Widdiful God

Widdiful God

Archive #26 | copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's note: this one is structured differently again! Hope you enjoy <3

Widdiful God

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Careless, I produced a creation of immorality that will suffer.

The kind that could be bodied by water, fluid but firm as it forms from the bits of the deep. Reverence is not necessary when accidents linger at the callouses like finger tips brushing by. The balance between satisfaction and impotent frustration is like someone glued to pick at their skin. The protective barrier against the world from their insides, how essence would destroy something meant to rot like a short-lived flower.

Imperfection does little to ease, nevertheless I'm not bothered by such.

What a pitiful romancer, lies like liquid gold that cannot be kept inside hearts. If bodies were a vessel, would we attempt to pour such dignitary metals down our throat? Cauterized to boiled red and brittle ash would not provoke an unheeding egocentric demiurge. Alas, the hope I seek to be content with mere attainment is inevitably a fiasco. Meagre creation? Don't make me laugh. An imposter with comparable flesh and bone could withdraw your assiduous remarks.

Amaranthine that I have arise is neither human nor being-- but a perception of my own feelings galvanized by lamentable evocation.

Impetuous upon the beginning, resolute by the void of time. Shall I hold my sentiments as my child self for eternity is certainly the supposed plan. To betray myself for the heavens of promises will encourage me to imperil.

I swallow as I sing, I drown as I sleep.

Pinewood

Archive #22 | copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's note: short one this one, but hope you enjoy!

Pinewood

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We are nothing at all.

...

...

But,

I would still answer your call, Even if it was in the middle of the night, 10 past five in the morning, And you're in trouble.

I would drop the world that I cup in my hands to save you from the dark. But when I'm alone and it gets cold, And I asked you for matches, You don't even lend me one.

You say that my cheeks are red so I must be warm, But I'm sick of bleeding to stain their appearance.

If I was the last tree standing in a snowy embrace of forever winter, Would you still chop me down even if I provided you with shelter?

You're cold, you complain; I'm tired, I don't say.

Even as a strong tree, I will never get to see the day where my leaves welt, and my trunk's spirals are too many to count. For my roots will stay clinging to the soil,

While my branches' ashes are coughed out

From your lungs into the cold,

Still air.

Knight in sheep's clothing

Archive #20 | copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's Note: this is sequel to the post from yesterday! hope you enjoy like @v-for-venus did :)

Knight in sheep's clothing

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Night of the ball, the one day that has been long awaited for by me as a child. The warm lights showering down upon those who are dancing and laughing. Groups of smartly dressed couples and nobles laughing and talking while holding glasses of champagne. Gowns of all colour-- velvet material that feels like silk when touched. Curls and pearls, bow ties and shoulder pads.

So why, in Lord’s name, am I dreading this evening?

Perhaps, it’s because I have been shooting down the idea of meeting princes there. Princes- not prince. The meeting obviously didn’t go well, I managed to convince that the lowly, egotistical, greedy man wasn’t good enough for the daughter of the Northern kingdom. Of course, in the back of my throbbing mind-- a perfect man came up as a suggestion instead. They are absolutely no man, though.

They are my prince, my perfect angel. My knight in shining armour.

But alas, who am I kidding? I could never inform my parents that I’ve fallen in love with someone that wasn’t even a nobleman. Which is why, the ball’s date was moved forward with more urgency. I must admit, I was excited to have been able to pick out my gown. Pink with diamond stars climbing their way up to the waistline, puffy with lace and silk-- ribbons tightening the package, to be sent off as a pretty present to a prince that I will never love. This present doesn’t belong to anyone’s hand, but I am willing to be unwrapped by a certain curly-haired swordsperson.

I should probably get dressed. If it was up to my maids, they would have been fussing over me-- but I’ve sent them on a wild goose chase. “But alas, I cannot even begin to change! How could I, if I can’t be in the very presence of my family’s heirloom? It’s plated with emeralds and sapphire, gold and white gold that can shine through any evil-- my mother said I should wear it to the ball! But it’s not here! You must fetch it, otherwise I will not even look at my gown or shoes.”

The panic on their face is still lingering in the back of my mind, making me smile away the frown. Demanding orders in such a commanding manner, queen material-- am I wrong? But if I have to marry in order to rule my own kingdom, then the royal blood is not for me. Even if my future spouse may be in the crowd at the ball, face covered with a mask, hidden from my judgmental eyes. I will not tolerate anyone that isn’t my true love.

Where would they be now, right this moment? Would they be on patrol? Would they be on their steed, ready to gallop into the night if I had asked?

