'02. writer. pure sapphic rot. my page is for anyone who has ever looked at a girl and thought, god, i hope this ruins me.
ysarra cei. ‘02. writer (well, sometimes).
cancer sun, capricorn rising, aries moon; do with that what you will. judge me through the stars, or judge me through the stories i write — either way, you’re right and i’m already crying about it.there’s emotional damage, but it was intentional for the plot. a tender girl with a to-do list. a feral idiot in a silk slip, sprinting toward the void and wondering where my charger is.the forecast is: i may be unhinged in a way that makes sense.
for girls who love fiercely, lose deeply, and sometimes bleed for it. girls who have secrets whispered beneath dim streetlights, in moments that bloom and wither in the same breath.no neatly wrapped endings, only the ache of a kiss that might be the last.
peach is the soft, glowing part; warm fingers brushing skin, first kisses, sunlit windows, girls in love with the idea of safety. sweetness with teeth just barely hidden.
rot is what comes after; late-night aching, echoing footsteps, girls who disappear, girls who bite back, tenderness gone rancid, lipstick smeared like blood. she is always looking at you.
