The Bathroom

The Bathroom

Archive #2 | Copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's note: Day two of posting pieces that I really like. This one is a bit more dark so slight trigger warning (?) to easily sensitive people. Let me know if you like it! Suggestions and feedback is welcome, enjoy :)

The Bathroom

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Dark and hideous, 

I stare at my reflection, blurry from steam. 

My shower, cold droplets on glass— I tried drowning my sorrow for hours.

The shadows that grasp at my skin drag me back down from my high— 

The pleasure that lingers on my lips, 

Tongue numb from the biting of my stained teeth. 

Lips cracked and blue; 

I do not recognise those who have seen me. 

Resentment is the familiarity I cling onto— 

The smell of gore bores into my mind like a surgical drill. 

If you wish to mush my brain, it will take more than one pill to convince me. 

Betrayal and words; 

I will stab my eyes out. 

Pickled for your cocktails; 

Watch your back as you swallow me whole. 

I am mute, silenced by mistakes, 

I see their pain, damned for their torment. 

Blind and tears. 

Do you regret?

Do you regret?

Do you regret? 

I know,

I know…

I know.

Everyone knows.

I will take this to my grave, 

But you will use it to your advantage in heaven.

When it comes the day—

Where I crash into the walls I hastily built up, 

My defences crash as you stand by and watch. 

Will you penetrate such a fragile structure? 

Vulnerability is a sought out weakness from those who grew out of it. 

Endings and virtue; 

I will end this on my own terms.

But I ended the wrong thing— 

Tumbling and spiralling; 

I will see you in hell. 

I scream as you floated, 

What goes around comes around…. 

I was never a part of this equation. 

You cheated from the beginning, 

Your reflection must be hideous. 

But the steam is blinding, 

And the dust clings onto skin. 

The pleasure was hidden burns. 

I am resentment, that familiarity that cannot be described.

You choke on the dark olives in your drink,

Saw heaven for a second, but the screaming drags you back up from your low.

Did you picture my brain on your platter?

Your pain is my torment;

I do not recognise the shadows, the madman that slams into the shower door.

My walls shake,

Cold droplets down the drain.

Will you regret?

I stare at your tears, whispers come from my silent, blue lips…

Hollow eyes stare back.

You will regret it.

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The Orchestra

Archive #4 | copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's note: Welcome back to another depressive episod-

The Orchestra

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Crushing.

I feel sick to my gut retching in disgust.

I hear the orchestra haunting me in the forgotten corridor passages in my ears,

Daunting me.

I feel faint from exhaustion.

Am I truly in the works with the devil? Blessed to be cursed upon arrival when I finally realise my true nature?

My fingertips are still cold from gliding across the icy surface of your deadbeat heart.

Are your walls strong enough to withstand my pride?

Did you love me because it was me? Or did you love me because it was your first experience of love?

Droplets of sin kiss my dull skin like an after shower of rain as a cauldron of emotions floods my walls and pushes against me in ripple tides.

For shame has bewitched me.

It's hard to breathe;

Hard to stay awake.

Will the cello ever outshine the violin?

Breaking their backs just to be working behind the scenes,

Whose sole purpose is to make the other shine.

The moon and cello;

The violin and the sun.

I'm chained;

I repeat my mistakes to the point my hands are tied.

The escape is merely pleasant for the short term investment of loss.

What is there to guarantee if not tarnishment— 

Your blood stains my silverware, your flesh between my teeth.

You can wash away your thoughts but mine linger like the smell of rot.

Your walls hindered the sound of the conductor's strained sigh,

His graceful arms swayed to the point of silence, reminiscing about his first love.

His torment fixated on me as a warning.

The orchestra—

A sickly sweet melody turned bitter as it sounded like a death march.

Their fight to be heard makes me shudder as I chew on my regret.

Does the conductor ever lose focus on all who plays? 

Some are cast out to sea as others are broken down into pieces to be moulded into framework. 

Paintings are a sheer will of power that articulates format.

Control? 

Not yours.

You may be a canvas with brushed out colours, but you are not art as that truly has meaning.

Meaning— comes from your heart alone.

Something that you do not wish to seek without a second opinion.

Drowning sounds more appealing than being left alone on driftwood.

The seemingly endless waves of potential frightens the fallen angel that has clipped wings. 

Never meant for the sea:

Never had the chance to fly.

Just…

Floating.

Drowning sounds more comforting.

But why do I still hear the orchestra? Even as I sink down... down... 

Down.... 

Down.....

How ironic that hell is supposedly down to the core of the earth,

How the warmth of the centre is seen as evil.

Such lies— for which I only feel the cold.

The tight feeling of goosebumps chokes my soul as my body gives in, 

For what it feels like I am reaching the bottom of the cauldron.

Sinking.... Dragged down further than I can register in my delusional head...

…

…

….

The sweet cries of the violin are muffled down here.

