dangling pieces of wallpaper above the fireplace.

How did I not notice the fire? I don't know. I think I have always seen a spark, but mistook it for hope instead.

The fire consumed everything in the house, even climbing out onto the wilted garden.

I managed to get out… But barely. I was harmed, yes. But people came to my rescue— I was safe. I was hurt. I felt sick, our home was getting destroyed and I could only helplessly stand back and watch it burn.

The only two choices I had left were to either stand there and watch it burn, becoming homeless without shelter— or walk away, and build my own house. I reluctantly pulled away at my spot outside the burning house, turning my back and glancing behind me a couple of times.

And then that's where I saw you.

You stood at the entrance of the house. Your foot edging past the door and threatening to enter the burning building. You looked back at me, beckoning me to follow you.

I felt a million emotions. You probably didn't understand what I was feeling— the fear of false hope, the desperation for that second chance, the dread of seeing your face again. I thought back to our memories, and how a lot of them were destroyed by the fire— you didn't remember them at all.

You were giving me mixed emotions, you didn't look certain to be where you are, but you didn't move.

Was this the second chance I was so desperate for?

Do I follow you in?

You seem to be completely different and just the same as I once knew you all at the same time. You must have lost your way, your visible scars prove so. Maybe… I could help. I could help somehow, what can I salvage? Is that why you're wanting to enter the house? Are you wanting to retrieve the remaining belongings?

I rushed towards you, following you in. If I just save the things we both loved in that house, maybe we can restart as something new— maybe just a small vegetable garden, or an ash tree.

The smoke blinded me, I have lost you in the smoke. But I knew what to do, I didn't lose my way. I reached and grasped at what I could, wincing at the heat. When I neared a window, I saw your left hand holding one of our more newer possessions— while your right hand held our oldest possession. I was confused, you were outside— don't you want the others?

I guess you got cold feet, too scared of the flames to salvage the rest. You left, after I hesitantly stared back at you— your eyes begging me to follow you once more.

I was burning up, I was lost. What have I done? I have caused more pain for myself. I gave you a second chance and ran into a burning building to save the things I loved. But you didn't save me.

I escaped the collapsing house, leaving the belongings behind in the fire.

Without a single glance. I walked away from the burning house I once called our home.

God is dead, long live mortality

Archive #25 | copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's note: this one is slightly different, more abstract and structured. let me know what you think - enjoy!

God is dead, long live mortality

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I believe it has come to my attention that I have to re-introduce myself. For it seems, even you cannot recognise me.

A pleasure to meet your acquaintance, my name is the same-- but my heart beats in a different rhythm.

Freedom is a broad topic that even god may not be familiar with. Being stuck with mortals for the rest of their existence sounds anything but like freedom, from my own record. Who cares about greed and lust, anyway?

Alas, I've been impaled by the sin of pride-- I can drown all who have wronged me with my complexity. Some mortals believe in me, while others dare to look the other way. But when the world starts to burn, when the envy takes over your precious innocent blood, I am the one who slips off your sly tongue.

Admit it, you can't stand me, can you? Or is it, that you've fallen for a god? My my, call me the devil if you will-- but that is quite the ironic name to give to your lord and savior, isn't it?

To be worshipped by someone who is the closest perception of heaven is like forgetting my past of immortals that relied on me to fix their lives. To be with a mortal that I would die for is like eating the forbidden fruit with everything to lose.

Dead muse

Archive #28 | copyright to saturnsfairycat

Author's note: this one literally just came to me while I was in the middle of a conversation with @raccoonboy321 on instagram lmao what - anyway enjoy!

Dead Muse

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I wrote so much about you, my poetry on the walls, and scattered across my room.

I know so much about you, words can only be used as personifications because simplicity is absentminded in your presence.

I read into it too deep, I forget to drop the pen sometimes and my hand cramps up in the same position for the longest of times.

Too sore to stretch out my worn fingers, too hesitant to stop.

What if I forget you? How else am I supposed to remember you?

The feeling of pain is exhilarating as I scratch bloody ink onto paper, dizzy from all the emotions, it spills out in splotches instead of brainstorms.

I get overwhelmed by all the ways to describe you, my imagination runs wild at the thought of moments we can share together.

Can? Or did?

Wait,

Did that even happen?

I forcefully pause as I stare at my writing,

They are just words, nothing more.

I glance down at my bloody fingers in confusion,

What were you like? I don't remember.

But I wrote it down—

Fuck,

I don't remember if that was how you are as a person, or if that's how I wanted you to be.

I thought I knew you, but we barely even held eye contact long enough for you to see my inky tears.

I thought I wrote a lot about you, but all these words— these words are merely personifications of how absentminded you are.

The emotions are so strong, because the blood that draws from where my pen scratches into my own skin are the words.

I don't even remember the last time you smiled at me.

