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About Literature / Hobbyist Official Beta Tester ♔Miistical♔United States Recent Activity
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confessions of a broke girl with a broken spirit.
i love how the sky never
changes except for when it
does, which is to say that i
hate the sky and change—
and i love how every day is
a today which means there
is never a better tomorrow—
and i love things that look like
mistakes so long as i am not
looking in a mirror—
and i love how my mind makes
miseries that my heart turns
into tragedies and the difference
is that a tragedy always ends in
the main character's death and
that makes me Greek.
i pull out my eyelashes and i
pluck at the dry ends of my hair
and i pick at my ripped nails and
i scratch like a broken record
until my skin is flushed with all
the blood in me—
the blood that should be going
to my heart but is instead
seeping from my femininity in
a way i had not known—
not known for thirteen years
and now know for six and how
strange that is—
it is as if this pain has been
with me for eternity but i
suppose that is what growing
up only to be disappointed
in yourself feels like.
:iconhedonophobe:hedonophobe 10 2
i don't go to the park for the birds.
So says that thing that perches
in the soul, with it's trilling tune
and sweet song; so says the
thing with feathers, who never
pauses nor quits, who can't
ever seem to stop it—so says
hope, so says, but I've always
liked the silence best.
Be still and steady and so very
pretty, be kind and calm and
so very sweet - when hope sings
all must halt and listen; all the
good smile and all the evil bloom
and all the people down fill
every room—yet I've never been
lifted and never wanted to lift,
never have I cried in unmistakable
bliss, just as I still do not wish
to be roused by a bird when all I
want is sleep nor to be interrupted
as I sit to read.
So says the empty gale and its
cousin, the storm; so says those
abashed and sore just as that
bird so says, that bird who kept
so many warm—but I've a liking
to the cold and its darling winter
breeze and so it is the bite of
ice that comes to me with ease.
:iconhedonophobe:hedonophobe 11 2
i woke up pissed off today.
I keep breathing in memories
and they make me heave
and I want this all to stop
but there's something in me
that can't help but just keep
inhaling it all into me -
I'm an unwilling addict and
my gaze feels heavy just as my
chest is full of thunder and
my mind is all the damp fog
rolling off of my soul - why am I
not as light as air yet?
It's like I'm stranded with
absolutely no where to go or,
better yet, with absolutely
no where that I was to begin with;
it's like drowning—it's like
becoming the water and it's
like seeing yourself through
the sea's eyes;
it's two hurricanes in a bottle
with the atmosphere somehow
keeping it all inside but that
atmosphere is actually my mouth
and I am still trying to breathe
and doing a poor job at it;
all of that water taps at the tip
of my teeth but my head
is being held back by strong
hands that are somehow my own
when my own are holding onto
my throat and those hands are gentle
as they brush my hair and none
of that water spills over.
I gasp
:iconhedonophobe:hedonophobe 23 2
it's hard to speak with no mouth.
I've always found talking to be a pointless,
tedious affair. I've always found words to
lack the depth in which I say them - 
that lying is so easy because anything
can be said no matter the feeling behind
them. I've always found myself
speechless in the face of my own
language's horrible way with itself.
English is a language from a broken
home that forces its neighbors to listen
to its terrible music at two in the morning.
It has scars and burns, most of which
are self-inflicted - English has this
lovely way of abusing itself that has
left it so shattered it can cut
the tongue, pull the teeth, teach
your vowels to flatten and constants to
be biting and hissed. It is harsh, with
no bounce, no lilt; English cannot dance.
No one wants to be its partner, anyway.
English will surely step on feet and lose the
beat entirely. I have resorted to words
my language has not yet stole. To what
word can hold my sibling disdainful love?
How can my protectiveness be manhandled into
a single wor
:iconhedonophobe:hedonophobe 15 0
i wanna be some kind of other poet.
I. lowercase & steady,
all symbol & one stanza,
full of themself because
they are also full of others -
others who willing pour
themselves into one person;
one person lowercase &
