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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. 

---------------------------------------------------------------

Infatuation

Archive #9 | copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's Note: SECOND POEM MENTIONED RAHHHH ENJOY

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Infatuation

Summersweet, white alder, pepper bush— 

wind that blows bouquets away with a swoosh.

A church, the ocean and the utter devotion 

such words that are unremittingly

used and mentioned.

You must be annoyed and sick of the voices

telling you about the, oh so many choices…

that you can take. 

It makes your cliff shake and ache against the currents

you’re trying to break. 

Hundred of shouts turns into a song

while you still can’t get along—

with yourself and the image

that you portray as a sailor, paying primage. 

You can’t love a siren,

moreover cage them in a shrine to admire in. 

They didn’t draw you in with their beauty, 

they were just on death duty.

Artless feelings are sweet and dependent 

until you sneeze and crush flowers gifted, 

not to the loved one but to the church—

a place of worship but for a search…

of pathetic purpose. 

Arson ash that coughs up the lungs

makes heartthrobs hold their tongues. 

It’s been so long since the reminiscence,

but existence with omniscience means that

one can’t help those that don’t want it.

Sailors should save those words for those who admit it. 

Repetition shows a mind not working— 

hiding behind the words of formal glory. 

When the time comes that you consider your fate, 

please stop placing your heart on a plate.

Not everything is worth dying for, therefore

realise this before you bleed even more. 

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Siren's Curse

Archive #10 | copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's Note: grah. Final poem from this series. Enjoy <3

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Siren's Curse

The feeling stills,

located deep in the heart and

washed away by emotions that don't depart. 

Such betray hasn’t been seen

in years and years, oh it’s been centuries. 

It’s not about creed

nor about faith, 

but why does the siren continue to retaliate? 

They don’t seek will or adoration,

but only sailors' shallow empty emotions. 

Thus, greed is not a problem, 

just a solution with an astrobleme. 

The star-shaped wound within the heart

drowns out singing and works of art. 

They focus on sole possessions, a measly painting

rather than just forever self-changing. 

A place verses a person can be quite the personification

for a future naive adorer’s destination. 

You compare a holy place

with a person that has no proper face.

A sailor counts

and so does a siren,

so don’t you dare postpone your responsibilities by naming it Psyren.

Yet you put them on top, as if an angel 

told you that evil is an archangel.

Connections from siren to god

is a mockery for those that don’t have a facade. 

Love yourself for what it’s worth–

not for the punishment of your birth. 

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Obsession, the series

Archive #11 | copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's Note: Here is the abstract and all three poems combined. I personally feel like there is a difference to when you read the poems separately, versus reading it all together in one sitting. Let me know what you think. I actually have a story inspired by these poems, if you are interested in me posting it, let me know! Enjoy :)

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Abstract

When one compares their dependency on an item or being with an unhealthy tendency to forget the importance of being their own person. A siren is known for the obsession she produces just from singing; while a place of holiness can be known for saving those that have no other place to go. Obsession and adoration are two separate things, but sometimes the siren can be merely adored… while the building is seen as a cult designed for obsession. The comparison of the siren and church to the human's dependent heart is a wake up call for those who allow themselves to serve no other purpose than living in someone else’s life. 

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Obsession

--------------------------------------------------------------------

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. 

-----------------------------

Infatuation

Summersweet, white alder, pepper bush— 

wind that blows bouquets away with a swoosh.

A church, the ocean and the utter devotion 

such words that are unremittingly

used and mentioned.

You must be annoyed and sick of the voices

telling you about the, oh so many choices…

that you can take. 

It makes your cliff shake and ache against the currents

you’re trying to break. 

Hundred of shouts turns into a song

while you still can’t get along—

with yourself and the image

that you portray as a sailor, paying primage. 

You can’t love a siren,

moreover cage them in a shrine to admire in. 

They didn’t draw you in with their beauty, 

they were just on death duty.

Artless feelings are sweet and dependent 

until you sneeze and crush flowers gifted, 

not to the loved one but to the church—

a place of worship but for a search…

of pathetic purpose. 

Arson ash that coughs up the lungs

makes heartthrobs hold their tongues. 

It’s been so long since the reminiscence,

but existence with omniscience means that

one can’t help those that don’t want it.

Sailors should save those words for those who admit it. 

Repetition shows a mind not working— 

hiding behind the words of formal glory. 

When the time comes that you consider your fate, 

please stop placing your heart on a plate.