…It seems that I have made up my mind. Ignoring my gown, I rip myself out of the “princess” dress I was currently in. Knocking over the tower of useless gifts, I swing open my closet door to ponder on what dress is best fit. I ought to impress her, they would be in shock if I were to ask them to leave with me with no such plan. Perhaps…

I’m taking too long.

I grab at the dress that has been calling out to me, while it might not be the best in terms of decency. It would be enough to distract my knight over the more obvious of things. Perhaps, it might be best to change undergarments as well, to further match the motive I am trying to get across. Annoyed by the fact that only the princes got the dress code of wearing a mask, the literal princess did not get such a dress code that matched the theme. Who planned this ball, anyway?

I need to cover my identity… My eyes tinkle at the moonlight, shining down at the rough fabric of a cloak. The cloak-- ivy green with the visual of the dark forestry from my window, had lace stitched onto the hooded area. The handwork, of course-- by my very own lover. This is perfect.

Well, I did not know what I expected.

If they were on patrol, of course other knights would be, too. You idiot! I’m cornered, I managed to circle back to the one place I did not want to go. The ball was being held in the glass houses, mainly the largest glass house. Its purpose is solely for dancing and parties, so the glass house was designed for much so. Everyone would be able to see me if I were to approach too close, but here I am-- being surrounded by knights as my back is pressed against the entrance of the ball.

“Halt! Now that you are cornered, reveal yourself!”

I swallowed hard, gritting my teeth as I was unable to see the faces of my knights as the hood did well in hiding my dignity.

“My my, I don’t think that’s how you ask a lady to show her skin now, is it?”

Smirking, I only wish to see their stunned faces. But what now, your royal majesty? You don’t need to see far to know that their footsteps are coming closer, probably pointing their spears and swords at you with much caution. What now?!

“What is the meaning of this?”

A different voice? Much mellow, yet strong in tone? I find my balance in my legs once more just before the doors open to the gates of my hell. I am greeted by someone standing next to me, though who? I can only imagine.

“My Sire, this foreign woman was seen on the grounds of her majesty the princess! We were only concerned for her safety as she might pose a threat.”

I take a step away from the stranger, only afraid of what they might do or say. He must be a prince or noble, with his confrontation, he just took a massive step forward in the game of winning the princess. I must leave before this falls deeper into chaos.

“Is that so? Well, then I must escort this lady off the grounds. I’m sure someone such as her would be too fragile to do any harm to the princess.”

Angered by his words, I didn’t stop myself in time and shot back.

“Instead of being all high and mighty, my good ol’ gentleman, how about worrying your own game? Don’t you have her highness to win over?”

He takes a step towards me, breaking the distance that I tried to create. He leans down and holds out his gloved hand.

“Oh don’t worry. I’ve already won over the princess.”

Wait a tick, this voice-

“Please step away from the threat, my good sire. Let us handle this.”

“Enough!” I saw the opening as soon as the stranger entered the situation, and as soon as the knights let their guard down I ran for my life. Heels clicking at the stoned pathway, I hear the racket of metal behind me as I looked up to the starry sky. I laughed as I was catching out of breath, I am so close to the gate, so close to freedom. They would know where to find me, there is only really one place I can go-- the big oak tree, where we had our first kiss.

They will find me there.

But what I did not expect was one of the knights going as far as aiming an arrow. It struck the end of my dress, causing me to fall and brace for impact. I close my eyes in defeat. This is it, I’ve failed. How could I be so foolish, is it so foolish to want to love and rule freely?

I reopen my eyes in shock. The feeling of silk on my hands, the feeling of warmth cupped my face, the feeling of a sword next to my shoulder. Someone had caught me when I fell. And I didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

“So it was you, you sly knight.”

You chuckled, heart beating like wildfire crackling on dry log against my ear.

“I wanted to impress you by playing as a noble, but apparently you rather played the rebel role.”

I clutched my fist into your sleeve, the smell of your cologne filled my head with love clouds and milkweed.

“Save me, oh knight~ oh my noble, they out to catch me for I am a rebel.”

You lift your sword slightly, while still embracing me.

“Right away, my princess.”

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Winged

Work #3 | copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's Note: this is one of my biggest works. I really hope you enjoy this one. This is inspired by the Obsession poem series. Debrief: Word count: 1694 Warnings: gore, horror, death, sensitive topics.

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Winged

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'Do you see her flying?'

Is all of a brusque rhetoric opine. Even the blind could descry such a figure. 

