The garden of stars and rosaries

The garden of stars and rosaries ophelia’s poetry diary. nothing much.

to be around people is to gasp for oxygen. my nervous system has been a wreck for years now. i cannot remember the last ...
24/01/2026

to be around people is to gasp for oxygen. my nervous system has been a wreck for years now. i cannot remember the last time i was not grieving. grief is such a constant of my life—for a childhood i never got to live, for the teenage i wasted trying to leave a certain place. all my life i have been doing nothing but mastering the art of escapism. my body is standing but my mind is scripting scenes of how i will finally leave.

the final destination for you and i, “every soul has to test death” and “this world is nothing but a delusion”. so all this grief, all these echoes of sadness in the hallways of my fortress, an illusion? by fortress i mean, an abandoned house with broken glass windows and dead potted plants, pearls of string hanging halfway through the terrace, a pothos thrived circling around the railings of the staircase. like my wishes choking around my throat, my pectoral girdle weakened due to my continuous writing. broken windows and doors allow the rain water to enter, a metaphor on the irony of existence. years passed and i still haven't learnt to carry this sensitive heart of mine. i hope this january in all of the twenty two januarys i have breathed become my souvenir and i master the art of letting go. all these emotions have to be buried just like my body when my soul departs.



—𝗢𝗽𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗶𝗮, 𝘓𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘌𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘪𝘦𝘴. 🥀

where do i place all the untold words?in a world where words speaks volumesthe silence of my heart stands still ina corn...
06/05/2025

where do i place all the untold words?

in a world where words speaks volumes
the silence of my heart stands still in
a corner pondering why Van Gogh could
never find words though his vocabulary

is a home of lovely literature.
i hide my dictionary in the attic
and try to seek words to fit into
my vocabulary on the every day
faces i come across,

a r t and s t o r i e s are what they
were baptized as by the people
who themselves present their stories
under a veil and gift them to the world.

art consumes me like a drug and
stories like wine—
i scribble on my palm with a red-
colored ink pen to match with the
color beneath my skin

(i love things that matches)

and papers made

of trees were never enough to sustain
the endless scribblings of my heart,
yet i don't choose words to scribble
my storyline to gift it to others.

if Patroclus were to be alive, would
Achilles choose words to express himself?
what would have been the story in the
ancient greek literature depicting their lives?

if Patroclus had been born again,
is it possible that he could have remembered
the timeline of Trojan war?
(i struggle to remember names of people)

i read poetry.
poetry— a weird arrangement of words
irrespective of the alphabetical order
regarding cosmos, love, hands, grief, art
poems, which resides on the tip of our tongues
— and words find the easier path to

slid right into the gut, while waving
at the heart in the midway
is this weird arrangement also a poetry?
can you trace out the first line of my story?

or should i bring back my dictionary to
find words which matches the tip of your
tongue?



—𝗢𝗽𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗶𝗮, 𝘖𝘧 𝘓𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘚𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦. 🥀

i will always love. like a bird loves her nest only for a short span of time before bringing it to shambles on her own. ...
27/04/2025

i will always love. like a bird loves her nest only for a short span of time before bringing it to shambles on her own. like a poet loves every piece of literature except her work. like a random utensil loves to slip off from a kitchen cabinet at 3 am. like a mosquito loves human skin even after getting hushed a dozen time. like a pinhole loves light even on a bright summer afternoon. like a child loves his favorite blanket even if its edges are torn, its fabric damaged over years. like love is the only thing my heart was made for. like love is the only thing my heart will break for. and in betweens of this love, there is grief.