Not everything is worth dying for, therefore

realise this before you bleed even more. 

----------------------------------------------

Siren's Curse

The feeling stills,

located deep in the heart and

washed away by emotions that don't depart. 

Such betray hasn’t been seen

in years and years, oh it’s been centuries. 

It’s not about creed

nor about faith, 

but why does the siren continue to retaliate? 

They don’t seek will or adoration,

but only sailors' shallow empty emotions. 

Thus, greed is not a problem, 

just a solution with an astrobleme. 

The star-shaped wound within the heart

drowns out singing and works of art. 

They focus on sole possessions, a measly painting

rather than just forever self-changing. 

A place verses a person can be quite the personification

for a future naive adorer’s destination. 

You compare a holy place

with a person that has no proper face.

A sailor counts

and so does a siren,

so don’t you dare postpone your responsibilities by naming it Psyren.

Yet you put them on top, as if an angel 

told you that evil is an archangel.

Connections from siren to god

is a mockery for those that don’t have a facade. 

Love yourself for what it’s worth–

not for the punishment of your birth. 

-------------------------------------------

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.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Star clusters of pasque flowers, the series

Archive #13 | copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's Note: NEW POEM SERIES MENTIONED RAHHHHH!! Anyway, this one doesn't have an abstract (too lazy to make one). But basically look forward to the next following days because we got three new poems coming >:D

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Poem names:

Fairy salt

In truth

A human in a mushroom house 

Notes from poems:

Themes: meadows, jealousy, dreams, saturn, hail storms, attic, sunflower, fairy

Themes: winter, romance, moon, skies, star clusters, spring, pasque flower

Blame

Work #1 | copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's Note: What's this??? Different from archives again????? This one I feel like is an "official" work, but not for the webtoon- just work of my own. It is pretty long (6 pages on google docs). So here is a debrief before we jump right in. Debrief: Word count: 3,279 Warnings: Death, sensitive content, flashbacks. Enjoy! 🐇

Blame

It’s been weeks. I can’t sleep. I can barely close my eyes without picturing the pool of blood. Shit. 

Drowning my cries with wine and celebration, I feel like a siren who never was meant for the sea. Drawn to the one thing that would kill it. I wish it will kill me. Please. 

“Gather around!” said my lover. Oh, how beautiful she is. Like the brightest sunflower in a field of them, too beautiful to be plucked from its stem. She belongs where she roots— she will wilt otherwise. A group of wild, curious children squeals as they run up to her, sitting down in front of her with glistening eyes of wonder. She giggled, eye wrinkles forming ever so slightly as her eyelashes flutter down to touch her soft skin. 

The hall was full today, everyone was still celebrating the conquest of the kingdom— being the third day in a row. Too quiet at home, too loud in the streets; the great castle hall was the only place left for a crook such as I.  

“Now…” she leans down, seeing eye to eye with a few of the kids that were really close to her feet. “Who would like to hear about the great adventures of our hero?!” The kids laughed as they cheered, fueling her craving to entertain. “What adventure would it be today, little ones?”

A lot of them spoke at once, it was inaudible what all the requests were— it was doing my head in. Ringing in the ears, I clench my jaw as I lift my cup for another round of alky. I shut my eyes in frustration, trying to ignore the noise— it’s difficult when they are only a few feet away from me. 

The glimpse of a corpse’s mouth filled with tainted blood, drooling down to paint their teeth and chin red welcomes me into the darkness. Their glossy eyes beckon me with guilt, they scream fear. I choke at the thought, drowning in the sea during a storm. My eyes shoot open as I bang my chest rapidly, thundering my racing heart. 

She was too busy to notice, glancing left to right as she drank in the requests. She said nothing until one stood out to her. 

“The fight between our hero and the villain!” shouted a kid from the back. The surrounding kids registered the suggestion and nodded along before shouting the same thing moments later. Soon, all were shouting the same thing— gaining attention from surrounding adults.          

She grins, raising her hands to get them to calm down. “What a wonderful suggestion! It is personally my favourite tale, too!” She gets comfortable in her seat, looking up for the first time to meet eyes with mine. Her eyes twinkle, if it was any other day— it would’ve made my stomach do backflips. But today, it makes me sick. I dig my nails into my thighs, forgetting that my leather pants were made by her, forgetting that I cared for such sentiment. 

She looks back down excitedly, her voice pitches as she announces: “I remember like it was just yesterday, but there is still the chance I will get things wrong! But fear not! Our brilliant hero is here to correct me if I am mistaken.”     

