Chapters from the Diary of a Grey Poet

  Before the Bloom Part III: The Knowing Greywood deepens slowly. Not enough to alarm. Not enough to warn. That is how it survives. The roots grow thicker beneath their feet. The air sweeter. The silence heavier. Morning disappears quietly there. Swallowed whole beneath branches that allow light through only in fragments. The Collector walks ahead. Not hurried. Not slow. Simply certain. His satchel rests against his side with every measured step. Cloth wrapped carefully around glass. Space prepared already for the Bloom. He does not speak often. Not from cruelty. Not from distance. But because devotion has narrowed him. The forest ahead. The House behind. The task between them. Nothing else seems permitted to exist for long. The Page trails close to the Companion now, boots sinking softly into damp earth. Every few moments they glance toward the Collector with open admiration. As though watching someone become legend in real time. “Does Greywood always smell like this?” The Compani...

“Wow! I never thought your heart would turn so cold,” I whispered as the morning turns to gold. “The stories of the 'us' we used to hold, Are stories that no longer can be told.” You looked at me with nothing left to hide, As if a stranger lived there deep inside your harsh gaze trying to decide whether or not I'm worth your pride. You sigh, “Some loves we are meant to bury.” “Our dead love? Then perhaps you should hurry, before endings leave their marks on memory the way old flames survive as poetry.”

They call him the strongest, The Honored One, like that title is supposed to comfort him. Like power can somehow replace being understood. He is always too loud in the hallways, always grinning, always carrying sweets in his pockets like he is trying to stay seventeen forever. His white hair almost glows beneath fluorescent lights. His voice careless in a way that feels intentional after a while. Rehearsed. Because people are less afraid of gods when gods act foolish. But there are moments where the exhaustion slips through anyway. Small moments. The kind you miss if you are not looking directly at him. Yuji still believes people deserve saving even after everything. Megumi acts like his own life is worth less than everyone else’s. Nobara refuses to become smaller just because the world expects her to. Gojo notices all of it immediately. And despite everything, he watches them carefully. Not as weapons. Not as sorcerers. Just kids. I think that matters more to him than people realize. ...

A moth went searching for a flame, a forest prayed for lightning, a cage went in search of a bird, a ship sailed straight into the storm, a matchstick dreamed of gasoline, a coastline waited for erosion, a glass heart longed for the floor, a wolf lingered beside the trap— all when I went looking for you.

There is a certain nostalgia, a certain romance, in places you have left behind. The house on Thornwood Lane seemed to bloom once we left it, as if our absence was the best thing to happen to it. The swings creaked softer in memory. The weeds were no longer weeds but wildflowers left to grow freely. The crows we feared as children became sparrows somehow. Even the cracked windows looked whole from far away, catching sunset light like stained glass. The porch light glowed warmer than I ever remembered it. Bunnies and butterflies seemed to gather in the garden, as if the overgrown clovers had invited them to tea. And somewhere beyond the fence line, a boy with a crooked smile still skates down Middlefork Road at dusk. Funny how distance turns abandoned places into fairytales.

I found it in the attic, tucked safely behind old boxes in a dark corner. Curious, I pull it out. I don’t remember packing this one. The soft leather is smooth under my touch, carelessly stitched embroidered images cluster across its surface: childish scrawls and faded stickers covering its old spine. The latch resists at first, as if it had been packed to never be opened again, left to be forgotten. Inside, it is as cluttered as I expected, yet brighter somehow, more alive. Empty candy wrappers still holding the sweetness of the moments they came from. Carnival tickets. Prize trinkets. A name I used to say too easily, pressed between folded summers, and the shape of a laugh I thought I had outgrown. There were things I never threw away, not because I kept them, but because I forgot to let them go. A ticket stub. A crayon drawing of something that might have been us. And suddenly the attic isn’t quiet anymore, it is full of a version of me I hadn’t visited in years. Carefully, I return...

  She was an angel craving chaos. He was a devil seeking peace. They met where Heaven’s light could no longer reach Hell’s smoke. Their tragedy was simple: they had no home to unite in. Heaven wanted nothing to do with them, and Hell feared they would take it over. And somewhere above Hell and beneath Heaven, they built a kingdom of their own.

 Everybody loves cats, don't they? there's always one everywhere, a harmless little creature wanting just a few scratches, and a pat on the back. Everyone I know always reaches first for the small purring little ball of fur, laughing with glee, playing carefree. It only intensifies, their laughter, when I jump in terror. Truth be told, my entire life I have never known why, all I know is the paralyzing fear that has consumed me for as long as I remember. "It won't do anything, it's harmless!" Yes, I know that. But that's not the problem, is it? The problem has always been the way my chest tightened painfully around my pounding heart each time I come across one. The shame follows right after it. As a confused little kid, in fact still, I see normal people petting cats, loving their pets with no danger whatsoever. Yet, I am as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

The Carnival never could contain her boundless energy. In woods, barefoot her gown hisses. Her wilde heart she hid at the masquerade One howl pulverizing her restraint. Buskins donned she follows the call tugging her heart. Wildflowers recoiling in her dust, deeper into the wild she goes. The Wolf awaits in untamed parts her sinewy friend she inherits his feral soul. Reunited, they haunt wayfarers path.