—𝗢𝗽𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗶𝗮, 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘓𝘢𝘬𝘦'𝘴 𝘓𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵. 🥀

i can feel the worms at the base of my skull. growing closer. i dig them out with tweezers, throwing them into a shallow...
24/04/2025

i can feel the worms at the base of my skull. growing closer. i dig them out with tweezers, throwing them into a shallow metal bowl.

i dig, they duplicate.

flies burst through my stomach lining. my brain turns to paste. my innards begin to fester, my co**se liquifies. i suppose these are the consequences of leaving. do you understand? to leave is to be spat out undigested, a bone picked clean of meat but spared the marrow. i know this haunting didn't seep out from the walls, it's almost clinical. pristine but uninhabitable. this mould, i once called it home.

this home is yours now, do you understand?

she always used to tell me, “truth has only one face: that of a violent contradiction.” and i never believed her until she became dust. under my feet. how many mothers must be lost to tight nooses, bloodied bathtubs, and overdoses before someone explains to her children that they are next. it's too late for me now, i hope you understand that. please. bite down on that pain, until it rots.

you are trying to make sense of it all, i understand. believe me, i understand this sense of living. dying. here, hold my hand, stripped of all muscle, there's vultures circling, up above. there was a gas leak, there was a rope, there was a razor, there was a knife, there was a body. the coyotes, picking away at my decay, the coyotes, our mothers, the scent of death. do you understand?

you're next.



—𝗢𝗽𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗶𝗮, 𝘖𝘧 𝘓𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘚𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦. 🥀

︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎︎ ︎ ︎︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎︎ ︎is everything okay? not everything can always be ...
23/04/2025

︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎︎ ︎ ︎︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎︎ ︎is everything okay?

not everything can always be
okay; just not how life is.

hmm, true.


things are always aesthetic before they're brutally destroyed. only the good can go bad, only the graph that climbs can fall, only what's beautiful can turn ugly, only when you're happy can things hit you really low. and when the journey is calm and comforting, these words, these combinations of phrases, they seem like nothing more than a noble breeze. but they're simply the hard pills of truth to swallow. the sudden storm isn't bad, it in fact leads our eyes to the other side of all i stated; only a beautiful life can turn ugly.

i'm headed towards a tectonic shift. and while till yesterday was stupid enough to believe things would only be good, life doesn't owe me anything to rain flowers and paint rainbows. yes, what life does owe me is to be fair. that my wrongs are lessons and rights are reinforcement. something more that it taught me yesterday is a lesson i'd stick to for the rest of my life— sacrifices hurt. if it doesn't hurt, it's not really a sacrifice. when they do hurt, all we can do is recognize the sacrifice went towards something larger in life, because this is the fall of the graph that predicts a rise. i am that graph, my life is a line, and i see it fall low and tear me apart, force me to scream in silence and let tears search their way down my face. honestly, i'm broken at the loss, shocked at the viciousness, and yes it's hard not to let my eyes turn moist.

but there's more to this story. a wounded woman is the most dangerous beast on the planet. the harder i fall, the quicker will i roar to stand back up. the darker depths of hell you throw me into, the stronger wings will i grow to rule the heaven. perhaps that's why the profound minds of the past have consistently warned laymen against challenging the artist, because artists are never defeated. they set fire to their pain and turn it into a masterpiece. they're the sort of humans who bleed art from the wounds. they're the sort of women you wouldn't want to cross. and if you already have, God save you.



—𝗢𝗽𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗶𝗮, 𝘖𝘧 𝘓𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘚𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦. 🥀

i wonder what color your grave is?my grave isn’t black, it isn’t the color i covered my skin in, to hide my sins above.i...
21/04/2025

i wonder what color your grave is?

my grave isn’t black,
it isn’t the color i covered my skin in,
to hide my sins above.
it is dark.
from all the grief that somehow made it to my bones,
and built a home, when i was busy building one with you.

i wonder who of you would visit?

my grave doesn’t have visitors,
not even the mites and moths.
so it is just me,
who loathes the skin to my bones,
the cadaver to my soul.

i wonder how many lies are forgivable?

my grave isn’t silent,
sound of my every lie bounces in hopes of escaping.
betraying me, reaching every ear that deserves the truth that i hid under my tongue for years.

i wonder did i always smell of suffocation?

