you make me feel like a child — a fresh, full, rosy nectarine tossed into the sun only to fall into a knife, driven in deep, driven in slowly, i wish i was the one holding it — fight for control, i always say, no one can hurt me more than me, such a sad thing to say as a child behind the closed doors, the light flickers, unfixed, the dishes fly and crash into a hundred angry shards — my skin always catches its anger like a clueless paper target waiting for its demise — it tears through the sanity, the slow-moving daydreams spinning smaller and away, it leaves a picture behind: you make me feel like a helpless child, so young stuffing my cheap notebooks in a yellow hand-me-down bag from a local politician — my mother bangs against the door as if it was the life stolen from her. you make me feel like a child hiding in my room as my father’s voice rains down like a bomb dropped above my roof: an anomaly, a wannabe, a mistake, god fucking forbid i wanted something more than this misery. god fucking forbid i nail my ribs down to my heart, it bursts and stops.

you make me feel like a child, so powerless and choiceless and there are floors to polish and secrets to keep and a mess to clean, my filthy cheeks with filthy tears, i just got the nerve to cry, don’t i? well you make me feel like a fucking child, barely thirteen when i tried to kill myself ten years ago, “go on, do it.” well fuck, i wish i did and now, you make me feel like a child of war forced to live just for the fun of it, for you to slice with words and crawl and cry like a prey under our bed, i have nowhere else to hide, i hope angels are kinder and gentler i hope flowers grow on my body when i die — my grandmother’s jungle flames, so red it drips out of my skin, so red it matches your anger, loud and big enough to make me feel like i’m a child, fighting for her stupid life, i throw in cheap punches, yes i fight for my stupid life but i might just decide to die, this time.

for a change. you should see the look on your face.

— fray narte, "child of war"

to bruise my cheek, emad fouad/kissing the devil, @iamdanielsaint /your lips a liturgy, misec06/american gods, neil gaiman/sacrilege, @persephoneshellhounds

for @spnprideweek day 5: magic

@spilledinkoverpaper @persephoneshellhounds @barefootpoets @limhseng @dreamilyoptimisticstudent2431 @medicinetrak @shyboy420 @shophazina @inkedmomentums-blog @coolcharminguy-blog @stonerjelly @runningadifferentdream @audesomniare @thehourlyterrier-posts-blog @sz089 @missionreportdecember16 @literarian24 @taurarim @bsommeradventures @vodka-flavored-thin-mints-blog @melanieh1 @kimidoll86 @thetwinofakind 

Ray-Ban Sunglasses

Eve's apples rot in the kitchen, black peel sinks further into the flesh, tainting, leaving marks of her sin until it turns into fists — rotten to the core. A young girl slowly grows up to be like her mother, peeling apples in the kitchen but they have a bad habit of turning black and rotting in the refrigerator, untouched, uneaten. a young girl slowly grows up to be like a wife — rotten to the core, tied to her core nightmare's theme.

When I started writing this poem, I thought I was writing about love but Eve's lover takes a bite of rotten apples in the kitchen and it isn't love — a heart is just the shape of a little girl's fist in captivity, just a rotten apple that I finger and toss and squeeze inside my angry fists until it bursts into a swarm of flies plaguing the air my lover breathes, like Eve's first sin — the downfall of man, an apple, now rotten,  now small enough next to my fists, small enough for my precisely-cut corruption — the anger in my chest caves in on itself to tailor-fit, snuggles like a baby bear, it almost looks as soft as my grazing fingers but i know better than to trust my hands, my age, my plastic mirror saying "You are her, you are her, you are her." I am my mother's ultraviolence daydream — I leave teeth marks on your neck, like Eve licking the poison on Lilith’s neck, taking a bite at her demise, microdosing a prayer addressed to the wrong god. I am my mother’s cackling shadow —  motherhood's anti-thesis — a rotten apple for fuck's sake — rotten to its infested core it's tempting to slice and lick and eat it all up — my madness, my rage, my femininity and its ironic tendency to destroy like a man don't you think? (I am beyond god’s forgiveness)

— Fray Narte, "Eve Outside of Eden" | Written November 29, 1:54 am, Revised December 27, 2023, 12:44 PM

Photo screencapped from: Ovoce Stromů Rajských Jíme (1970) // Dir. Věra Chytilová

"You’ll cry yourself to death. Tell me: Why are you so devoted to your pain?"