I walk quietly through a field of tulips, fiery red, the rain-darkened soil swallowing the weight of my footsteps. My dress drifts behind me as the winds begin to rise, as though they had been informed of my sorrow. They whisper their consolations, but every word falls upon deaf ears. I continue forward, uncaring, while the end of my long frock follows a few beats later than it should, as if it too wishes to remain behind among the closely-knit rows. It clings stubbornly to every flower it brushes past, grappling desperately at petals and stems, still holding onto something that slipped from my hands long ago. The tulips feel smooth beneath my fingertips, welcoming in the way grief is during its earlier stages. I try to admire their beauty. I try, with all my strength, not to look toward the heavy gray sky above me, yet I find it reflected in every shallow puddle at my feet. The sky is not angry. No — worse.  It is indifferent to the beauty flourishing beneath it. Heavier and heavi...

 Cinderella-Rewritten She stands in an abandoned corner, quietly observing the compilation of hundreds of dresses, the sounds of the fabrics as they swish and sway in practiced movements, as if they had been preparing for this dance all their lives, while little Cinderella had been working away, her calloused hands starting and finishing chores too big for her little head. The bright lights pouring from the grand chandeliers seem to have a personal agenda against our poor Cinderella. Her eyes blur and the music rings in her head. A mixture of sound pricks tiny little holes all over her body. She scratches her arms, her unkempt nails catching in the fabric of her borrowed dress. Cinderella knows it deep in her bones, how much she doesn’t deserve this dress, but the old lady next door had insisted Cinderella be the one to wear the dress her daughter never got to. And Cinderella couldn’t find it in herself to refuse her. After all, she was the only girl who talked to th...

If I were to disappear, what would I take with me? More importantly, what would I leave behind? What about my grandmother’s trunk, the one with trinkets from childhood: first napkin, first toy. I can’t take that with me. I can’t leave it to rot under my bed either. Maybe I’ll feed it to a fire before I leave. Will I find the courage to watch it all burn, the flames licking away at what was supposed to be the beginning? Would burning it all up mark the end? While the fire feeds on the echoes of my innocence, I walk back inside. The house feels too still. Too aware. My room waits for me—one last time. I drag myself to it. Decorations, used cans, picture frames, dirty laundry all watching me. As if to say: deal with us before you leave. The people that live in my frames still ask questions I will never find answers to. So I suppose I do the only thing I could do. Empty boxes appear, clothes folded for once, neatly. Maybe shame makes me flip the frames face down, my former selves glaring h...

We met on Thornwood Lane. You were skating, music blaring through your headphones. I was on a run, escaping the noises in my head, when our worlds crashed into each other. The fall to the gravel hurt. Blood washed over your scraped knees, old scars and new. My hip burned with agony, my head ringing, our apologies tangling into incoherent messes. You recovered before I could and stretched out your hand to me. I took it— hesitant to let such chaos into my carefully organized world. The ink from your fingers leaving their marks on my manicured nails. I told you to watch where you were going. You smirked. Joked about “falling” for me, pointing to your bleeding knee, then asked for my number. I gave you the finger. You shrugged, got back on your board. I continued running into Briar Lane. You rode toward Middlefork Road. Our backs to each other, our hearts still waiting beneath the sign; Thornwood Lane. P.S: contest pic prompt.

Wednesday night, I picked my father up for dinner. We went to his favorite place. I pulled his chair out for him and tucked him in, habit taking over my reflexes. The waiter walked up for our orders. My father gave him his, then turned to look at me. “What’s your favorite food?” he asked, his frown spreading across his wrinkled forehead. “Doesn’t matter,” I told him, and ordered what my mom used to eat. He passed his drink to me— a truce maybe. Or an apology. Bottoms up. I didn’t like it, yet I let it wash the words stuck in my throat down. P.S: contest.

If you were to leave your entire life behind, and run away someplace far away where no one knows your name, how would you do it, what name would you choose for yourself? Would you be able to leave your home, and create a new one in some long-forgotten town? Perhaps you'd like to rent a room in the town motel, or maybe you're willing to buy a house from the old lady at the end of the street, the price cheaper than it should be. She has no family, just like you. She wishes you inherit her legacy, the house her late beloved had made, and his dusty, old Chevrolet. Doubt and pride try to come in your way, but the single duffel slung across your back roots you to the ground. You stare into her pleading eyes, they are kind, and they have no reason to be. Yet they rake over you, the pity in them flowing, and pouring over your head in cold kindness until you are completely drenched in what you think is pity, but is not. Would you reach out to her extended hand, accept the keys, her past...