my grave doesn’t smell of my favorite flowers
or the tears of my lovers,
pages of my diary or smooth touches of my mother.
it smells of all the blood i let drip on sinister nights,
suffocating everything, to just breathe a life.

i wonder does the four walls to your room feel that of a grave?

my grave isn’t of four walls,
it’s in shape of those lovers who died with every verse i wrote, mourning the love that never existed.
the infinite walls to it, come in close every dawn,
reeking of my mistakes only to leave me wanting,
at my climax of forgiving myself.

i wonder is the world too shallow to dig a deeper grave?

my grave isn’t as deep as yours,
all i do every night is turn sides and dig my own grave a little deeper to rest my extra curves of lonesome.

i wonder where is the grave of everything that isn’t living?

my grave isn’t where every other dead sleeps in peace,
my grave rests in the crevices of your fingernails.
my co**se breathes every time you scratch
the uneasiness over the folds i once caressed.

i wonder how many graves are being dug right in this moment?

my grave isn’t ready yet,
for i know i would survive this night
where i write of my grave
only to be burnt to ashes when dead.



—𝗢𝗽𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗶𝗮, 𝘖𝘧 𝘓𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘚𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦. 🥀

you must live before you die my dear,laugh a little more before the end is here.i wonder what happens to my body after i...
19/04/2025

you must live before you die my dear,
laugh a little more before the end is here.

i wonder what happens to my body after i die?
i know i will be missed
but not by the people who i’ve known my entire life.
people often grieve and forget,
so i don’t expect much from people.

but my plants will miss me.
they will miss the mornings where i greet them
with a water can
in one hand and a smile on my face.

the birds will miss me.
they will miss the bowl of cold water
that i often put on my window when the temperature rise.

the butterflies will miss me.
they will miss bumping into my hands
when they raid and forage my flowers.

the winds will miss me.
they will miss my gentle affirmations
spoken from heart with compassion and love.

the notebooks will miss me.
they will miss my tears and laughs
as i pen down the thoughts
that keeping we awake.

the mugs will miss me.
they will miss my thirst for coffee after a tiring day at school.

and isn’t it beautiful that the fruits and vegetables
that nourish my body will one day find nourishment
in my decaying bones and rotting flesh?

my co**se will be home
to the sunflowers and orchids that i love so dearly.
the bees will once again come in swarms.
the birds will make my grave their home.
and my name will echo with the winds
every time someone reads my epitaph.

i will continue to live on in the lives that i have touched
and i will welcome death like an old friend,
hoping that when death comes looking for me,
it finds me alive.



—𝗢𝗽𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗶𝗮, 𝘖𝘧 𝘓𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘚𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦. 🥀

to live and not suffer.lately, i have been looking for things that i do not know where to find. in books? in poetry? in ...
18/04/2025

to live and not suffer.

lately, i have been looking for things that i do not know where to find. in books? in poetry? in paintings? in random conversations with strangers? in pretty flowers? withered leaves? in waves crashing against the rocks? in clouds? over the hills? in the moon light? are these things even attainable by human kind?

to be utterly aware of oneself, of choices we make.
to be powerful and yet be vulnerable.
to be a mystery and yet be known.
to love unconditionally and be heedless.

i sigh, perhaps it’s not for humanness not even in a thousand lives, to run away and yet be held closely.

to live and not suffer.



—𝗢𝗽𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗶𝗮, 𝘖𝘧 𝘓𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘚𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦. 🥀

—𝗢𝗽𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗶𝗮, 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘓𝘢𝘬𝘦'𝘴 𝘓𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵. 🥀
18/04/2025

—𝗢𝗽𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗶𝗮, 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘓𝘢𝘬𝘦'𝘴 𝘓𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵. 🥀

—𝗢𝗽𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗶𝗮, 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘋𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘗𝘴𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘴. 🥀
06/01/2025

—𝗢𝗽𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗶𝗮, 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘋𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘗𝘴𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘴. 🥀

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