She gestures to me, I hide my bewilderment as both children and adults alike turn their heads in my direction. I clear my throat, raising my cup in acknowledgment. It was her turn to clear her throat, receiving all their attention once more. My shoulders relax a bit, trying to ease tension for what is about to happen next.

“Now… It was a beautiful night.” her arms gracefully entailed her words, mesmerising them into the story. “...After finding out where the villain was hiding— we decided to give them the pleasure with a visit this time round.” She smirked darkly, setting the mood even more. “For once, they didn’t expect us— but the sly fox still had tricks up their sleeve.” 

My heart was hammering against my ribcage; my head felt light as blood rushed to my head. The audience wasn’t the only ones imagining the tale, I was as well. 

The smell of cinnamon and mint when we sneaked into their house— the hazy atmosphere from the mist that was indulged with candles, the sound of vinyl in the background. The threat of my knees caving in as I crept up the stairs; the perverted feeling that clung to my skin as framed pictures past the corner of my eye. My friend’s hand tightly grabbed onto the back of my shirt, following me like a leech that was scared to be shaken off their host. 

Millions of thoughts had rushed to my head, I had calculated every single outcome possible. 

All but one. 

“He howled like a siren, drawing us in.” my lover pretended to claw at one of the kids that had started to lean against her leg. “He was bathing, we had chosen the perfect time to strike!” The audience laughed at his mockery. My breathing stifled at their response. For once, her storytelling didn’t hold any justice. 

He was soaking in soapy water, rosemary and bubbles were floating on the surface. He sang. And oh stars, he sure knew how to sing. He put the vinyl that was playing downstairs to shame, he sang like the heavens were listening. We stood in front of the half-closed bathroom door, witnessing his shadowed figure massaging his scalp. He sighed as he caught his breath, he swayed with the beat in his head. 

This isn’t the villain I know. I remember thinking at the time. Who is he?    

“We charged forward, ordering him to surrender.” Her tone strengthened as her face turned stern, perfecting the role of acting. “His face painted fear, we thought we had caught him at last!” 

Lies. 

His face was struck with horror and shame. My friend pushed me aside, slamming the door open as he pointed his sword at him. The others heard the commotion and were making their way up the stairs as he froze in place. I stood where I had been the whole time, like a mere bystander that got off to seeing people suffer. His face grimaced with betrayal; his eyes were screaming out with shock— how was it possible for heroes to stoop lower than the villain?

I hissed as I lifted my cup once more, sight being blinded by the high ceiling lights. My throat burned; my legs shook. 

She continued.

“We had him cornered! He was scrambling! But we trap and crush cockroaches with no trouble.” She raised her voice: “He ought to surrender! But he didn’t?!” She glanced at some of the adults. “He ended up playing dirty.”

He grabbed at the shower curtain as more of us entered the bathroom, he yanked it down to cover his waist— his tattoos kissed the edge of his shoulders in the moonlight. He scowled at us, cursing our bloodlines as he stood up. I looked away, staring down the dark hallway in panic— this isn’t what I planned to happen. Just as my eyes lost sight of him, he lit the bathroom on fire. 

Perfumed smoke forced its way down my throat. I inhaled the sweet, charcoal scent as I gasped for air. Everyone ran out before being engulfed, stumbling downstairs to seek lower ground. The dried flowers and herbs were scattered on the bathroom floor, flames dancing across each petal as it blazed. I stared bewildered, looking up to see equally fiery eyes. He looked at me in fear for the first time; he looked at me in disgust. 

“We rushed to safety, planning the next steps forward…” She had risen now, acting out movement and grace. “Our hero was still upstairs, eyeing down the weak villain.” 

He overpowered me with ease. 

He stood out of the bathtub, clinching the shower curtain as he crushed the burning herbs with his bare feet. He never broke eye contact as he started walking out of the bathroom. My legs finally moved, stepping in front of the burning bathroom. Towering over me, he looked down with pity— his hair dripped water that fell onto my ashamed face. 

“Move, bunny,” he said quietly. 

“N-no,” I fired back. 

He sighed— with one hand, he shoved me aside. His feet planted onto the cool wood boards, looking down the stairs while thinking to himself. I charged forward, breathing rapidly as I aimed my hand to hit the back of his neck. He caught my hand without even regarding me, turning around moments later to slam me on the corresponding wall— arm restricted above my head. 

“I am warning you,” he said. “That’s enough. I am done with you.” 