I can hear the cello–

Oh,

The moon…

It shines down here.

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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.   

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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

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. 

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Him.

Archive #6 | copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's Note: Damn, who hurt her- anyway, I found this in my embarrassing amount of 'Untitled Documents' in my google drive. You know when you are cleaning your room and you come across letters/diaries of when you were going through it? Yeah... but why was this so interesting to read HAHA (I don't even remember when I wrote it). Enjoy!

Him.

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He would’ve read my work. 

Not voluntarily, I would have had to definitely convince him. Though, it didn’t take much teasing— he always complied in the end. So much for his complaints that I “wrote too much” or my work was “too complicated”, he ended up taking extra time and care reading everything I sent through. 

Did he always understand what I wrote? Ha. Absolutely not. 

But he read it anyway, he always did.

I ponder about it, sometimes. I glance down to— nothing, really— and just relive all the little things and memories we shared. It’s definitely bittersweet, but I am not a picky eater; the taste of bitterness accompanied by the honey-suckle kiss on the tongue has soon become a fan favourite. It’s like a logical but irrational balance: good as a thesis, terrible for the heart. All those bitterness-cringing-moments won’t hide the fear of high blood sugar.  

Would he ever miss my writing? 

Really does your head in, doesn’t it? All those rudely blunt questions your mind comes up with when the world goes quiet. 

Does he even remember half of what he read from me? 

To be fair, I don’t even remember what I sent him— I just remember I used to do it all the time. 

Will he ever get to know that I have found a passion to write again?

Poems were my favourite way to convey storytelling. Commitment was miminial, because they are so short (surprise, surprise— my signature 14 paged spiel does take a lot of effort and energy which is not favourable), and I loved my little rabbit-holes of just finding the synonym for every. single. word. Anything that required excessive and proper sentences drained me, it didn’t feel right. But now— I have come to embrace it and oh, enjoy it oh-so-much. 

Funny thing, though— I never felt like my essays were the best. I’m sure the actual concepts and ideas I write within an essay structure have merit, but I never felt like my structural integrity of a normal essay spoke out to me. I also always felt like what I wrote for an essay could have been better— it just felt cheesy. To be fair— I never really got to the point of sitting down and reading poetry, the pieces I picked up were always too cheesy (even for me). But oh, how I loved writing it. 

Don’t get me wrong, I love writing essays. But–

Will he ever know that I found my own sense of writing style? 

My sense of writing is emotive language. I love symbolism, the play on words— I like the puzzling effect, the double take on things. I love to draw people in, make them confused and heart-broken. I want the real message hidden in deciphering, having to go back and reread it just so you can catch the missed hints and easter eggs. I love deep and dark themes— horror has always been my favourite genre, after all. 

And because I love the deep, emotive conception of writing— I want to always incorporate it into my essays. But of course, I don’t have the time to properly plan out which critical sentence to repeat later down the line— what metaphors and personifications really mean. But you’ll be damned to not see me try.   

Would he be damned? 

It doesn’t matter anymore, even if the current isn’t the direction I want to swim against.

Some people might read this and wonder: “Wait, is this about me?”

But the right person will read this and their heart will stop for a beat, because they know it’s about them. Well, if they can remember— of course. Can’t forget the fact his memory of us is so terrible, I would have better luck asking a goldfish to memorise the two times table. 

I did consider a lot of people when thinking about this umbrella of thoughts. Often, I would have left it to mystery and let my readers conclude what they thought I meant (though, I still can’t help but cringe when they butcher the meaning), but in this reality, I have been pondering about the thought of loneliness. 

I’m not alone.

I’m far from it. 

But I guess it's the closeness and intimacy that I crave. I have the people, I have the bonds— but I figure that being an arms length away from most of my friends for so long due to my personal business, I hesitate to be needy. It’s selfish of me to do so, it’s like the poem situation— I can’t just commit to something because it’s the bare minimum. 

Would he miss my face? I wear a mask consistently, sometimes I do believe that some of my classmates don’t remember what I look like. 

And most of all, do I mean mask symbolically, or physically?

Would he remember my face? It makes me want to take off my mask more, but it has become a comfort— plus, I get sick so easily. 

Every time I got really ill, he was who I talked to. 

He made sickness bearable. He cared and made me laugh. 

What a joke. 

Closure was never the answer, like a mouse that follows a snake— tailing behind the sharp-fanged beast screaming out the question for it to hear.

Why?

Why not? Why else? For I will never know. 

Because it is not worth knowing. 

Why would a mouse go back to the very place, the snake’s lair, where they were bitten once already— to ask why they bit the mouse in the first place? 

Does he remember the puncture wounds? 

Would he read my writing if it was about a snake and mouse?

Would he understand it?

…

Sigh

…

A fresh wound appears.

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"realistically speaking, he nasty" - saturnfairycat 2022

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. 

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