— Sophocles, "Elektra”, written c. 410 BCE // trans.  Peter Meineck and Paul Woodruff

Art by: Frederic Leighton, Electra at the Tomb of Agamemnon (1869), Ferens Art Gallery, Hull Museum Collections

I no longer recognize the ghosts of the poems I've written in my girlhood but my melancholia has always been a constant — so neurotic, it's almost romantic — from the pile of poems I lost more than ten years ago to my book, Persephone, Descending. 🤎✨

You may buy a copy directly from 8Letters Bookstore & Publishing website or from their Shopee page.

P.S.: God, I miss writing.

don't trust the poets 🍏🪰

photo screencapped from: valerie & her week of wonders (1970) // dir. jaromil jires

I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. How free it is, you have no idea how free — The peacefulness is so big it dazes you

— Sylvia Plath, Tulips

Photos screencapped from: Stealing Beauty (1996) // Dir. Bernardo Bertolucci

"I inherited the sting of my mother's wounds — her madness and propensity for hurting. But not quite her bravery nor her capacity to carry such wounding weights."

Femininity meets madness in my second book, Persephone, Descending.  🤎✨Buy a copy for your girl dinner 💋 ₱380

🔗 bit.ly/PersephoneDescending_8letterssite 🔗 bit.ly/PersephoneDescending_Shopee 🔗 https://bit.ly/PersephoneDescending_Ebook

the feminine urge to always be the first one to say goodbye yet always the last one to leave. — fray

photo screencapped from: foe (2023) // dir. garth davis

A nod to classic, feminine death, my second book, Persephone Descending, tackles women's disillusionment with beauty, society, and themselves. It embraces the grotesque, the horror, and the unhinged, female gaze. When the curtains are down and the lights are out, you will find intimacy with all things ugly and unsettling — with all the tragically, dead women written by dead, male authors.

Contrary to the loud, obnoxious aching in my first poetry book, I now give you my quiet terrors, my subdued, poetic afterthoughts, and my distasteful identities — projected into multiple women living out their sensualized and sedated tragedy, in each and every page.

Buy my poetry book from 8letters’ website and Shopee account for only ₱380.

Always, Fray <3

Note: Available in the Philippines only.

L'appel du Vide: A Glimpse of Fray Narte’s This Way to the Black Holes

Self-destructive, irrational, and indignant, Fray Narte’s This Way to the Black Holes encourages the reader to hurt visibly, to mourn loudly, and to pry open a chest full of black holes in broad daylight for everyone to see. This collection of confessional prose and poetry tempts and boldly takes a reader down the depths of a massive, inner black hole swirling with raw emotions and seemingly endless mental states — anguish, abandonment, self-hatred, emptiness, defeat. Each poem is someone’s eulogy for everything long gone, maybe even for themselves.

Each of us had to let go of something to the ghostly hums of a black hole in our chest. A childhood memory, perhaps. A dream, a brief glimmer of light. It is believed that once something is lost to its gravitational pull, nothing can escape. Nothing comes back the same, and nothing comes back at all, and one can only take a longing peek at something unseen and irretrievable. 

But how can something vanish when it is inside us? How can we carry the weight of everything we lost? The anthology is an invitation to fall into a void inside us and intentionally look at all the repressed thoughts and feelings that lie ahead.

The revamped book cover features a girl falling into a black hole. Inside, the poems are intentionally characterized by helpless irony;  intense yet subtle and are accompanied by minimalist, feminine, and dainty line illustrations. Written for escapists, pessimists, and neurotics, the poetry book is an acquired taste that will surely keep the reader lost and looking for something within themselves, until they find the way out — of  black hole humming in their very own chest. Support Fray Narte by buying a copy of her first poetry book here.

"Such uncontrollable grief will be your ruin."

— Sophocles, "Elektra”, written c. 410 BCE

Art by: William Blake Richmond, Electra at the Tomb of Agamemnon (1874), Art Gallery of Ontario, Canada.

From Inside the Chrysalis: A Review of Metamorphosis by Iluvia Triste

Like casually strolling inside the belly of a beast, there is something unsettling yet so natural about reading Iluvia Triste's (Admer Balingan) poetry in his first book, Metamorphosis published under Ukiyoto Publishing.

The collection starts with ‘The Birth’. Here, the poet is not afraid to use haunting metaphors that a normal person would turn away from in repulsion. The persona tours the reader in places in childhood where he got his wounds, as though a crime scene revisited by a survivor. The pieces are suffocating, yet empowering and enlightening – simply raw emotions in their textual form.

The readers will find themselves looking through a thick, giant, and sticky bubble, and the view resembles a subjective purgatory of an aborted child – if only distorted by the iridescence. 

