Bedroom Creature

Bedroom Creature

Archive #24 | copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's Note: coincidentally, this piece reminds me of this song:

Maybe I am their secret ghost writer (I am kidding). Enjoy!

Bedroom Creature

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I am one with my room.

I pace back and forth Below my dream catcher and sketches, Picturing a life where I am never bored. Bored? Bored, the thought echoes. I'm tired of wasting Time and embracing My thoughts when I have things to do.

The red string from my Christmas Hangs above my yarn and needles. Humming and refracting; Spending too much time thinking. I contemplate the world's actions Whilst it ignores my pleas.

I can sing and dance but If it takes one person to drag me back down, I would rather it being my future self Than someone who would drain My pouring faucet heart.

An endless supply of care and need, Drank and left empty; A desert in my awakening. I am gullible, For I am in need.

Stuff my insides with stuffing, Zip my mouth shut under my trophies. My glass eyes amongst my soft toys, Left pickering over nothing.

Papers and memories scattered on my floor, If I dwell too long lying face down then I shall be One with dead strands of hair on carpet.

Does art scare you? Abstract or realism? I am left to ponder whether whose who hate different Are different and just don't know how to Paint themselves black and white.

A person is a person until they can't be; Art can be anything even when it can't be. Hence the squiggly lines on maths papers. How innocent yet invasive, Squiggly lines did nothing wrong. We draw squiggly lines all the time- I imagine for the chaos in my brain to be drawn this way.

Black, White, Blue, Green, Purple.

My inner thoughts and rants are not just static, But I wish for it to be splashes of crashing colours. I don't intend to sort and organise My papers into folders Because my room is already one.

I stand beneath my decorated room, Oftentimes I cough and whine, Wondering when I will ever leave this room To be the art I am meant to be whilst a desert in an empty, Thirsty Sea.

Winged

Work #3 | copyright to saturnfairycat

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

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Winged

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'Do you see her flying?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

The victim? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

Why such a plan? Why such a sacrifice? 

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

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

No. 

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

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

'Do you see her flying?'

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A stargazer's lover

Archive #20 | copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's note: does it sound familiar?

A stargazer's lover

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Everyone loves differently,

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

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

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

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

We are lovers,

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

The lines on our skin,

the clearness of thought,

the dark that surrounds our huddled position in the universe.

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

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

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

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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.

Pinewood

Archive #22 | copyright to saturnfairycat

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

Pinewood

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We are nothing at all.

...

...

But,

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

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

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

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

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

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

While my branches' ashes are coughed out

From your lungs into the cold,

Still air.

...why must it be a prince?

Archive #19 | copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's Note: holy shit?? It's been a while since we have seen an archive. This one is a small short that I wrote for @v-for-venus, so hope y'all enjoy!

....why must it be a prince?

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"My princess!"

A second set of foot steps echoed through the empty corridor. I stop in my tracks, glass heels clicking against each other. I close my eyes for a second, forcing myself to not turn around. Taking in a breath, I click my tongue as I shot back.

"You address me as 'Your Highness', Knight."

The footsteps halted, the slight creaking of iron was the only thing heard for a couple of seconds. I tried my best to not fidget with my hands, as it was "very unlady-like" according to other kingdoms. I couldn't deal with this right now. Why aren't they saying anything? I need to go to the meeting roo--

"So, is that what you want me to call you in bed, Your Hig-" "Enough!"

I turned around, glaring at the smirking knight. Their soft curly hair, their soft lips, their smooth skin, their beautiful eyes-- stop with the distractions. It was getting hard to ignore the rapid heartbeats I was experiencing, the blood rushing into my head making me slightly dizzy as I force myself to not give in.

"I don't have time for this, I am your Queen now, which means you're not my personal knight anymore. I don't need to associate with you all the time." "But you want to, no?"

Irritated, jealous of their boldness in such a situation-- why must they make this difficult? I walk up to them, heels swift and arm reaching out to grab at the scarf I had made them not so long ago. Thumb pressing against their cute chin while I look down at their kneeling state. Why am I so ticked off, anyway? I have always been told from ever since I could remember that I will get the prince of my dreams, and yet… I don't want to go to the meeting. The meeting is suppose to be the most important cue in my current royal life, I will be introduced to the 'love of my life', and yet…

"Listen to your heart, Princess."

I sigh, my face softens as I realise what my destiny has truly lead me to. I cannot fight it forever.

I look into their eyes, the ones I love waking up to in secrecy. My lips open in a strained relief.

"….You're my prince, the love of my life."