He let go of me, walking down the dark hallway that was now filled with smoke. 

“They fought as they escaped the smoke, but the villain was leading her down a trap!” She was standing behind me now. As she played out the scene, she slowly made her way to me in a way for me to contribute. “But oh, nothing was too witty for our lovely hero.” Her soft hands cupped my shoulders, I winced at her touch.

I remember reluctantly running after him, coughing up my certainty as he neared the door at the end. He stopped to open the door, I stopped to keep my distance. The door revealed stairs, leading upwards— to the attic. He turned to me, his face blank like the dead. 

“Are you coming?” he questioned. 

I followed as my answer. 

The attic was undoubtedly his office, papers were everywhere and ink bottles were stacked on the shelves. The church-like stained glass window shone a shadow of colour on the floor, and he walked into the light. He looked down at a particular piece of paper beneath him, before stepping over it and crossing the other half of the room. He opened the wardrobe leaning against the parallel wall, the doors swang open with a thud— making me jump. 

It was filled with cloaks and suits, majestic outfits for a majestic villain. He picked out a deep sapphire suit, attached to a dark red cloak. He paid me no regard once more, walking to a part of the room that was secluded. His muscles flexed as his face drew frustrated; his chest heaved when he stepped on his papers by accident. I stared out the window as he disappeared, still too shocked to speak or move on my own accord. 

He gritted his teeth when he came out, dressed to impress. He must have found fitting shoes back there because his swollen feet were now replaced by clicks and clacks. His coarse fingers brushed through his damp hair, staring me down as he reached for his pocket. 

“He had a secret weapon, see! Our villains have always been known for their bows and arrows, but this villain was especially known for his–”

Poison. 

He drank from the small bottle that came from his pocket, dark lashes lifted as he spat it out towards my face. I finally moved, dodging the deadly splash as I drew out my sword— my eyebrows furrowed as I leaned down to an attacking stance. And all he did was smirk, he tossed the glass bottle aside as he drew out his own sword— it was green, no— not the blade, but the poison that covered it. 

“They fought while we were clearing the fire— as they fought, the house shook from their attacks.” She pretended to wobble, holding on to me dramatically for support, receiving hearty laughter from her crowd.

“Just like old times, huh?” he shouted. He swung his sword towards my neck, which I reflected by swinging my sword back using my core strength. We were inches apart as we battled, our swords intertwined and made a horrible noise. I kicked at his abdomen, retreating slightly to catch my breath. 

“I remember how you used to loathe me,” he paused. “How you were dead-set on defeating me.”     

He doused his blade in more poison before continuing. “I always wondered why.”

I paid him no mind, swinging my sword forward as my heels tried digging into the floorboards. His face furrowed, irritated that I did not reply— he deflected my blow with his blade. We were in a stalemate once more, my arms shook against his strength. He looked down at me again, in pity. His nondominant hand lets go of his blade to grab at my face, making sure I wasn’t going to look away from him. 

“Why do you use your arrogance but never your words?” he sighed. 

“...He was getting tired— mostly due to the fact he swallowed his poison by mistake,” my lover smirked. “It didn’t take much more for our hero to take him down— especially considering that he was spending no effort in his usual mind games.”

“I’m quite disappointed in you, little hero,” he said mockingly. “How is it that you only wait for the perfect stimuli and then take action— rather than being your own person and making your own choices without environmental factors weighing you down?” He shoved my face away, he shifted his body weight onto his hip so he could exert more powerful blows. I was coughing, struggling to keep up with his strikes and lashes. “Provided by the fact you stood there stupidly as you watched me stroll around my office changing into my clothes.”

“How is it, you blame everyone but yourself?” he added. “Oh, don’t give me that look. I know your lovely little reputation of being a selfless, kind saviour— but in reality, when things start burning up in flames…you attempt to point fingers at everyone around you for ‘forcing’ you to make the choices you did.” 

He kicked at my blade, my wrist bends unnaturally as I feel a tendon snap. I glared at him, with less anger but more fear. He used it as his fuel, as his saving point— he was playing chess with my mind… and winning. 

“...Do you blame me for the death of your lover?”

I ceased. 

“What-?”

“And then… there was silence,” my lover whispered. “It was strange, the house wasn’t shaking anymore— and we didn’t hear anything from either of the two.” She glanced down at me, smiling warmly before continuing. “We assumed the hero had won.”