"He smiles at me every time he sees me."

I don't even remember the last time I saw him.

Words, on my pieces of paper.

Useless.

And still on my walls,

And scattered across my floors;

Haunting my simplicity

As my hand stays in the same position,

Throughout this whole time.

Your Boathouse

Archive #21 | copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's note: Hi guys! Back to poems, hope you enjoy this one :)

Your Boathouse

I feel so close, and yet so far; I fear that my voice is caught behind the door. Latched to the door knob, panic strikes in me again; I struggle too hard, not finding my balance. Everything around me shakes except for the hard slam of the door.

I feel your warmth in my arms, But I feel so empty in the imaginary embrace. Through the door's window, I can see you on the other side. But can I, really? I hear the sound of waves crashing against the door; I wish I could just merely whisper to you: "Open the door," But I'm met with echoes of a key clicking, locking the question away. Silence as an answer serves as the final act of deliverance.

But why not?

Do you fear that the currents will send me away? Exertion is my strategy when it comes to connection; I long for you in my curious nature, the odd attraction draws me closer.

We know that we swim in different boats, But I'm willing to swim against the currents To sit in your boat for a little while. Leaving my ship unattended moments at a time, Back and forth each day from my boat to yours. My legs willingly carrying the burden of shame, My desperation in attempts of calming my inner child As you feed it glimpses of affection.

Somedays I fear that I may not have a boat to return to. How did I stray so far that I return back to the beginning? Looking through a glass window; a pigeon at heart. How many times do I slam against the glass Before I tell apart reality and my delusions? Would it be my heart or the window to shatter first? Piercing into my soul, breaking down your walls; I fear I only see segments of your cracked window. How long before you let me in through the door?

You let me onto your boat, But I only feel welcomed for so long Before you nudge me to swim with the flow. I'm young, through and through, But I still feel older than everyone I am surrounded by.

Am I a mere fish to your personification? An easy catch before throwing me back into the water? My lungs don't expand in your environment, But I saw the sun through your life. Returning to the water, it is darker down here. Sunlight is seen as a disadvantage when trying to hide in the big blue, But light is seen as an advantage in pure darkness.

Down in the depths, Are you just another anglerfish? At least consume my entire being, rather than just getting a taster. I can hold you, but for only a few forbidden moments.

One day, I will return to my boat, But only driftwood would be left for me. I dug this grave in this wooden pile, Splitters and all, As a reminder of my priorities. I raise my strained hand in longed hesitance.

Knock knock

The deathly silence leaves me slow dancing with my thoughts in the dark. The voices, they mock at my repetition. I fall beyond tired, Exhaustion is my excuse as the final act of deliverance. My legs cannot handle the weight of shame any longer.

I float above water, but the sun is too bright for my water skin. Sighing in my sleep, empty from your ghostly embrace. As I sink further into the depths, I raise my head to stare at your sunlight through the watery cracked window; You can't hear my knocks from here.

Alexithymia

Archive #27 | copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's note: poem!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! but I really focused on the structure for this one, as it is one of the many ways of conveying feeling. lemme know what you think! enjoy >:D

Alexithymia

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back then I couldn't remember the last time I was happy without trying to link it back to you.

every shining moment of mine was your stage and moment.

made me think that my life was taken over by someone who never truly tried to talk to me about me and how I impact their life.

empty words, empty promises, god and I was desperate falling for it all.

to imagine someone who was great with flaws was just broken, nothing more.

the inner thoughts I had when it came to your actions makes me curl up into a ball in disgust and shame.

how does one really mess up so badly it causes that much pain?

do you even get how that even works?

that reaction alone is scary enough as it is. you seem to know everything about trauma and bad bad things,

so tell me, if you're just a collector to all of them feelings,

and I am just your keeper of your unwanted feelings.

my present and future is looking at my past in such pity it's levelled to how I feel about you.

you ruined someone who tried to help you out,

gave all their patience, love and laughs,

for something that wasn't even recycled-

just waste.

like a floating useless oxygenated suit in space.

you know, one oxygen tank isn't enough to keep going just to get the same result every time.

the kindness, and emotions, I had before the consequences of being naive,

were wasted on such premature things.

I can't look at anything the same anymore.

no more butterflies, and no more pain.

I wished I had saved that bit of extra kindness, and patience, I had for myself.

that extra bit was like the best biscuit you left just for yourself.

that was the last time I was ever selfish,

and I regret it

so

so

much.

I can't even- set boundaries without seeming like the bad guy,

who wanted space

and to be loved just the very same.

if I had treated me like how I treated you, I would've been so much better,

as a person whose been through hell and probably more even later on.

I can't even get exposure from you because you wouldn't listen,

you can't even let me get closure for me because you couldn't get the same from those who you blamed.

so I sit in my room, reminiscence at what I would've been missing if it weren't for you.