steady & who does not say
'and' when talking.
2. numbers within the
letters just like fangs hiding
in gums, just like the
heart of vampire, just like
finished journals with no
words, just like words with
no journals, just like a
lick of flame in downtown LA,
just like all the water drops
in the ocean, just like properly
used numbers in poems.
E. six words only, always
taunting me.
π. god, oh lord, 
what in name must i hord
for any of this sin,
any of the darkness in my skin,
to burst open and take me,
remake me - leave me aching?
what shall i do in this room,
this empty, silent, forbidden tomb,
filled with nothing but for the walls,
not caring when the lonely calls?
silence is my loudest friend
except for when she leaves me too.
VI. five is the best that
i, poet, can do and
:iconhedonophobe:hedonophobe 11 0
did your mom pick out those clothes?
I used to wear my heart on my
sleeve but I don't wear sleeves
anymore so now I have it tucked
underneath my bra strap because
all the pants I own have fake
pockets - and I don't like purses
so I can't carry my empathy with
me anymore (but if I'm honest,
I had always tucked it in a pocket
at the bottom of my bag anyway).
I used to wear flowers in my hair,
a blooming crown all the colors
that I had bleached from my skin,
and now all that's left are horns -
delicate and wilting but still bejeweled
in glittering thorns, red with the
blood of every bitten tongue—all the
words I've ever choked back now
dancing across my glasses and even
I can't see past them anymore.
Clothing and jewels dangle from
every corner of my room and there
are days where I wonder if I need
all of it - days filled with black leggings
and pink sweaters and white shorts
and red bras and matching thongs and
earrings I have no piercings for and
a thousand rings even though I
only wear one (I wear it on my middle
:iconhedonophobe:hedonophobe 17 2
bad habit? i don't think so.
Happiness is best in small doses and
when you are not expecting it - when
there is nothing but the night and its
sweet, forbidden tune—happiness, like
sadness, clings like a scar; that is
to say permanent, always there even
when you forget about it.
It is where the ocean and the breeze
and all the seven seas line up like the
stars would - could - do and we are all
left with wandering wonders that float
like shivers down the spine; left with
an aching throat and burning eyes
and the wish of sleep; left with haunting
memories filled with all the mistakes
that have left your lips.
I told a friend that I loved her and I
hugged a boy hello and goodbye and
that is happiness - I laughed, raw
and too loud, just as I wept, raw and
too loud, and that is happiness—
I try to fit all of that love in a gift but
I've never been the one to wrap
the presents Christmas eve.
There are days where all I want is
to scream, to hear my voice echo 
and know tha
:iconhedonophobe:hedonophobe 14 1
i hope i die at the end of a rainbow.
I am green only during winter
dawns—that is to say I am awake
then unlike a summer dawn -
that is to say my soul slept through
autumn - that is to say I hate the
cold but love shivering, love 
the creaking of my bones, love
the way I warm myself up, love how
my eyes catch the steam from
my mouth - that is to say it is the
only time of year where I remember
that my eyes, too, are green.
I am yellow in between the first
and second blink of the morning,
my body soft as I lay in a peeking
sliver of sunshine (I never close
my blinds but I do close my
curtains just as I put on my boots
but I do not lace them) and it
is my legs curled and hooked at
the ankles - such thin and
delicate bones, it is as if my lover
loved me still - that, too, are yellow.
I am orange in the afternoon,
nothing more than a sated
sun - a flickering candle wick -
the desert sands lit like a lantern -
red paint now faded from a
cabin wall - the fallen leaves of
early autumn; everything is so
warm except for
:iconhedonophobe:hedonophobe 12 1
I will be truthful with you:
my warmth in this seat and
my words in the air and all
my effort in the paper I have
finally handed in is all in my
head and not at all in this room—
I saw this hour as time (shush,
Felix, we know time isn't real;
shush, Felix, not now, not again)
easily wasted and I was correct
but I forgot other people existed
and damn what a good way
to be wrong.
Mornings are not my favorite
phases of the sun and eight is
not my favorite number (that 
is seven and that's another poem
I haven't written for any T-day)
but there is something about the
class that I do not have words