He chuckled, and his laugh progressed to become more and more maniacal as he stared at my mazed face. He held his stomach, his dark curls shook as his shoulders moved with his lungs. 

“Don’t try and act innocent now,” he finally spoke out. “I knew that your poor, precious lover was actually dead— god forbid that she should’ve just been laid to rest.” My eyes widened as he continued to speak, my mind screaming at him saying NO. “You blamed everyone,” he said. “And you couldn’t accept that the only person who actually tried loving you died.” 

He reached into his pocket for more poison, but soon realised he had none left— and sighed. “Are you a believer in God, bunny?” he questioned. “No? …Hm. Well, do you like to play God, bunny?” 

He stepped forward.

“Playing her great God? Digging up her flowery grave and replanting life into a wilted sunflower?” he spat out. “You’re sickening. A grave digger AND a cruel personification of a necromancer.” He came closer. I lifted my arms out in front of my face in shaky fear. 

“You forced her to be happy when she took her life because she wasn’t,” he said, looking down at me once more. “Everyone thinks she was just blessed by the Gods in the clouds, giving another chance at life— no suspicion rose whatsoever. How did you revive her? Are you a necromancer?”

I stared blankly at him, breathing heavily as he looked at me with impatience. 

“Not going to tell me your pity secrets, huh?” he spat out. “I figured as much, but wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt.” He sighed, leaning down so our noses were inches apart.   

“Do you still loathe me, bunny?” he asked. “Well? Do you still blame me for the death of your lover?” 

“But then… there was a sudden CRASH!” my lover shouted, slamming her fists onto the table in front of me, all the cups and plates wobbled at the intensity. “We came racing up— fearing for our hero!”

I stabbed him. 

I jumped at him, forcing him to crash down onto the wooden floorboards. I clawed at his face while my sword twisted into his intestines. I scratched at his throat as I yelled at him. My mind was hazy, it must have been the smoke at the time. I was angry. Beyond angry. How dare he. How dare he?! HE was the one my lover loved, but he broke her heart by murdering the people from his past… she was a person from his past. She knew them. The dead ones. Every single one of them. Revenge was sweeter to him than love. Toying with people in a way to bring forth meaning and punishment to the word for their sins. She did nothing wrong. Nothing. Just another pawn for his plans. 

He reminds me of the devil.

But I loved him. Even before her—I loved him first. She didn’t know, but he knew— and he loved me back. But I pushed him away. I was foolish when it came to love. And he was cold when it came to mercy. I pushed him towards her, she loved him, afterall— because she was a sunflower that looked for the sun, not a siren. 

But then, sunflowers became my favourite flower. 

They’re bright, special, and yello–

…

…there was red.

…

“We rushed up the strange staircase, smelling pungent chemicals and sourness—” my lover urged. “When we had reached the top, we saw the victory— we saw our hero still alive with the evil man finally defeated.”

No.

Nonononononono. Oh no. Oh god. 

No please–

He just laid there. His face facing to one side; his glossy eyes stared into the deep space of nothingness. His mouth was slightly agape, and a pool of blood mixed with a hint of his green poison fell from his lips and down his chin. I sat on top of him, looking down at his lifeless body. 

My eyes strayed from what was in front of me to one of the many papers scattered across the floor. It was the same paper as he glanced down at beforehand. It was a sketch of me, drawn specific to detail and flattery. His signature kissed the edge of my shoulder. 

“...Do you blame me for the death of your lover?”

“..We saved the kingdom! We brought justice back home,” she announced happily. “We united everyone sane and kind to become one kingdom, so we could work together in harmony.” She pressed her lips together before smiling. “Hail to our hero!”

“Long live the hero!” chanted everyone in the hall.

I wish I had drowned in his poison. 

***

Most of the kids were taken by the hand of their parents and went home. A lot of the drunks were snoring near the fireplaces. My lover sang to me as she brushed my hair out. 

“You know, you remind me of a rabbit,” she pointed out. “You’re quick, smart, adorable… and have really fluffy hair!” 

I stare at her, half registering what she was telling me.

“You’re my amazing little bunny,” she giggled. “I love you, bunny.”

I bit my lip in suffocation. 

“...I love you too, sunflower.”   

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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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A human in a mushroom house

Archive #16 | copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's Note: yes. I must confess. this one is very short - have no fear! The title is what makes it iconic. Enjoy!

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A human in a mushroom house

A funeral for someone who dares to question power, 

a shadow obligated to cower.