  Before the Bloom Part II: The Leaving Morning does not announce itself. It seeps. Thin light along the cloister walls. Cold clinging to stone. The Collector rises before it settles. No ceremony. No lingering. His satchel waits where he left it - glass wrapped in cloth, cord tied twice, knife honed to quiet shine. He moves like someone already halfway gone. Another pair of footsteps break the stillness. The Page. Not summoned. Not stopped. Too young for the weight of forests. Old enough to follow. The gates open with a sound too large for dawn. The Apothecary does not come. Trust does not require farewell. Or perhaps farewells suggest doubt. Beyond stone Greywood waits. The Collector does not look back. He walks as though the path has already been walked inside him. The Companion stands where shadow gathers. Watching. The Page lingers just long enough to fall beside them. “Will he find it?” the child asks quietly. The Companion’s eyes remain on the retreating figure. “He will look...

 I saw you again today after what felt like forever. i was so happy, i can't seem to find fancy words to describe the feeling, so surreal, i could say for an instance, but it would not do it justice. There was this part of me that adores you so much, you are its other half, my sister from another mother my pea in the pod, and when i saw you just like the good ol days, my heart was so full and warm and there was this part of me, the darker, duller piece so full of anger and pain. so hurt by feeling abandoned by you breaking in silence for your shoulder that was not there when my head felt heavier than my heart, the part holding a grudge against something that is not even your fault. this piece of me is always at war with the half of me that loves you so unconditionally, so proud of you. i look at you now, so bright, so happy and just so full of life, i know you have your days too, but the light in your eyes, its still there, i see it shine so bright. it almost blinds me. maybe im no...

 update: all my posts now have the same date cuz i had to freaking delete and post them all again. also, i hate people. P.S: if you wanna know, im back at square 1. gr8 just gr8.

  Im so stuck between telling an adult and not...well an adult that counts obvi- WAIT- im an adult WOWZA. Anywho... theres this tchr i have who everyone loves and adores and her door is always open for us metaphorically and literally but i dont my hands go numb and my throat becomes lumpy its like my entire being tells me not to talk to her but this time i know i went too far idk bro i have been telling myself for the past 5 years that i will stop but i havent and its only getting worse bu everyday i make up an excuse like shes busy today or ill talk to her tmrw and shit but tomorrow never comes ughhhhhh. like the responsible older daughter in me knows i should get help but theres just this part of me that wants to cower in my covers but how much longer can i do this?? Until i suffocate?!. might not, but will update. ...... UPDATE: didnt.

  okkkk so kinda in a good mood but sad af too...ughhh and um special thanks to that person from vietnam for reading my blog <33....hope you dont relate XOXO

  So update: shit did indeed get worse...i relapsed again AND i know i say this all the time and every time i try not to pull again but i fail obviously and this time i think its worse than it ever was before or i guess so...im forgetting so easily these days like bruh i dont even remember what happened last week..the days are turning into a big blur...and yes ik its not healthy BUT on the bright side...i actually found something i feel relaxed while doing it....sketching. It actually started with reading mangas and watching anime, then i started drawing my fav characters from the said manga- yup, Jujutsu Kaisen- and now im obsessed. So yeah. BUT again since i actually liked it and wanted to do more but it is starting to feel like a chore so nowim kinda lacking motivation there too, cant draw at home, the little brat i have as a sibling who keeps telling on me (i dont want unnecessary attention) and at school i barely get time ugh. but back on the topic, I CANT FREAKING STOP PULLIN...

 PROMPT:  I just want someone to tell me that i dont have to be perfect around them, that if my voice shakes it can, that if my hands tremble, they can that they didnt choose me to impress them, that they chose me to be real with them then if someone ever tells me that- if i am asleep dont ever wake me up and if i am awake i dont ever want sleep. POEM:  I just want someone to tell me: I don’t have to be perfect around them. That if my voice shakes, it can. That If my hands tremble, they can. That they didn’t choose me to impress them— they chose me to be real with them. And if someone ever tells me that. if I am asleep, don’t ever wake me. and if I am awake, I don’t ever want sleep.

 Sometimes I wonder 'If'... if this, if that, always asking questions, never getting the answers. I have always been fascinated by the concept of poison, the choices a person makes,  the whole process really; how they watch it being poured and still lift the glass. Did you have questions of your own that begged to be answered, but finally chose silence for your own peace, really? Because I know all too well the comforting silence of silence. It never asks, never doubts. It doesn’t even answer, really. It just listens. And trust me, babe, I know how important listening is. But sometimes I think of why people search for listeners  in a world of talkers, why people give and give where they know  they will get nothing back. I will never know why you keep drinking from something that was never meant to quench you. Why do you? You stare up at that building, screaming your lungs out, at the party on the rooftop their music devouring your voice mercilessly. I could tell you ...