for and, out of everyone in this
old room, that is the most ironic
thing to happen all semester.
It might have something to do
with the way Katie strums her guitar
or, instead, the way she sings where
you can hear her smile - how the
girls in the back talk in mumbles or
how I never know what they say
or how they are always pretty walking
in - how Bailey says hi every morning
or ho
:iconhedonophobe:hedonophobe 6 2
this is me alone but not lonely.
I am a well, filled with clear
water with salt lined bricks, and
there is a swinging rope right
above me, trying to get me to 
pull it down and let it rise until
I am out—no, this rope is not
a noose, not a loop, just something
to tie a bucket to and bring
up more life to give to people
who need it.
I am the water in this well too -
that is to say that I am my
own tears but they are not sad
right now but they are not happy
either; I feel like crying for
no reason except, maybe, to
carve and erode away at the stone
that sits in my chest—just to the
side of my heart and not my heart
itself and yes, I know that's not
how this is suppose to go.
I am the red bricks of this well,
stained by the natural clay of the
earth and untouched by my dirty
blood - don't you know that 
could get the others sick? You visit
my town and try to drink from
this well and all around you try
and spy the dark edges that you
think are creeping in—there are no
shadows for you to see int
:iconhedonophobe:hedonophobe 10 1
the punchline is me, dead.
My room is cold and it's probably
because I sold my soul to my hair
dresser the time I had said "do
anything, please, make me feel
lesser than who I really am" - a
jester in a suit made of mockery
and pottery and poetry and all of it
has cracks straight through it and
I've never learned how to undo it
so I'm stuck with a broken mirror,
unable to see but still able to
pick out my flaws and, damn, ain't
that what they call reflective?
And now I have no eyes so I bet
the sky is more beautiful than ever—
it probably thinks it's so clever,
leaving me eager and starving for
all it's majesty but bowing is for men
and I spend my days carving out
my own organs with the dull scissors
in my room - you know, the ones I
only use to cut flowers in bloom; maybe
that is why they grew in my lungs,
'cause you know I love the colors but
now I just can't breathe like I've been
pressed and wrung through a machine.
How much longer will this ache take
and how much more will it be from me
- why are
:iconhedonophobe:hedonophobe 20 7
humans are aliens too.
Humans are animals in every way
but for how we see ourselves—
mothers still fight for their young,
fathers still protect and still abandon,
siblings fight for and against each other,
and we pick and chew and pluck and hit;
we bite and snarl and kick and scratch;
but we read and learn and smile -
did you know that smiling, that
baring the teeth, is a sign of aggression?
We spill blood for fun and we clothe
ourselves in ink and pierce the skin 
just to dangle shiny things from it - 
we sleep, hours wasted but love the
dreams too much to stop - we are
creatures of actions, of growls and
territory and protecting strangers -
we care with a heart more vast than
space and sometimes I believe
that aliens will see that they fly in
our arteries and they too will wonder:
"Why do they love so much, why
do they care for strangers, why do
they let themselves ache as they do?"
We are selfless creatures because we
know of yearning - of wanting something
so badly that it burns, that the
:iconhedonophobe:hedonophobe 14 4
I feel somehow like a ghost—
I don't think I've ever been this
quiet, the only noise following
my footsteps that of the absence
of it - it's not a quiet place though;
the aisles are filled with women
with big opinions and men who
I can tell don't really care and
boys who peak around the shelves,
questions and comments rising in
their throats and there is a discussion
in their grip and the way they bite
their lips but their fathers have
already whisked them away.
The young children are dragged, their
bodies filled with no consent but
when have adults cared for a child's
boundaries anyway, and their silent
eyes speak more than any wailing
warble - but the other patrons merely
walk on by, the other teenage girls
giggling away and even my attention
is snatched from those children but
I spare no thought—after all the
girls are absolutely eye-catching
but a part of me wishes to just
stare at them and soak in their giddiness
but that would be weird and I have
already wandered arou
:iconhedonophobe:hedonophobe 8 2