‘The Shedding’ follows. It tackles erosion and loss, both of physical form and sanity. Sweet Elvie hits too close to home, in particular, but the pages move on in a trancelike state. The persona possesses purity and naivety – ironically not that of a young child but that of Frankenstein’s monster. Each poem in this section beckons the readers to mourn.

“…the stars become feces… the people; become black teeth…” ‘The Growing’ is unhinged, fearless, and bold in its use of seemingly mundane words we encounter every day. Reading this feels like watching a tragic film creep and unfold in the streets and houses in an unheard-of province. A slice of life, if you will, but visceral and cut quite literally from the chest. The persona has the power to leave you feeling like a helpless prey to his demons. These are the words sprouting out of a body too disillusioned with itself to make sense of anything timid and inanimate enough to surround it. You can only read on as the persona seems to go down a spiral of self-hatred and madness, leaving behind an estranged body, much like Poe. My personal favorites are ‘november’ and ‘sundays devoid of flowers’ – poems written in styles much like mine, but madder and darker.

‘The Transformation’ is a refreshing break: it is not made of unadulterated healing, but mere glimpses of it. A tendency, I would say, for both relapse and self-acceptance. It talks about the kind of softness one finds against both flowers and tender wounds. It is about learning to live in your body after waging year-long wars against yourself. What makes this part stand out is perhaps the intentionality and consciousness in it – to tentatively step out of an outgrown shell while carrying within you the possibilities of stepping back in. What matters, though, is the intention. It is a great, hopeful way to end, and I am sure ‘jesus wears a skirt’ will stay with me years after I finished the book.

True to its description, this poetry book is indeed unconventional, raw, and unique. I truly hope that more readers who find themselves in crossroads, transitions, or personal metamorphosis, come across this book. Let your breaths be taken away as you flip through the pages of Metamorphosis, and you will find each one changed, restored, and made more authentic to who you are.

"Persephone, Descending" is a haunting collection of prose and poetry that deconstructs the myth of Persephone and her descent to the underworld. This book explores the deterioration of sanity, trusting the l’appel du vide, and walking willingly into an internal chaos.

The poems are not just retellings of the myth; they are personal re-interpretations of Persephone’s story, from her abduction to her re-claiming her power. Fray Narte’s second poetry collection isn’t just for the readers who grew up reading Greek mythology, but for anyone who’s interested in exploring themes that revolve around loss, grief, existential crisis, and identity.

While it may be niched, the poetry in the book is confessional — a gesture of authenticity and self-acceptance of your worst, incomprehensible form. This makes the book perfect for readers who dare to look at and live their unfiltered truths.

The cover of the book is a picture taken by the author’s dear friend; both an imagery of Persephone succumbing to a sweet, hazy, solitary surrender, and a nod to Ophelia’s descent to madness and eventual drowning, said to be a symbolically feminine death. This sets the perfect tone for the collection. Persephone, Descending would be a great gift to anyone who seeks to look inward and appreciates poetry, mythology, and subjective spirituality.

Overall, the anthology is thought-provoking, emotive, and truly unique. It’s one of the must read Filipino poetry books. Support Fray Narte by buying a copy from the website of 8Letters Bookstore and Publishing or from their Shopee page.

PERSEPHONE, DESCENDING

"in bed, with my sorrows growing, sprawling out in every direction, all for the world to see. how can i go and fade quietly when my hurting is a loud, lurid spectacle under flashy, purple lights?"

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•°•❀•°•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

I have had a terrible habit of making my hurting loud enough to feel real and corporeal. It has taken me a while to be still without shaking — to settle down in a quiet corner of my room and realize that my sorrows are just as real and just as wrenching in their motionless hum.

It has taken me a while to acclimate inside 'the veil'. I have stopped fumbling for hidden locks in the stonewalls. I have stopped sticking fingers down my throat in an effort to throw up rotting pomegranate seeds. Out they grow to the earth, tall and sturdy while breaking through the soil. I have my mouth open, my eyes closed, my feet calm and grounded. To run from the beasts is futile. To outrun myself, even more so.

In this book, Persephone isn't taken away by a much older god. She isn't a shivering maiden calling for help from an ice-cold, soundproofed room. She has descended — reclaimed her agency — perched on a silver throne with tamed hellhounds at her feet. The god of death: a faceless consort, a pareidolia appearing, disappearing in sun-forsaken, slate gray walls.

Everything is quiet.

All this is hers.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

My book is available in 8Letters' website and Shopee account for Php 380.00. Persephone lies serenely within its pages. Come visit her. ♡

PS: I can't receive tips in Tumblr but they are always appreciated in case you enjoy my writing! You can send them to my paypal here