constructing.an.identity.she only likes crickets because they are exotic,constructing.an.identity. by Hakyness3876
because of their noise and not the small energy beating from creeping limbs, jagged legs, a phobia of wings struggling on skin.
she looks around with a telescope and can't find her reading glasses.
she puts coconut oil in her hair, music into her ears, corporations on her shoulders, aspirations under an interrogation light.
she touches and retouches and erases,
frantic artist and decadent photographer.
she pretends to wash her hands, brush for sixty seconds, play video games,
she'll pretend like the backseat didn't break her heart like a shot goose.
she contradicts herself.
she gets lost in the mountains every time;
she absorbs their self-importance and wants to mention how the fog made it impossible to separate rock, snow, and sky.
she loved them first, then the stuff of museums, then the orchestra of color, then whittled down every last bit into a single gold sliver that was
she owes the trajectory of her soul to a boy who collect
nocturne.each falling note is like falling down stairs,nocturne. by Hakyness3876
falling into the inevitable
into myself and into you.
each trill is the quiet whimper of that realization
that wrenches your chest in the deep corners
of nighttime, as you remember
the sorrow reflecting to render you blind
like glass in a desert.
each resolution reminds you
that roses do bloom within their perch of thorns.
i wish to grace their petals on your
jagged hip bones,
to whisk away with these faint fingers of mine
the cool precipitation of your long-suppressed demons.
oh, how easily despair melts
into the toxic, tainted,
twisted gladness of love.
each change in key transfigures the moon into the sun,
winter to summer, for emotion is naught without motion,
and in its sea-like shifting
air and water are up to debate
at the highest of tides and the most heedless of storms.
and i wish to capture the sacred beauty that
so uncannily pervades even your most mundane moments
and devour it, crash it over my shoulders gratefully
Hello hello hello. |
I am female of the adolescent variety (yes, one of those). I hail from a frozen northern wasteland with rather nice mountains and trees.
I draw: dragons, girls, weird psuedo-surrealist doodly garbage. I lack any formal training so don't expect any brilliance from this one.
I write: mostly poetry with a kind of automatic-emotional style, lots of focus on imagery. Sometimes short stories when I'm really inspired, and those usually play out like a bad Hallmark commercial. I used to do fan fictions for TESIV: Oblivion. Ignore them. They're embarrassingly bad unless you're also, like, a Twilight fan or something.
I play cello: not terribly well, though I like to think I have some appreciation/knowledge of classical music. Do I? Ask an expert.
Those are my arts. But mostly I just go to school, eat, and sleep.
I am known for petting people's hair unsolicited, dressing rather excessively fashionably, making vague attempts at being an intellectual, having an odd aptitude for environmental science and languages, and claiming to love everything and everyone. Which I do. Promise.