There Will Never Be A Lucille. [20. 1. 24.]

demolish [7. 4. 25.]

exposure,

closure.

for sure,

i definitely need more...

more of it.

for i crave it like nothing else.

i'm in a space,

one with a fairly comforting embrace.

for i know it's just a burst of blackened energy.

but when it becomes rosy,

i'll hold close my posy.

looking at the petals for faith...

looking at the leaves for an esplanade...

looking-- the stems, for they are pretty waif...

and looking to the browned roots for gen.

Copyright © 2025 Cattille Quettea

display [29. 4. 24]

i wish the people around saw the beauty of my soul.

i can understand how they may gaze over it and not realize how elated they could be to see it.

it is only not purely a classic, dolly beauty i possess.

it's a beauty only for the fatigued, harrowed eye-

for they are the only souls who can appreciate it's entirety entirely.

it's a beauty similar to no thing but,

to describe a close match;

it can be grouped together with the beauty of

black cygnets, bloody, and covered in clots.

unharmed,

not hurt.

for my visions are hazy and blurry.

forevermore covered in dots.

perhaps it is good that many ignore.

no threats to me,

less of the foul souls score.

Copyright © 2024 Cattille Quettea

there is no lucille. [18. 1. 24.]

i wanna be more.

i need to want less.

less to earn,

less to get.

more to give,

more to learn.

why can't i keep the things that i earn?

must you rip them from me?

under and out from my hands?

my accomplishments are yours,

because we are friends.

but now we aren't friends.

no friendship seeds verdant.

don't expect me to again

remove this burden.

look what you've done.

look what you've made.

eat it all up,

dont avoid your plate.

no efforts of yours were verdant,

refrain from writing of letters,

you've sewed what you've sent.

now wanting to be friends?

now wanting to repent?

your accomplishments are mine,

because we were friends.

you and only you...

are the burden.

Copyright © 2024 Cattille Quettea

everlast [1. 7. 24.]

i finally went to a park, getting fresh air outside of my lawn.

days without a sole companion,

days seem that they never end,

sun details the darkness.

bugs, they seem as if they're my only ever friends

rises the moon.

other girls had all their fun, all their men.

over them, they do swoon.

but as for me, i am all alone.

my only company is sun, stars and moon.

silence details my darkness,

rotting alone in a finally clean room.

rises the moon.

something's left within a soul,

yearning,

longing,

with no hope.

rises the moon.

longing for a bezzie.

yearning for some sort of paisan.

i've subsist for far too long.

how did i possibly go on?

i did because i've no hope

and there's nothing else to do but cope.

so i stay up late and sleep all day, then rise in the noon.

Copyright © 2024 Cattille Quettea

there was never a lucille. [19. 1. 24.]

everyone worries about the physical purity of the girl, lady, woman.

why doesn't anybody care about the mental purity of the girl, lady and woman?

telling to her keep her hands to herself.

to keep her eyes to herself.

her skin to herself.

her very presence.

but letting others be so quickly to impurify her mind with the red hot dousing of "bitch", "whore", "slut", "broad" and more on the stainless cloth of her psyche.

for that is worse than the judging irises

looking upon her like a virus.

worse than baneful whispers.

she then is mentally messed up for life,

finally proper and put into line by being called such foul monikers.

but, for she has no mind.

no light within her iris, pupils too.

she then is judged for that.

she is then going to be messed for a second time.

she will have nothing lacking in the eyes of the world.

no soul, no mind.

-- for rot has stripped it from her

she will ascend past humanity...

to femininity.

Copyright © 2024 Cattille Quettea

cattille's catalogue ['25]

please note that all of my work is under the copyright license of "all rights reserved" [©] ; this prohibits anyone from using, modifying or "continuing" my work without my written consent.

let it be known that i did not own / edit the photos i use alongside my works unless there is a "catquette" or "cattille.quettea" watermark on it.

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verselets

recueil de poèmes

'demolish'

published: friday, 23. 5. 25.

