By: Nabs

    When I was little, my mother often gave me flowers.

She would make me a crown of Primroses that smells like the day my father left us.
I would smile and dance a little twirl that had her smiling fondly. Her little princess, Said she couldn't live with out me.
I believed her.

Right before my mother decided to stop breathing, she gave me a bouquet of Lily of the valley.

I never knew that apology was poisonous.

    The day I turned fifteen, my grandmother gave me a book on flowers, It was written with green ink and bound in human skin. Said that It was family heirloom. Said that the universe needed someone who understand Hana. Said that I was born to understand only them and to remember that flowers are ephemeral.

I cradled the book, feeling as if the world was spinning. Opening it feels like coming home after a long time of drowning.

By the time I realized, a bush of Basil and beds of Petunias were growing in my home like ****. The color should have been red instead of purple.

      I met you when you were giving a bundle of daisy to a boy.
The boy scoffed and slapped the daisies to the ground. It's petal were falling apart just as blue and black blooms like an eager bud on you. Your body were taut as a string but your face was smiling, the kind of smile I couldn't decipher the meaning.

I picked the daisies up and asked if i could keep it.  You said only if I gave you my name.

You were wreathed with White Hyacinth and Pine leaves. It suits you.

    You told me one day, after you gave me a Bleeding Heart, that I needed to learn more than the languages that flower speak. That I needed to learn human.
I asked to you why do you say that?
You looked at me, with a little smile and a soft look on your face. Told me that I was too oblivious, I was more flower than human. I frowned and said," That hurts".
You laughter was much more sweeter than any Honeysuckle.

Though I still didnt understand your laughter nor the bleeding heart.

    The sight of our hands lacing together, looks much more delicate than Queen Anne laces. It made me aware of the dips of your lips, how warm your callouses hands were and the way you sometimes darts to sneak a glance at me with warmth in your eyes when you thought I wasn't looking.
I would feel my heart thumping loudly and I would disentangle our hands, trying to hide the tremors in my hands. You would pursed your lips and cracked a joke.

The next day I received a bouquet of Lilacs and red Peonies. It was too beautiful and I was already withering.

    You often asked If I was ok. I said I was. You would go rigid at that and started to pull down all the blinds to your soul. But that day when I answered I was ok, you gave me an Orange mock.
Said that I can trust you. You left with out meeting my eyes.

That night, I left a single Aster on your window sill. Hoping I did the right thing.

    The thing was, I was scared. Not of you, no never of you. That I swear on White Lilies and Myrtles that we bound ourself to.
It's just, every time I'm with you I want to bare my self naked. To let you see how the parasites are growing inside me, withering me as it did my mother. My grandmother would say that it is our legacy we cannot escape. To grow and bloom then wither ourself after the peak.

My Grandmother was a Sakura tree, My Mother an Ajisai, and I was a Tsubaki.

My mother was supposed to lived longer than me. But Hydrangeas needed their rain or they'll wither away.

    You told me once, that I remind you of Wisterias. Always enduring even after the cruelest storm. I grimaced and whacked you on the back. Said that you were an idiot for thinking that. You laughed again and tickled me until I asked for mercy.

I feel less Tsubaki and more human with you.

    I never let you go to my home because I could not bear the thoughts of you seeing the lawn strewn Marigolds, the grief that latched itself to the soil.
How the yards was filled with weeds and plants that was tangling them self to choke each other. How the walls was bare and the furniture was only enough to survive. The only thing that was lending colors to my home were the branches of Plum Blossom and bouquet of Lilacs and Peonies that seems to not wither away.

This home would not hold further.

    I gave you Blue Carnations the night when vines were choking my lungs, making it hard for me to breathe.

You said they were beautiful, and smiled a serene smile. I wanted to kiss you so bad, but I was leaking clear salty sap, that was rolling down my cheeks. I told you all about Hana and all about my family. How bare my home is and how you are my Iris, my good news, my good tidings.

You hugged me, not minding the sap that's staining your shirt. I didn't see the Red Camellia you were tucking in my hair.

  The day when I almost gave you Red Daisies and Lungwort was the day I found out that you had severe allergy to flowers.
That breathing their pollen would shorten your life as the breath you took became a privilege that you were slowly losing.
I asked, "why would you endanger yourself like that?".
"I love flowers, that's all", you said with an uncaring shrug.
The thoughts of you withering away, made me nauseous.

