To Frost, To Feel

Somewhere out there, there will always be that kind of girl who will love hazelnut coffee and the sight of flour. She will wake up staring at galaxies, whispering poetry before getting up to attend to her needs. She will use her owl bag and go outside, hunt for her coffee and more flour for baking. Her pale blond hair will be held back in a ponytail. Her neck hidden by her first ever scarf from her secret scarf collection. Her knees will have bruises, because she will have to stumble forward and trip downward a couple of times before walking straight. She will be afraid of the dark and of her dreams, but some of her dreams will show her the bright future she can and will meet. She will remember her dead mother's lullaby every night and will sing it to herself if she will ever need it to recover from her nightmares. She will grow tired and weary, but her love for baking will not. She will bake while listening to Love Shack or Fireflies. She will dance, twirl in her apron, and maybe sigh because she will appear so much messier than she thought she would be. But she will laugh it off, just because she will be like that. She will eat the outcome and drink her coffee, adjusting her blue scarf around her neck, planning to offer some of her cupcakes to the kind librarian. She will love the smell of books, live for it even. She will write, and write on everything she will. She will dance on her own, then later she will type about her favorite pieces of literature on the net. She will throw a few smiles at a few strangers. She will use her frosting to see her dreams, let them visit the outside world before they come tumbling back down inside her. She will wish for content, for the loneliness to stop. She will stop in front of a church and pray if she will remember how to. She will have earphones in her ears sometimes, thinking of parallel universes. She will hug the librarian and send her more cupcakes because she will be nicer. She will smile more maybe. She will travel the world, but not all of it. She will trace her fingers across maps, pack a few stuff, and head for light and dark. She will sip her coffee elsewhere, sketch her designs elsewhere, dream elsewhere. All those will happen until she will become even more exhausted. But this time someone will catch her, prevent her from falling too far. She will be protected, circled in warm arms, the arms of a stranger. She will see the stranger around until he will not be one anymore. She will have conflicts, but different are these. She will have dramatic episodes, but she will gain from them. She will gain the kind of maturity she didn't have before. She will have her eyes opened before her. She will see the stars above, kiss them before they flutter around her, and finally land her in a place where she and her lover will meet and never be lonely ever again.

Ravage

Something under the ground snaps and you snap with it. The clouds play back and forth until they collapse, crying on the dead and spitting on the alive. His tattoos are hidden like how mute the good are. The sun is rising but it’s still dark, bats flying in the atmosphere, eating the skulls of the corpses. She doesn’t feel safe. She feels evil because everything else is also evil. But definitely not safe.

She wants to slice those armchairs, chopping off their stands and kicking them out into the red and orange of the fire. She wants to turn into a psychopath, or even more of one if she already is. She feels the pain of people but they’re all FAKE. Curious but not concerned are the talking people, nothing else to do and nothing good to say. Let them turn to dust again; they never deserved to have flesh. Stupid, robotic movements. Stupid, robotic reflexes. Leave her alone, leave her alone, leave her alone to live for once.

She’s not bad. She’s unloved.

Driven Madness

Reality likes to sink in very often – so often that I end up spinning like some queen instead of drowning. If Reality’s no. 1 habit is appearing with and like a bang, then Fantasy’s is pulling dreamers into their favorite (or at least one of them) pastimes: Daydreaming.

Hate knocks on the walls around here. This always makes me do something. Perhaps drawing lines on my skin could be the anti-pain version of actual cutting. It’s for cowards – people like me who are not brave enough to even get something pointy and sharp. I like movie-gore on the screens, big and small, but blood on myself by point-sharp-thing already freaks me out just by thinking about it.

Unreachable & Unreal people/things make me happy.

People who KNOW me – big word – know I love some stuff. Books, Owl City, Adventure Time. Not all music can heal – not all make sense. The music-magic gives me the familiarity of home. Some home so far, far away. Faces like Adam Young’s make me happy.

Also his smile feels warm.

Alone time makes me happy.

And so does understanding.

I want to create something worth people’s time.



I want to feel literature everywhere. I want to bite on it like the most attractive cherry pie ever, then chew chew chew – taste the beauty of the words I know. Bitter but sweet. To create. To feel words creeping up to me from an image. Feel. Emotion. Know them under my skin. Acknowledge the birth of thoughts and realization. Move your tongue to the hurricane of words. Kiss the inked lines across my hands. My arms. My fingers. Block out their hysteria and breathe in my own.

I am hungry.

And I hate, and I love.