  The mirror startled me not because I looked different but because I didn’t. The girl staring back wears my face. I still have her eyes, but now they hold something older. Grief that has already learned to stand up straight. I pull my jacket tighter. She does the same. Somewhere between the storm outside and the storm inside my ribs, something shifts and I realize — she is not someone I lost. She is someone I used to be. The rain hurls itself against the windows like it wants to scream for me. I don’t. The room is untouched. The bed still made. Books still waiting. Everything looks the same. But I am not. I hadn’t slept in days. Grief had wrung the tears out of me and left something hollow behind. My body had already emptied itself, but grief stayed — too calm to be fear, too clear to be madness. She’s not coming back, that girl who believed everything would stay. The thought comes gently — not cruel, not loud, just certain. Growing up does not happen slowly. Sometimes it happens ...

 I keep it in the dark, that I don't love the moon for its looks, but because I understand what it means To stand in the dark, almost always hidden away, seen by everyone, known by none. I used to wish I could be the sun. Now I know, it is easier to borrow light, than to burn for it. Finally, I've accepted that I am a selenophile. P.S: CONTEST.

 I cannot breathe. The harder I try to fill my lungs with oxygen, the thicker, deeper the fog settles in. I cannot move either. It is dark all around me. I can’t see a thing. Wait — no. There’s light now. Small, shiny, and blue. I’m tied to a chair. It’s getting uncomfortable — warm, even. I try to get up. My efforts go in vain, my thighs glued to my seat. My hands are free, but my legs are not. The rope is on fire — the only source of the now-bright light. New callouses form on my fingers and palms as I discard the shredded remains. Where is this place? A twig snaps. I’m outside. My feet are burning. Smoke. I run. It just gets worse — the pain. I can see in the distance the soft shine of the moon reflected on a smooth liquid surface. Water? I sprint toward it — all my might. Flames at my knees, climbing north. But the mirage of the ocean, of what I thought was salvation, barely reaches my ankles. To relieve the hurt, I fall knees first into the puddle. And it was never water. I do...

   If im being honest, i haven't been the same since the beginning of the year, overthinking during new years eve, then it did happen, i hadn't known what it would have been but i had expected something and something did happen and now im left grappling at the million pieces of my older version as they disintegrate into thin air, i know im being dramatic but im not, promise. this time i can breathe fine but its not my lungs im worried about this time, the tears haven't come yet. older me would've have been sitting in a corner hugging herself letting all the unsaid words flow across her face but not this me. no. the present version of me is composed right now shes not panicking as she would have, she already did that before things happened now she just sits waiting for the other shoe to drop even then im not sure if shell cry or will she drown this time. her chest tightens and her hands feel numb but her eyes are dry she wants to cry but maybe deep down shes afraid that ...

 I was shaped beside you, first grade sunlight and classroom dust, your shadow falling longer than mine, stretching over me like something protective. You used to joke we were destined, meant to be best friends. You, the overprotective bodyguard. Me, barely three feet tall, issuing royal commands from a throne of playground gravel. You never complained. You just stood there, steady. We were the famous duo, So popular we even held tryouts to see who was worthy to sit on the shelf, beside us. Years shaped us slowly. Little arguments. Little reconciliations. Nothing that felt fatal. I believed we were kiln-set, fired strong enough to survive careless hands. I held you quietly, trusting I was held the same way. Then there were three of us. Laughter, but wrong, sharp at the edges. I remember standing still, not understanding the shift in air. A small metallic click. A clean, deliberate snip. So light. So quick. So irreversible. A piece of my ponytail resting in someone else's hand. You ...

 I was shaped beside you, first grade sunlight, dust on the classroom floor, your shadow falling longer than mine even then, stretching over me like something protective. You used to joke that we were destined, meant to be best friends. You, the overprotective bodyguard. Me, no taller than three feet, issuing royal commands from a throne made of playground gravel, ordering you around like a tiny tyrant with scraped knees. You never complained. You just stood there, steady. We were a matched set, glazed and displayed. The famous inseparable duo. So famous, in fact, we held tryouts to see who was worthy to sit on the shelf beside us. Years shaped us slowly, like careful hands turning us on a wheel. We wobbled. We steadied. We survived small cracks. Little arguments. Little reconciliations. Nothing that felt fatal. Or so I believed. I believed we had been fired strong. Kiln-set. Unbreakable. Because I held you the way a pot holds water: quietly, without question, trusting what was pou...