Biblically meticulous angels are a frightening, foreign perception for the faint of heart. But a feminine adolescent human with ivory, coriaceous wings? A sight for sore eyes, a sight to behold. Uncorrupted and innocent, dove-like as a symbol of societal freedom and peace. A pleaser designed by birth to conjure movement and enthrallment for the ravenous. A perishable's dream bride, adorned with white like untouched snow on the first night of winter.

Kings have egos. Compelled to order and empower by any means necessary. Vestal subjects have pride. Their crest adorned with white is comparable to celestial tears. Combatants have glory, taking— saving— risking lives by ineludible ordinance. And evil? All they have is revenge. 

Scarlet wounds, blood vessels ripped apart unseemly by brute force. A perfect canvas, stained and poisoned by acid rain. Tainted with colour, her dress subsumes the surrounding ichor from the broken statue. If it wasn't for the gore giving away the depiction of clay and adroitness, she would've been a Renaissance angel built to be worshipped like the holiness structure itself. The venerable church has been home to the slain of sin, the keeper of the sorrow and celebration of nuptials. Its outer walls creak and moan at the sounds of howling winds, angered at the sight inside the chambers of salvation. High ceilings may have constructed envy to those whose house is neither grand nor tall enough to withhold such metaphorical heights of a ceiling— likewise a telling of the staircase to the heavens above.

The beams are indestructible by delineation, holding the shouldering weight of the god's misfortune of reckless decision-making. Howbeit, ladders like vines on great oak trees enable worshippers to maintain the tidiness of the “humble” estate; the beams are wide enough to dance to the opera choir singing, whose dedication to the ones living in the unbothered clouds. For someone to climb up the vines to reach the tallest branches on the great oak is a possibility within a thousand coin flips, though ought to question the means behind such a purpose is certain. Revenge is a rather peculiar sin, anyone could imagine it as such. The drive behind it is sorrowful to the do-er, but judgement day does not care for the iniquitous.

Revenge creates motivation, determination is effectual. To train like a knight, one can easily carry a dead weight on their cracked shoulders up the staircase to heaven. To study with pride, one would know what people see as their true saviours— their delusional hallucinatory of an angel. How to dress, how to please. White and lacy as a wedding dress, pure and lush as a celibate. 

The victim? 

How curious, the devil pondered. Perhaps a pleaser at heart? As such:

A devoted woman to her word, a persona whose love for the weak and vulnerable is overpowering. Like spiked wine, a goblet filled with luxurious liquid gold— misleading from its appearance— a perfect femme fatale. Its insides tell its truth, how we're all the same within— an inescapable peracute. But who said to drink it? Use it for self delectation? What a poor magnificent object, she doesn't want to be mere treasure. She is the perfect vestal subject, what more could you want? Perhaps she is more fitting as a villain, always seeking more. Greedy, much?

Yes, a perfect sacrifice indeed. An impeccable example of the ambition of a “devil”'s revenge. A church can have followers, so a mere cult can be concordant. While the title of being a cult is a fragment of exaggeration, the apostles will work well in such a plan. They, the misfortunate, seek the pained for comfort… paltry sympathy can only do so much, however. But it's only just sufficient enough. Manipulation? How insulting. Ultimately, it is up to those who seek change to take heed. Hide fleetingly, pretend to associate with everyone just like in the old days. The crowd knows when to act.

Evil can kill, there is nothing else to it. Have you ever wondered how it feels to bathe in virgin blood? It's disappointing, such fuss for it is foolish. The only real kick was the twisted face of telling. That face alone is a blank, pitiful canvas turned into the definition of art itself. Oh, you could paint a thousand frescoes with such an expression. It doesn't disturn her prepossessing features, but it does make her look older. Such complicated, big emotions shouldn't even be within reach for such a young fawn. In another life, surely her underlying intelligence would serve others more than just being a lap to cry on, but in this taken existence— her sheltered mind breaks from the sudden intensity of trahison des clercs. This isn't what her story was supposed to be in her eyes. Ah, regrettable unfortunate. ‘Not favoured by fortune, was she?’, the fallen angel cruelly smirked at the thought. 

The evisceration was excessively long. The risk of blood ruining the white was too prodigious, though such fastidious concerns were needless in the end— her neck provided enough liquid genealogy, painting the front of her dress crimson. The colour of hell, of sin. The tainted heaven, the poisoned goblet. Her wings were made from dove feathers, plucked with attention to detail— a maiden in a meadow, choosing and picking the best of flowers could not compare. The bone structure of the wings was genius, specific bones were chosen from certain organisms to create a grand juxtaposition from angel to bird. Sticking each chosen feather to the structure was tedious, but a hyper-fixed maniac does not sway from such work. Inspired by the Winged Victory of Samothrace, the wings belong on her back. But her impressive bone anatomy is in the way... 