I went home throwing away the Daisies and Lungwort, Burning down the marigolds and Petunias.

The only thing was left were Hana and the bouquet of Lilacs and Red Peonies.

  I never get to told you that my roots was withering.

  When you found me lying on my home, covered with Primroses, Camellias, and Blood Red Poppies, I know that you knew. In your hand were Peach Blossoms and they were so very beautiful.
You cradled me close to your chest. Whispering that I will be okay, that It's unfair for me to do this to him.
"I know", I rasped. My voice was barely working and Black-Red sap was steadily tricking from the corner of my lips.

  When I saw my mother walking down to me, carrying a basket full of Sweet Peas, Volkamenia, and Yarrows, I understand what your smile meant the first we met.

It was Red Camellias, Love and acceptence

Wisterias' sweet flowers,
Know how to delight the nose.
Their flowers have a fragrance,
Sweeter than most any rose.

Wisteria are renowned,              
For beautiful purple blooms.
They're appealing to the eyes,
And a natural perfume.

When on trees they are blooming,
With beauty they robe the trees;
Emitting a sweet fragrance,
That will draw in many bees.

Nectar from its blooming vine,
Has sweetness that's mighty fine.

The moon dusts off the rust,
Begonias woebegone,
Withering wisterias forlorn.

And in the morning,
A flower of mourning.

A blossom, a *****,
Baby's breath
In a smug golden wreath

Left bright yellow carnations
Of shifting grey hues,

Hard-to-pinpoint
Variations;
There might have been some blues.

Waiting for the ransom of daybreak
For Oak boughs in care of Wisterias child ,
for warm ploughland breath seeking the chilled morning address ,
Sunbeams held in gray cover , windmere hillsides
in earthly redress
Lorn , incognito Cottonwoods hosting the Mourning Dove
rituals , Sapphire flowers mingle in wetted Thistle ,
Crescendo showers telltale an oxbow brook with
clear quartz reflections , bathing the Sawgrass banks
Crimson , Nutmeg , Sassafras scent surprise , Wild onion teasing
the Dawn palate , dark earth fragrance in colorful green disguise
Gravel road , broom sage borders beneath Hickory canopies ,
leading to home

Streams of memories flow down along Xin’an River
What I see are series of picturesque reflection of you
Both our happiness and sad days replay like a movie
And yet I seem can’t remember
Or did I just feign to forget?

A blind poet keeps writing of his love
Page after page filled with endearment
Like it was really him who spoke
Yet not a single thing was real

Even the sun bids goodbye and the moon rises
His aged hand won’t stop stroking
Overflowing with emotions he can’t contain
The words he wants to tell
Was it really from him?

Like the eclipse that stunned the world
My meeting with you also stunned me
Though the wisterias are in full bloom
Their beauty paled in your comparison


Reliving that enchanting moment
As if it really happened in the past
He writes about the girl
Whom he only saw inside his mind

Eyes shone like of that stars in the night sky
Her smiles so blinding like the sun itself
Right then I know I am doomed
I instantly fell*

Every scenes that he picture out came from his head
A giant story book that tells a fairy tale of a long time ago
That it almost make him believe it was true
But is it?

Drowned in the sweet delusion he made himself
The poet continued writing all day and night
Never once he stopped for if he did
Surely that girl would vanish

Under the weeping willow was our tryst
We hug and held hands like there was no tomorrow
Afraid that it will be the last time
So we seize every chance like catching fireflies

Soon the candle was about to burnt
But even so, he will keep on writing
And as the pen carved the last word
So did his last breathe

Upon closing his now tired eyes which can’t see
Flashbacks begin to show one by one
A picture of him and the girl
Both of them were happy and so in love

Standing right on his front was the girl
Who he thought was just a figment of his imagination
Extending her hands asking him to hold
But how could he see her when he was blind?