A love towards another could be a one way stream, 

while the amour propre of the other could be dead scream– 

a sleeping lake.  

When will my Inamorato wake? 

When will fairies start singing for thy 

Instead for the Queen?

Oh, her majesty, the Queen, 

What a joke, what a pity!

Nothing seems to make them witty, 

Their own Queen died, not from poison. 

Pixie dust doesn’t fix everything, does it? 

His love, his bride.

A fairy that reminded him of the clouds

Who kissed the sun in a hush lullaby. 

As the moon, red as blood can be, 

Replaced it at night. 

The Queen was replaced, yes!

By a human, no less.

A minor death, left to rot… 

As the human queen, was never caught. 

----------------------------------------------------

Star clusters of pasque flowers, the series

Archive #17 | copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's Note: and here we are - the whole series in one post. Let me know if you like this! Enjoy :)))

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Star clusters of pasque flowers

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Fairy Salt

Meadows, ponds, butterflies and all

The jealousy, envy towards a thrall.

To have dreams with one can break walls. 

Saturn has one too many rings to fall

Out of line, out of sight. 

Hail storms help those to recall

The attic, the dust, that was used to stall.

Oh, hail one that dares to crawl

Out of sight, out of mind. 

Sunflowers, tulips, roses and all, 

The fairy that withdraws the pall. 

A spiteful befall.

Ocean waves, known to leman,

The echoing within a shell hidden under damp sand.

Floating in space, drifting on wood.

Isolation, fear, 

Scent of salt and rotten pier.

A story told by sailors and elves alike, 

A history, a history to dislike.

An entombment used to engulf the rage, 

A minor death, left to drown and age.

One can remember some

While one can remember all. 

But she– the one who dares to question, 

Argue against her majesty, his bride, 

Remembers all.

As it was she,

Who died.  

The attic, the castle,

The meadow and the sea–

Something that one tends to forget because no one is free. 

Do you see her soul?

Do you see the fairy fly? 

Or have you forgotten 

That night– 

When the flowers started to die. 

Wither, winter, spring and grow,

The elves dancing– prancing for gold.

But one elf does not twirl or beg, 

They are meant for the flower bed. 

Lying and crying, 

Mourning and laughing. 

The smell of salt and sound of hail,

Oh, please don’t forget the veil. 

Flowers, 

The honey, the comb.

Iris, Peony, and Manuka are thrown

Not at her tomb stone, no. 

But at the majesty’s, the lord, 

And no one below.   

--------------------------------------------

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? 

-------------------------------------------------

A human in a mushroom house

A funeral for someone who dares to question power, 

a shadow obligated to cower.

A love towards another could be a one way stream, 

while the amour propre of the other could be dead scream– 

a sleeping lake.  

When will my Inamorato wake? 

When will fairies start singing for thy 

Instead for the Queen?

Oh, her majesty, the Queen, 

What a joke, what a pity!

Nothing seems to make them witty, 

Their own Queen died, not from poison. 

Pixie dust doesn’t fix everything, does it? 

His love, his bride.

A fairy that reminded him of the clouds

Who kissed the sun in a hush lullaby. 

As the moon, red as blood can be, 

Replaced it at night. 

The Queen was replaced, yes!

By a human, no less.

A minor death, left to rot… 

As the human queen, was never caught. 

---------------------------------------------------

Unnecessities.

Archive #17 | copyright of saturnfairycat

Author's Note: this is your sign to let go. (enjoy!)

Unnecessities

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Suitcase.

Suitcases.

So much luggage for weak arms to drag, Your shoulders heavy from the weight of the world. Chains and restraints can't stop you from shuffling your feet, Moving forward, pushing through. Dragging the dead weight behind you like pig to the slaughter. More than one suitcase would end up as murder, Blood vessels burst under pressure, But coal crystallize into diamonds.

Forced to move on, Keep moving. Death trials those who are slower, You're moving too fast, They will notice. You appear stronger than others, Would you hold my suitcase, too? Death is at my door, please lift this weight from my flesh.

Luggage.

Unnecessities.

Would you kiss your snow globe goodbye if snow never visited? Summer is not just sea glass and flowers, Your heart can only take so much hayfever. Beat up with floral bruises, Prepared to arson against snowmen. The remembrance of black ice is harder Than recalling the heat waves. Warmth from hugs are lethal. Oh, Poison in these bones.

The need to pause, When is "stop" too late to say? Your lungs burst from the shortness, Your skin flourish from the silence. Death hugs those who suffer, Are you strong enough to decline?