'spun out'

published: sunday, 1. 6. 25.

yarns

-

miscellaneous

-

annonces

vote

announced: friday, 30. 5. 25.

vote results

announced: sunday, 15. 6. 25.

FROTH [15. 7. 24.]

[after the "loss" of a shoddy "friend"]

rot, inexplainable rot.

froth, unforgettable froth.

loss, an unfortunate loss.

or is it fortunate?

it's early to determine.

now, i don't feel as if i have lost a single thing.

yet, as of now, i do feel a bit empty.

more room left in my life,

more room for the scar tissues.

more room for building up

and becoming more.

after the wound is cleaned with hydrogen peroxide,

germs are harshly ripped and stripped for it.

froth, stinging froth,

froth, singing froth.

froth, froth, FROTH!

if wishing on a star won't grant me friends,

perhaps nothing will.

and just because i lack companions,

does not means i never lack having time to kill.

loss, silencing loss.

loss, violently loss.

loss, loss, Loss!

but i must occupy my life,

i must occupy my time...

with useful things.

i must occupy mine.

i aspire to not

rot, rot, rot.

Copyright © 2024 Cattille Quettea

ratgirl [24. 2. 24]

"why so messy?", is what she asks me.

'why so messy?', is what i think.

none other to blame but myself.

beautiful chaos and beautiful clothes on the floor are my shell.

for i have nobody besides myself.

no friends, nobody else.

outside of my phrontistery,

nobody contacts me.

i am not worth a friend to them yet,

they are worth a friend to me.

then-

at home, all alone.

no matter if the temperature is warm or cold.

no matter if my room's door is opened or closed.

no matter if my speech is silent or bold.

not physically yet,

i'm at home, all alone.

my mind's imagination is organised.

quite organised and clean.

the thought of true friends, a fun life and romance is with what it gleams.

i live in my room,

apathy lives in me.

life is not miserable,

nor is it fun.

it's like this for all but,

at the same time for none.

none other to blame but myself.

beautiful chaos and beautiful clothes on the floor are my shell.

but gosh,

doesn't it look like hell?

Copyright © 2024 Cattille Quettea

hey my alstroemeriaceae! cattille here! am sorry to a great extent that i withdrew for months, i kind of went through the longest bout of moroseness of my entire life <3.

want to make it up to all of you lovelies, new poem series? yay or nay? (vote, i sincerely beg of you)

citadelle [24. 1. 24]

i just wanna live like i know every thing,

i know everything.

like i own it,

i own it.

but the world didn't have time for a girl who lives like she wants,

dreams like she wants,

achieves like she wants.

so, why would it have time for a lady who does?

the truth is,

it didn't.

and the world still won't make time for a woman living like she lives,

doing what she did,

succeeding like she had.

so she says forget it:

"since they don't have time for my dreams, they must not have time for my success"

they can crumble, they can rot.

for all i care

because i don't care.

they don't have time for her dreams, they must not have time for her success.

they didn't have time then and they won't have time now.

i'll make my own time.

with lip-gloss and flowy-flower dresses, curly dark tresses.

we'll make our own time.

with short hair, long hair, no hair.

we'll make our own time.

with or without monolids.

we'll make our own time.

with a slimmer or bigger frame.

we'll make our own time.

with stainless or inked skin.

we'll make our own time.

we'll be our own fortress.

our own citadel.

it's gonna be glorious.

with peace and shades of pink

and side walks of rose gold, only the finest metals.

pearls will adorn us

and their mothers will make up our housings.

pearlescent skies will cover the heavens for us.

the weather will be warm but never too hot.

the air will never have foul smells nor will it show signs of pollution.

never ending days yet everlasting nights.

this time;

we'll know it

we'll own it.

we'll make our own time.

we'll be our own fortress.

our own citadel;

if we can't,

we'll rot trying,

trying to fashion our citadelle.

because the world is the angriest hellcat out here

and fantasy's a killer.

Copyright © 2024 Cattille Quettea