But Fate always make fun of humans
The more you love, the more she become cruel
And just like the rushing water of Xin’an
She took you away from me

A flower that has yet to bloom
Perished under the violent river
What was left is a written sonnet of love
And a young man who grieve and wail

Rain started to pour from his blind eyes
As the lost fragment has finally been found
The girl whom he write his poems for
Was the very same girl he did love in the past

Not accepting the death of his lover
He turned their memories into dreams and wrote it
All the words, all the scenes in the poem were his
It was all the blind poet’s story and promise

Along the autumn winds and zephyr
A lone man whispered through his prayers
Vows, promises and wishes to the Gods
And for the love he forever lost

*Even a thousand years will pass
Even we would live a thousand lives
Only you and you alone will my heart seek
So while waiting for the couple Xian He to reunite
And for the moon and sun to become one
I’ll keep on singing these thousand love songs
Until in my next life, I meet you again

She is prone to bouts of hysteria.
She smokes on her front porch, eyes fixed on the drawling, dipping sun,
kicking at clumps of her wisterias.
She is getting hysterical. She is waiting for a miracle.
It finally arrives. She signs for it, waves off the deliveryman who offers to help bring it inside.
“Never mind,” she mutters to herself, to her future self, lugs it in, box and all, across the threshold,
old cigarette tossed forgotten by the road.
She unpacks it, checks for cracks, dusts it off, brushes down the Styrofoam packs.
“Hmm,” she hums, thumbs brushing across her forearms. Her fingers drum against the table.
Finally, she sets it on her mantle. She tilts her head left and right –
Maybe it’s the light. Maybe it’s the angle.
It’s the furniture, she decides. It doesn’t match, it clashes terribly. There’s really nothing she can do about it, there isn’t anything to be done.
She picks it up once again, looks it over, sighing deeply. She never keeps her receipts, never really returns anything, but with this – she’ll admit that she’s sincerely disappointed.
And she’s disjointed, she wants a Camel. She is certain the enamel of her two front teeth has started chipping, and then suddenly her miracle is slipping, tipping down out of her hands,
and there’s no way she can stop it
dropping down onto her tile, cracking out in violent pinwheels
smashing cleanly into a pile of useless shards on hard ceramic
and she can feel the teardrops starting; she doesn’t think that she can stand it –
because her miracle was precious;
because she thinks she would have kept it.

All summer long
Magnolias, Cherry Blossoms
Sweet Pears and Wisterias
Gracefully dip their delicate limbs down
Shaking off soft flower petals
Happily sharing fruit with those passing by
Who gape up in awe of such generous gifts
Smooth and sweet
Their essence a beauty to behold

My place among them is peculiar
Few seedlings around here warp into my kind
A tall, looming Oak twisting skyward
Deep roots tangled so far into the earth
Hundreds of rings wrapped around my spine
So when the late August storms and brutal winters roll through
I cannot bow, my branches barely bend
By now they've known worse and are ready

As we shake off a recent rain
One Willow whispers to another
I swear it's like she never moves.
Some Laurel chimes in
Yeah I know, but good God
I'd rather break in half at the next breeze
Than end up like her right?

Feigning indifference
I begin to take stock of my leaves
Musing at the first few auburn brush strokes
Autumn has just left in my hair

The next morning, I wake to an unexpected quiet
Since when do the robins sleep in?...
My vision refocuses, and there he is
Beautiful, confident, intently gliding along the overgrown length of trail
Guiding him until he’s just a few feet in front of me

You must be joking, I think to myself
I see the axe resting on his shoulder
Perfectly content to barely balance forever  
Between his palm and the base of his neck

Only an idiot would...
He just keeps staring up at me
Why would he even want to…
But just then, hearing my thoughts
He drops the axe, soft earth willingly parts to receive its sharpened blade,
Presses a callused hand to my gnarled, scarred bark and
Leaning in closer so I can feel the heat of his breath on my chilled skin
He whispers, Because you are beautiful

And with that, I am suddenly rooted in sand,
The world slips away from beneath me
While the rest of the forest silently bears witness
To my great fall

She is an
envious spirit
her eyes
flash green
sharp in the
soft candlelight

she wants to
burn the books
she wants to
burn the books
she is jealous
of the work
they make
the opalescent work
that shimmers
in different shades
and causes her to
cry

to think
as if
she was
not the
one.

Her envy
is borne

her envy
is born
of her
own hatred
for her
own self

it burns
it sparks
it explodes
like fireworks
in the night
the ache in the stomach
the buzzing in the ears
the numbness that overtakes
the tingles that run down veins
the tightness of the chest
the cheeks that seem wet

and burn

the throat burns

and is it?