hello, jo, i love you.
There are days in which I am
surprised to be alive and others
in which I am surprised by the
want to be dead and more still in
which I am surprised to be living
past all of my death dreams and
the cloudy days where I became
more fog than body, more rain
than person, more vapor wave than
any solid form with thoughts about
wanting to die—it is amazing
to not have them anymore.
I had always created my own death,
my eyes empty and so far away
that I have seen the vastness of 
space and the goddess of it is tired
of us waking her; she had not
accepted my apologizes but you always
did and that was good enough—
while she often trapped me within
my own body, the light always returned
to my eyes because you are the
stars that goddess protected.
In so many ways you kept me
grounded when I tried to float too
high and in others you never let
me forget that heaven is a place
I could draw a map to if I just
reached past the sky far enough -
if I spread my fingers wider 
than th
:iconhedonophobe:hedonophobe 8 3
to every sunrise where the moon still shines.
A young and pretty white
woman sings to me from a
cracked radio and all her words
are a blurred, static mess.
I am in a car ten years old
and half of those years spent
with me in the backseat - how
odd that I am in the front, now.
And the windows are all down
and the air blows my hair up and
out, out the window as if escaping
from gravity the way I wish I could.
There is a single strand, brown
and all natural, that has arched
over my nose and has not let go—
it reminds me of a hug so I leave it alone.
My lips are dry and chapped and
so are my hands, my unpainted
fingertips dangling out of the window
and the pretty white woman sings.
She sings about a love I do not relate
to but I cannot help but feel the same
and I look out that window of that
old car and suddenly her words make sense.
The sun has set just enough for the
moon to be a sweet and perfect circle
and the sky is all pale majesty, all purple
bruise without the pain or the healing.
It is my generation pink on top of
:iconhedonophobe:hedonophobe 13 2
what love has done for me.
Oh, darling, you know that I
don't know much about love—
it's been so long since I've held
its hand, since I've cradled it
close to my chest, since I've
wrapped it in my arms and kissed
it goodnight.
This does not mean I have not
welcomed it into my home,
invited it in during the holidays
or the occasion where it borrows
all the sugar so that I can only
bake with salt - it has seen every
family portrait and knows
every story behind each one, which
I've always found strange because
we have never really talked but
love knows everything anyway so I
guess it's just polite to pretend that
they are as ignorant as I wish them to be.
When I say love I see fingerprints
left by years of soft touches, shared
clothing that warms the soul like a spell,
flaws breaking and entering to ravage
a clean home only to leave it smelling
like a lover who hasn't been home in a
few days; a soaking-up-breathing-in
basking glory tasting like sweet chocolate
and the sea—lovingly unique as
:iconhedonophobe:hedonophobe 14 2


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Poetess | She/They
English & Journalism Major

I believe in the alien and in aliens; in the ghostly and in ghosts; in the lovely and in lovers. I believe in music after midnight; in watching scary movies at noon; in keeping secret paper things; in unfolded clothing hanging from the pristine corners of perfectly kept books.

I have hope in the unknown answers and the unknown questions; in the science of particles and the faith of god; in the upbeat rhythm of a song about suicide. I have hope in chaotic nature; in floating pieces of paper with ink stained in my handwriting; in the way my friends laugh.

Asexual & Aromantic
Hobbyist in Adrenaline | The Religious Shrug of Indecision

Hello, there!

This is the official poetry account of Miistical. If you'd like to read any original or fan inspired fiction, please head over there!


Add a Comment:
nosedivve Featured By Owner Edited Jan 12, 2018   Writer
:highfive: English majors are the best.

PS. I'm an English major.
BlackBloodyRose56 Featured By Owner Aug 22, 2017  Hobbyist Photographer
Hi I'm Yukii,
I love your beautiful profile.
Your poetry is beautiful ! I hope you have an amazing day, thank you for your time. :heart:
(1 Reply)
hedonophobe Featured By Owner Dec 25, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
❣ Please comment under here | Have a lovely day 
(2 Replies)