...with the scapulae removed, the wings fitted with such grace and ease. Death has blessed her with paleness, such colour is the reminiscence of a statue. But her wasted life must be highlighted, must be remembered. Just like all those Renaissance angel paintings, after all— that is the only perception of angels that people will embrace. 

It is always about beauty and selflessness, never should one ought to become a fallen one.

Tough to touch, the rope that scratched up skin with small amounts of friction has proven to be practical. A satirical necklace for her elegant neck— tied down to halt the escape of her soul to the sky above. Wings may have been granted, but freedom of flying is not an option. But one as kind and saving as her needs a taster of such, the vines are no competition of strength with her figure in the devil's grasp. The perception of the stairway to heaven is certainly a sight of lush imagination, except the beams are thrilling as a ballroom for the bride-to-be and the avenger. Humming, content with glee; evil looks down to the church below, to where the mighty cross stands at the front of the sect.

Their creation is more impressive, without the use of a single nail. Prideful, the striking idea of overshadowing the lord himself is great. Tying the knot where evil saw fit, the weeping angel longed for the higher stakes before being pushed down, down to her fate. For a second, the wings may have tried to lift the dead and fly up— but the crushing weight of sorrow brought both down with a crack of bone. Her neck crooked, leaning to the left with no resting place for her head, she floats in front of her lord. Her feet swayed slightly, still savouring the dance from before as blood dripped from her blue-hue toes. Such pale eyes never saw the light of the sun again without the stained church glass praying through. 

***

The morning prayers, on time as usual for another hour of adored hope from the public. The doors opened, creaking and moaning its warning. The crowd is loud, chatting and laughing with optimistic cravings for their future. A future that she will never see. The crowd silences, and the cessation of movement brings shock and dread to the hearts of his lord's worshippers. She hangs in front of their eyes from afar, suppressed into death. It was when her guts came with a sickening "splat" onto the ground beneath her feet from her tedious exoneration that broke the silence. It was heaven's gift to them, the insides that paint the truth of the world… which they did not accept. There was then shrieking– some are praying, some have become sick– while the followers, the actors— they chanted at the sacrifice, sang with glee. 

All was in chaos until he, the evil, the devil himself— slid down from the oak ladder. One of his sinful hands still grasped at the ladder as his heels clicked onto the cool, stone-tiled floor. Some of his leeching zealots pointed at him, eager to know his final motive. 

Why such a plan? Why such a sacrifice? 

Sick revenge for mortals that need to be taught a lesson. 

Would they finally get it? Would they finally understand the suffering? 

No. 

They never do. They never pay attention until it’s too late. 

Gritting his teeth while his jaw clenches at the strike of realisation, he turns away from the selfish sinners. Has all his cruelty to her been all for nothing? His free, bloody hand carries a singular candle— which he tosses at the corpse. She lights up in flames, her laced dress burning into black ash as it climbs up her strained body. He looks in awe at his doing, the followers are shaken to their core. The thrown candle had crashed onto a parallel wall from directly hitting the “effigy”, miraculously causing arson, thus setting fire to the church itself. All his cruelty to her will not be all for nothing. The church doors slam shut behind the crowd, beckoning them in. As the house of holiness burns up to hell’s temperatures— he, who has been staring at her the whole time, finally questions the followers and himself:

'Do you see her flying?'

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Let's

Archive #18 | copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's Note: hey, didn't I tell you to let go? (enjoyy)

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Let's

Paint me, Like I have never seen art before. If I didn't know what beauty was, How would you describe it to me? I don't know what love is, The affection is confusing. Language is spoken through the absorption of emotion. If it sinks into my skin, Would I make you uncomfortable? If it was lingering in the air, Would you hold your breath?

Thousands of thoughts and not one original, To my sane and reflection. Does our heart sync when I crush My feelings into crested moons? Is love pain? What is pain? Would you show me if I had asked for it? If hoarding became my plate, Would you still feed me?

Let me, Let me go, Let me love, Let me suffer, Let me love, Let me go, Let me.

Sweet nothings is my addiction, Would you whisper into my deaf ear? Sing me good night when I cry. "Just because" Do I crave you or the imagination Giving me what I want through magic and wishes. I want you to read my mind, Living in there gets tiring. I wish you knew what I want, Is it hard to want more than just the bare? Minimum? What is the bare minimum? Magic is not real and so is my perception. Language is my addiction. Would you let me love?

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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.