Tears

tear her limb from limb
burn her before she can
burn those blessed books
before she

catches flint
and stone
feels the
chill of the
burning rocks
crashes one
and two
together like
orbiting moons

that spark
that falls
from within
her undulating
chest

her panting breaths
that hiccup
and stumble
and beg for
forgiveness
in the meadow
filled of beautiful
wisterias
lavender splintering
so esoteric
wisdom bred
and
arched for the
dolloped breath
of that
sunlight


which is to mean
her soul
battling
in the
garden of Eden
her soul
fighting those
calm
secure
others who

have their
heads on
right.

She is envy
is personified
feeling
of self hate
moulded to
mistrust
moulded to

action

burn the books.

Mercy my mercurial madman,
thou t'will tame the timid treachery,
or one often offends others,
when we wilt wooden wisterias,
and assault an aviary's attachments,
don't dare die,
for friends from forever,
will,
never,
forget.

putting the tracks i liked
out there, on my stories
hoping, wondering,
maybe they'd see me for how i dream
and not for how i've been coping

except a step further
a path up ahead
i realized, they didn't really care for all that i had
prized possessions of mine, these lyrics so simple
they don't deserve bits of me, if the surface excites them sole
if they don't like it whole, not worth the lengths i go

a girl's room is her own museum
or so they said
mine's a beautiful chaos
trust me, a letter to self

and so i stopped
a step further even
ahead i moved
watched, smiled, told them they had all i could
share without breaking, without giving them the key
that could threaten my volatility—my being
and i hoped they'd accept

except fools require everything whole
even if they can't accept it, they need it only
for the pleasure it brings, the joy of knowing
not to like, to love—but to show—
the world always required proving

i have my own cocoon
won't term myself ready to bloom
or a butterfly for that case
but i hide, intending to forget the world
my room, the paradoxical mapping
the stars chart their own course during the nights
up on my ceiling as i turn the lamp and let it burn bright
it's simple, heady space
there's posters and pictures on one wall
the other holds a heart collage of all sorts
lomographic detailing, i've always found myself dreaming
one picture, and i tend to stare deep
whenever this head gets too loud, i sit and stare at all of the meanings

there's a magnitude that hides
read every picture, uncover—but it comes with a price
safe spaces, meant to be kept hidden
posters—the movies that stayed, the artists looking back at me
quotes, written in an unhinged manner
my favourite, i'm yet to choose
but it all kind of gives away what i can't hammer
across my skull and at myself every time i go out
i wish to carry it all, to show them what i'm all about

don't try to rewrite my scars
just don't add any new ones to the already existing
and you could wrap a bandage
i'll keep all the rough edges sealed
and edited for flow

there's carts—more like shelves weakened with a multitude of books
i counted them, turned out to be a lucky 151
now i wonder which i ought to read
to throw caution to the wind and forget all my seams

there's stands, holding tiny little things
a layer of all my bracelets, of all that i intend to wear
one with the skincare, and other little prizes i just keep
there's pens, a vast multitude—I could never have enough
in all colors, i think half of them already dried up
a couple things for journaling stay at the very back, at the very bottom
right above, it holds all the things i could use to paint—to bring my dreams to mortal realm
except the skills lack, i tend to procrastinate
so they stay, gathering dust—unless i air it out—once a day
every day

the last compartment holds a stack of pencils, a glass quill—intended for magic
couple washi tapes—perhaps i'll wrap them around my wrists
and a few paper cutters, having gathered rust from being washed—every time i stuttered

a red ribbon, and a golden one, tied around both my shelves—reminding of who brought them to
vines hang in one corner, right beside the balcony
i'm yet to minecraft the windows, perhaps i'll let them be
there's pages stuck to the walls, and a multitude of sketches
nothing all too special—but there's this one of an eye that speaks
couple stars, the phases of the moons—waning and waxing,
full one too!
a paper leaf string—maple leaf except i made little hearts
hangs over the bathroom door—completely out of place, held in a purple thread
the pages wall is of a comfy book—before the coffee gets cold
the curtains are a shade of violet and silver in the middle, indication of what couldn't have been told
silver almost looks like a grey, a bit shiny, a bit neutral
but then there's another book stand and it holds a few candles
hardcovers at the bottom, they hold too much weight
the paperbacks balance the top however
and wrapping its corners is a string light—a heavy mistake
it goes over my wardrobe
multitude of tiny bulbs if i were to turn it on
phases of the moon again, cut out
and beneath—like scribbles on a notebook—stuck album covers in tiny, varying shades