A suitcase of packages from your mind is poison to these bones.

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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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The end of August

Archive [?] | copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's note: 'But I can see us lost in the memory August slipped away into a moment in time 'Cause it was never mine' - Taylor Swift --- I think we hyped up the song too much, it became a reality. Anyway, this month has been CRAZY for me. So many things happened. From new people, new experiences and memories, closer connections, loss of connections, drama, pain, challenges... it has been a thrilling fall of events. --- 'Wanting was enough For me, it was enough To live for the hope of it all' - Taylor Swift

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The End of August

~~~

August.

What a hell of a ride.

My most forgetful month, turned into one of the heaviest footprints in the snow.

So many emotions, so many stains on my white dress that I will never be able to wash out.

I am losing my childhood, I'm losing the fresh feeling of being a teenager.

At the end of August, I lost parts of me that I thought I would carry till it is lost in the back of my cluttered room of a mind. I lost parts of my safety net, how do I find the courage to fall now?

I can smell the old air, clinging onto my neck in desperation. My old perfume stuck to my uniform, my bushy hair swaying in the wind. Our glances, our secret lives, our moments that I know we will never spend in person.

My heart sank when I came to the realisation. This is it. The official start of my new life. My delusion mocks my misery at keeping everything at bay. Everybody is starting to move on, but I am still stuck in moments of everyone together that never happened.

The world is a shifting sand storm, a castle that needs restructuring. You cannot start a new life without the floor crumbling down beneath your feet first, how else are you supposed to start from the bottom and make your way to the top?

But my feet is sinking into the sand, it is hard to climb out and reach for the stars from here. I can only glance up and see you glancing at me.

So many unfinished words. So many bittersweet thoughts.

I have accepted, and I do not feel regret. But I ponder about what it would have been like if I did not leap without blowing kisses goodbye. I never left like goodbye, because I never said it to your face. Always thought it would be "see you soon", but I am left hanging as your castle had already crumbled.

I'm happy for you.

But you can't see my smile from the sidelines.

I can see your face from here, though. I saw it— that glance. You're clinging onto my old perfume, you don't even want to know what my new usual smells like. You're still pondering about the promised moments, I hope you can get a reflection elsewhere…. and it isn't my face that smiles back at you.

I'm happy for you.

You are my bittersweet acceptance, the final note of a violin symphony.

I only wish I was in your end credits, not the acknowledgements.

But I am happy,

…

Really.

You are my August, the reason for an unforgettable month.

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–

--------------------------------------------

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

---------------------------------------------------------------------

'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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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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" 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. " - saturnfairycat

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

Alarm Clock, chapter one

Perfection meets Perfectionist #3 | copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's Note: well, well, well. isn't it the purpose of this whole account. This is the beginning plot of the story in mind. Very dramatic. Little storyline events. Enjoy!

Chapter One

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The alarm clock tuned in for another long, painful try of annoyance. The dead weight hidden under the blanket and crinkled sheets groaned, hanging onto the dream they had as long as possible. It seemed that the alarm clock huffed a little at the sorry state of the bed. The bed, single sized, laid someone who should be getting up right about now. They have been late once already, which is something out of the ordinary for their auto-pilot life. And here they were, blocking out their alarm clock in a fetal position. Cradling their arms around their chest, protective walls bracing for impact of the cruel world. If the alarm clock had a mind of its own, it would be disappointed; but since it doesn't, their last attempt of waking the sleeping mess was changing the radio channel. There wasn't any particular reason why Etta liked the radio channel that the alarm clock was set in, 'it is better than having the chance of catching that one song playing'. Hallow and empty emotions echoed at the back of their mind, it was distant. Good. But obviously, they have forgotten that they have programmed the alarm clock into flipping through radio channels to annoy Etta into getting up.

Their song played.

