Your Boathouse

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.

"👏just 👏because 👏you're 👏traumatised 👏doesn't 👏mean 👏you 👏can 👏go 👏around 👏and 👏traumatise 👏 others 👏" - saturnfairycat

Asphyxiate

Work #2 | copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's Note: holy shit?? another "official" work??? ain't no wayyyy. Anyway, time for the debrief. Debrief: Word count: 738 Warnings: gore, sensitive content, trigger warnings, horror, death. Enjoy!

Asphyxiate

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Suffocation. 

I couldn’t breathe through all the corpses piled on top of the mighty pyramid. The irony of “mighty” is strong. I swore I could see a glimpse of light at the surface, but I knew from the lack of flesh beneath my spine that I was at rock bottom. If the plague doesn’t kill me, the pressure will. 

I’m freezing, the detached limbs hovering around me like a ritual circle didn’t help the goosebumps on my skin— or my teeth chattering. I am shaking, in a jigsaw-like position. It’s silent, but too silent. 

It allows the aftermath of the sheer pressure from above to be heard. The sudden cracks of bone and the moan of flesh being ripped apart; all because of the build up from the weight of it all… it causes ringing in the ears. It’s sickening. I will be one of those cracks soon. 

There is an eerie, hollow feeling inside this pile. Everything present is here on purpose; I am liable because it was written in stone. How I wish my bones would turn into stone. There is something directly lying on top of my forehead and it’s crushing my skull. Blood is gushing towards my brain— adrenaline is kicking in as I panic from the pain. I can’t even open my eyes, and the smell has me in a chokehold. 

It’s dark, but I am starting to see red. I can’t see, yet it feels like a thousand cold, dead fingers are grasping at my thighs. Is the flesh around me rotting, or is it my knees that have started to decay? I’m going to die. I’m actually going to die. But… I can’t. I have so much waiting on me. I finally have something to live for. I have to protect and experience… and live. 

How did I end up here? This is the borderline simulation– 

I remember the murmurs in the back of my distant mind. It feels close and yet further than the sea of stiffness on top of me. The snickering, but not from the dejected faces that surround my decrepit body. Mockery? Or was it obstinate? I recall confusion and panic— the necessity of changing face.

“I am just so tired, why am I never enough? I try so hard.” 

“I understand how you’re feeling–” 

“No, don’t even try to please me. You’re a bad liar. How could you EVER understand how I’m feeling? You’re perfect, you never had to try–”

Perfection is a dirty word, especially when it neglects the backstage input.  

Memories drown my head like I’m on a boat, casted away into never-ending sea. The rocking from left to right is vomitous, churning my stomach like a horrible stew. I am probably hallucinating, it’s all just a bad dream. It shakes me— not the cold— but the thought of being just a face. A mask designed for success. Everyone wants a different version of a product; some want pink, while others prefer red. You’re bored? Just throw it away… wait, what?

The tower looks more like a pile found in a dumpsite than anything, what it looks like from the outside must be appalling. Was I thrown away? One of those mere faces? No. I said already that I’m at rock bottom, that doesn’t make sense…

Oh. 

…I’m the first face.

The realisation makes my skull cave in. I can’t do this, this can’t be the end. Not like this, never like this. Is that how the people around me died? Did they know it was their demise? Am I the only one who has the true fate of misfortune? I need help. Anyone? I need anyone. Everyone. I can’t think, is the air getting lighter? I think I can open my eyes now, it’s brighter than before. But I can’t breathe, my chest is heaving mountains at this point. Help? HELP. PLEASESOMEONEHELPME. 

Hollow in the gaps, but solid as a whole. No one can hear no one in this pile, the dead corpse consumes the noise pollution like it was their first meal from the afterlife. Half of my consciousness is slipping, while the other half mocked me. This is it. But it can’t be. I have so many regrets, I have so many things I want to do right. I need to live my life right, this can’t be happening, I need help. I NEED HELP I NEED HELP. I nee–

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A stargazer's lover

Archive #20 | copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's note: does it sound familiar?

A stargazer's lover

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Everyone loves differently,

from my way of devotion to your potential declaration of adoration.

In a way, we are all lovers, but just from different lengths and brightness.

Our constellations of mistakes and greatness form scars in our skin; you may find it repulsive,

but a stargazer out there would exchange their skin— a blank canvas that has not touched a single stroke of our paintbrushes, to trace their fingertips against our lines of stars.

We are lovers,

an ocean of sea pebbles that appear all the same at first glance, but compliment each other so well in our strack contrasts.

The lines on our skin,

the clearness of thought,

the dark that surrounds our huddled position in the universe.

It is lovers like us that shine in the darkness. We see light and colour, like a canvas of the brightest of skies.

But when it comes to ourselves, our beauty within shines from the silence, the chaos, and the void. Because we fill it with our beauty, our love.

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.

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.