a sign that says smile—i can't say i do
but it stares back at me, every time i sit on my bed—so i try to
a blue ribbon bow—gifted, i remember just who
stuck to the handle bar, i grip it every time i pull the door through

my desk is a messy messy affair
to put a name to things would be like listing down what i couldn't bear
but here it goes—
my laptop, the one i barely use—it's new
yet to find my way through, i rely on the old one
tho it's been barely working
comfort i guess—is one step away from despair

fake purple tulips, standing in a lilac bottle that i'd painted
a pastel of the same shade except it's an hourglass
30 minutes, i'm yet to check if it lives up to its truth
three scrapbooks, incomplete, the kits emptied halfway through
a candle, a chalkboard, tiny—a slate of all sorts
with one side a black, the other a white
i tend to use it black over white

a clock, stuck on the wrong time, currently giving 11:11
some wisterias kept in a green plastic vase
and a succulent that's as real as it gets
i water it every now and then, the bubbles breathing a sign of life in the room
there's a bunny enchanted almost in a glass sphere—a lamp i don't turn on
a shell, one you'd find at the edge of a sea—except it's a gift too
sets of little trinkets i opened in kinder joy
pen stands holding my sketch pencils that i rarely use
my keyboard is a heavy affair
doesn't really fit in the room with its peachy aesthetic
it seeks repair

a bowl, huge ceramic one i'm yet to find the perfect place for
it carries several stones, i think i'd use them someday to break a skull or two
kidding—
the wall above—black and white, epiphanies printed on pictures
"human being"
"anxious person"
"creative block", "parental advisories"
"life of an artist", a quote between viktor & jayce  and big moon

a wall hanging on the wall, carries a humidifier i don't use
the three figurines of harry, hermione and ron from the wizarding world
the second ron hides just behind the three
a kuromi sits atop a small tin, holding bracelets that specifically need no calling

there's a couple fake plants, sure
books everywhere—on my bed
a set of few that i personally cherish
a dictionary of dreams, a history of time, grimms' tales and a comfort book to carry
it all together

my current read, a lighter for some reason, a diary i write poetry in
and a notebook to remind me why i do it all
add to it- a pen in white, one in blue
a highlighter just to mark the lines i already knew

oh the plushies!
a penguin, a bunny, a koala, a seal
an octo changing moods, a slytherin pillow, and a kuromi
a strawberry hiding a bunny again, and teddy—ages old from when i was a child
three pillows, and two comforters, i think i might get a weighted blanket
the grip feels familiar

there's a tapestry, right above my bed—i tend to forget its existence
since i'm always facing away
the sun and the moon, staring at each other
and a couple random trinkets that define me
don't ask of my drawers, or in between my books
my cupboard, or my wardrobe
i'll mention downturned black butterflies, a cloud with a storm symbol
a party mask, and a phone charm hanging off a circle
a small stool holding japanese authors' best works
a snowflake candle and a few marbles

it's all my own
sacred, hidden
drapery of the lights—different moods, different nights
why i wonder i hide, or spend so much of my time
but it's a galaxy here within
like in my eyes and in my being—whole

my brain resets, works to a rhythm—on nice days
i tend to keep the balcony open and wind flows
everything whispers and takes a breath of relief
the rain pours outside, as i sit and speak
little secrets to my walls
lying on my bed or sitting at my desk
wondering, circling—the reasons to live

the grandest—my baby bunny
wondering, sleeping, napping away or speaking
she stays with me
her own space, her own world a part of my own
we've got an ecosystem in here
the most prized possession

and every time i step
i carry this armor
laced with all the time i spent in this room
gathering strength, putting a piece anew
even if you're not it—
would you like to come see my room?

why'd i let the outsides visit and steal it solely
to murmur of how it all seems obnoxious
it's bits of me, pasted, put together
clumsy, messy, chaotic
i'm quite a few issues when you hear
so close your eyes, listen to my speaker
as i play the playlists i've kept hidden
tonight's the turn for prologue by cloud koh
and if you haven't even tried to read mine
how can i let you read the story directly just for show?