"The way you text I rather dig my grave…" Etta, white as a ghost, sat upright in protest of their throbbing head. "..Because I never knew what was so cliche…" The sorrowful tune mockingly danced around their head as Etta tried to picture out their surroundings. "..About you blaming me for all the things I've done…" Eyes drawn immediately to the sudden bright light-- their phone went off the third time. 'It's probably February.' Etta groaned once more at the thought of going to work. "..Baby can't you see you're the reason why I can't breathe…" They knew they were late, and they knew that February wouldn't be pleased, either. But there is only so much you can worry about when your head is being split in two. "I love you! I love you!" Etta couldn't take anymore of that song.

Reaching out to their nightstand, they slammed their clenched fist hard on top of the pitiful alarm clock. As if the alarm clock knew it had the upper hand, it was stubborn and didn't break from the sheer force of its owner. "And my best friends are gonna cry, they don't understand what it's like…"

Etta swore slightly under their breath, half tempted in throwing the alarm clock out the window. 'Dropping from the window's height, the alarm clock could probably kill someone.' Etta rolled their eyes in the thought of getting done by using their alarm clock as a murdering weapon. "..To love someone so cold…" Etta dived down, "I think someone is caging me up again…" elbows rubbing hard onto the grey carpet, "..I wonder what phrase will trigger it…" their body positioned ready to do butterfly strokes.

"..Girl I'm sorry but I've got to go…" Desperate. Thirsty for water after days of neglect. Reaching out to the power plug like Etta's carpet was quick sand. As if the sunshine seeping through the curtains was a blazing fireball; threatening to burn them alive. "..This time I'll leave you without no note-" The alarm clock never saw it coming, how can a body of sadness move so swiftly?

'I win.'

Etta raised the power plug into the air, triumphed by their success. Warm and calming silence hugged Etta's ears, making Etta sigh out in relief and pure joy for a moment. It felt like freedom, for a long standing second.

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To be continued...

Muffins, chapter one

Perfection meets Perfectionist #4 | copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's Note: continuing the chapter lessgooooooooo!! You know what is a funny fact about this? The reference to the queen dying was actually written before she passed away... #riplizzy Enjoy!

Chapter One, continued

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"And here I thought that wretched alarm clock was my worst enemy…" Etta thought as they fiddled with the clutch, peeking up the hill. Every man and their dog was up and about, Etta felt like an ant in the heavy packed line of traffic.

"Well, if you got up half an hour ago, you wouldn't be in this situation."

Etta rolled their eyes. "I can hear you smirk from here, February."

They heard her giggle, which softened their annoyed expression a bit. "They had your favourite muffin at the bakery today."

Etta almost slammed their foot onto the wrong pedal in shock, mouth agape and stared down at their phone. "What? "

The other end of the phone went silent for a second, Etta found it strange-- but then they realised she was trying her best to hold in laughter. "I was lonely, you know~ sitting by myself in the corner of the bakery. What is a girl to do in a store that sells rhubarb and thyme custard muffins?"

Etta's heart raced, they moved their jaw from side to side. "A nerdy girl like you would be trying to read every single book available in that store, you know, since it's a bakery AND a book store."

February tutted with pity from Etta's sulky tone. "You obviously don't know this nerdy girl then, because I practically have done that. So I got bored, the two remaining muffins on the top shelf did sound fantastic at that moment~"

The betrayal was too much, Etta groaned into the steering wheel.

"Revenge, darling, it's called revenge."

Etta mockingly worded February as the traffic started to ease up at their mercy. "The boss isn't going to like my excuse this time, maybe I should try and find my resume," Etta joked as they traced their skirt's pattern.

February paused for a moment, this time Etta knew it was serious. "You know… the boss and I are worried about you."

Etta furrowed their brows as they pulled into the right carpark. "Why, because I've been late twice?" It came off as snappy, which Etta didn't attend.

"Well… it's not just that, darling. You haven't been talking to anyone for weeks now. We didn't know you were behind on your project until last Tuesday."

Etta slammed their car door, instantly regretting the decision when the sound echoed through the empty carpark. 'I don't need the airbags to go off so my car can get written off, right now-- thanks me.'

"It wasn't intentional, I just don't like people-- you out of all people would understand that pet peeve of mine, February. And besides, this is a large project that I'm not even in charge of-"

February sighed while Etta pushed the elevator button with their carpet burned elbow. "But I- we just don't understand, you were excited for this project. You wanted to be involved with this project, then one day you turned up to work looking as if the queen died!"

Etta kicked at the wall, silent and weak as a drowning fish. February took the silence as a hint. "I'm sorry Mx Sallow, I am just concerned for your wellbeing at this time."

Etta heard a delayed echo, it's not coming from the phone-- they immediately straightened their back and tightened their tie. "Good morning, Sallow." Etta heard this twice, and reluctantly scrunched up their nose to prepare themself.

"Or should I say, good afternoon?" The elevator chanted its arrival as the shiny silver doors creaked open.

Etta softened their face into their customer service smile. "Good afternoon, Señor Gabriel."

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To be continued...