vi || they/them || i write for shits and giggles || welcome to my poetry sideblog!

my works are tagged as #my writing

if you'd like to see more of my work, check out my ao3 fanfics here

and come say hi in my main @starrynightarchive

house md//bungou stray dogs//roadkill by searows//it will come back by hozier//stupid fucking dog by six white venus//shame on you by lord tusk (song cover)

before he was a martyr, jesus was a son.

the problem with living in survival mode for all your developmental years is that when it finally does get better, you don't know what the fuck to do with yourself.

"you're still so childish," my mom had chided fondly one day when i was laughing at a crude joke that wasn't all that funny and i had to hold myself back from asking, "really?"

because in all honesty, i don't really know what it means to be a child. i didn't even know happiness before now, and i've never lived a day without the sheer intensity of my emotions crushing me. have i ever been a child? i don't know, because this is how i remember my life so far:

i'm still getting used to the novelty of having a full night's sleep everyday and not waking up wanting to kill myself, what do you mean i have to figure out what to do with my life? i have been handed something that i never wanted, that i never dared to hope for, and i hold this life in my palms with all the care i can muster with my jagged edges and freezing skin.

i'm living life in non-chronological order. i was 37 before i was 15, i am now 13 when i'm supposed to be 20. sometimes i feel older than life and so, so tired. the other day i found myself being hit with a wave of jealousy so large that i couldn't breathe for a second while looking at a 14 year old because i would never be able to have what she does. and it really is a new low, hating a middle schooler just a little because when i was 14 my biggest concern wasn't failing math but keeping myself from breaking my clean streak of two days by reaching for the kitchen knife. it's disorienting to walk around trying to 'act my age' because i feel like i'm in a whole new world than everyone else. everyday i'm made to write a surprise quiz that everyone but me was informed about. not everyone knows how to walk someone down the ledge. barely anyone fists their hands on their lap while listening to lectures on mental health thinking wrong, wrong, wrong that's not how depression works, that's not how children who want to die think, that's not the only reason for a young person to lose themself, that's not how misery feels on your skin, on your tongue. wrong, wrong, WRONG.

no, i don't know my plans for the future but i do know how to carry the weight of the world in my chest and how to hide finger nails bitten till raw and red and how to write with blood and how to cover it all up with a smile and- all of that is useless? oh. oh.

it feels like an elaborate joke, almost; like the universe is having a good laugh at my expense because the world is asking for a sculpture and all i have are my barely healed hands and a broken clay pot that has no hope of being salvaged. it's not about falling behind in the race, it's about being shoved into a goddamn marathon when you haven't even learned to walk yet. and no, dragging myself to the finish line on all fours with scraped knees and palms shredded by gravel is no longer an option.

how the hell do you live when all you know is to survive?

but really, it's not as bad as i'm making it sound, at least not all of it. this liminal space that hangs between childhood and adulthood and everything that comes before and after that, it's not awful. yeah, i'm still not sure if i will get into med school, but i'm falling a little bit in love with the sound of my laugh. i might have a huge void in my head where the last 6 years should be, but i'll never forget the laugh that bubbled out of my chest when my doctor halved my med dosage. i still carry my grief like a cloak over my shoulders but i've been leaving it behind in my house more and more because it's getting too warm for anything more than a t-shirt these days.

and after all that, the question still remains: what the hell do i do now?

laugh with my friends, maybe. make a mean cup of tea. learn everything all over again, from the start. smile till it sits on my face like it always belonged there. go to sleep early, because that's something i like doing these days.

what do i do now? i ask my mom and she tells me to help her with lunch. what do i do now? i ask my sister and she tells me to shut up and listen to the latest gossip from her class. what do i do now? i ask my best friend and he throws me his phone without looking and tells me to order whatever i'm craving.

what do i do now? i ask and they all say, isn't it obvious? you start living.

on luffy and love.

i've been staring at a blank page for months now, searching for the right words. the ones that used to flow out of the tip of my pen with a gasping cry of 'finally, finally' are nowhere to be found. the thing is, right, poets cannot thrive in mediocrity. cannot bloom, cannot scream all things beautiful without a laugh or a sob stuck in their throat. no one wants normal, you see. because normal is everywhere. but beauty? beauty is found in the reckless and jarring and the glittering night sky. but you can only write about the blue sky for so long before you get sick of it. can only bleed in paper till your wound closes, can only laugh till your breath runs out. and just like all things do, those moments end. that's what makes them worth of poetry- their fleeting, dream-like nature.

no one wants to read poetry about the days you waste scrolling through your phone or the assignment that you got a B- in. the thing is, right, just existing isn't worth of poetry. there is no way for a poet to thrive in a life of mediocrity and i'm afraid that's exactly where i find myself.

it makes me sad sometimes. i find myself missing the taste of copper in my mouth and the angry purple of the bruises on my knees. i hold my worn-out plush in my hand and wonder where it went- the joy it once used to bring me. my favorite t-shirt no longer fits me. i fold it up clumsily and think: have i outgrown greatness too?

but most of the time, it doesn't bother me. because you never really stop being beautiful despite what you might think. maybe you don't write as well as you used to. maybe reading your works no longer makes people overcome with an emotion that feels larger than life itself. and i've come to find that that's not so bad. not everything has to be booming and bright or miserable and black. you might not be great but your smile, candlelight soft and tired, is real. your wounds no longer make you feel like you're dying but your joints do ache terribly during thunderstorms.

the thing is, right, you will always be a poet. maybe not one that everyone adores or understands, but a poet nonetheless. what's beautiful to you might not be worth a second glance to me. what makes your day might be nothing worth remembering to a stranger. just because something that means the world to you means nothing to someone else doesn't make it meaningless.

keep a hand on your chest. feel your heart beat, steady, steady.

thump. thump. thump.

being beautiful is not what makes you alive.

thump. thump. thump.

you breathe, and therefore you are.

AAAA THANK YOU SO MUCH!!! this message totally made my day!! I was really not expecting anyone to reach out to me about that fic so when i saw this you can imagine how surprised i was lol. I'm so glad you enjoyed that fever dream of a fic!!

written for the writer's server exchange event.

prompt: stars/space/humanity/dragons