And everyone is easily seduced by the sugar coating.
The outer layer of deceptiveness, the beautiful cruelty of false hope, the strings so far to reach, but easily binds. Hard. Painfully.
He hurts me in ways that makes me love him more, scratches so deep you couldn’t see the bottom. Just an empty void of nothingness.
But still I try, crawling to struggle and grasp the last shreds of my self-dignity, which is fading just like me.
Maybe there will come a day when I will know better, when the gaunt glass that shields my eyes will fade away, but I am tired of hoping.
I’ll just wait for the next gust of wind that will pass, so I can be taken away as easily as the dead leaf that fell from the highest branch of the strongest tree, and be lost forever.
It’s amazing how you poison people with your words or how you stain them with your lies or enchant them with your act. You, my friend, are an incredible work of art. You tell people how damaged you have been or how afraid you are of giving too much fearing that you might lose too much too. Well, let me tell you one thing about losing. In this world we live in, you will always lose—whether it’s little or too much. It’s what’s left that is important.
But I guess, you don’t care about what’s left. What you care for are the things you lose, about the things you’ll never get again. And those are the endless things you tell people for them to feel sorry for you. Quit telling them your sad stories to pull them in only just to push them away in the end. I really don’t get that logic. You put them at a safe distance first, and just when they’re ready to come close you run away from them. I get it. You have a big issue with trust, but you’ll never find someone worth keeping if you’re not going to try.
Make up your mind, too. You’re just as fickle as the weather. Make a decision. You just can’t always say Que Sera, Sera because sometimes, it’s not. You design your own path. If you want to stay, stay. If you want to leave, then go.
If you’re still not ready on looking for the things you’ve lost, at least take care of what’s left because if you don’t, then I don’t know what will be left of you in the end.
—Things I’ve been telling myself all this time, 71414
The sun is nigh, perhaps
, as I drift through here and there,
pointing out fluid smoke
and half-retreating has-beens.
I am staged amidst this fog, losing distant memories:
electrified lobotomized neurons of self-loathing and justifications.
And then a swift slide of wind, slashing gelatinous fumes—
the scenery reveals itself.
Hi-fi stereo booming
A mosaic of insignificant Chekov’s guns,
unsigned promissory notes, unanswered sighs,
a single chord wailing in an empty room. Never
had I pulled a breath, but now I must, for the vast street
in front of me howls for affirmation.
Solid geometries of light
crafting itself onto the heavens
and I here, etching a shoemark on the pavement.
The city calls for me.
Every waking road past the red light district
reminds me of the trail backwards.
But another— the constant cycle
of blue and red rampaging across the oblivious streets
and the echo of church bells banging.
The eyes transmit and the mind perceives.
Thoughts race, melting each seconds
like blurred droplets of rubbery crystals
moon-walking on a winged foil.
Or blood pulsating free from arteries and veins.
Like your tears escaping down your porcelain skin
Like your guts invading the room
Like these words outliving you
The fog returns, creeping
from the barrel onto the foreground.
Thoughts race faster, faster
than a shuttle ascending
or the sound of your death
or the gasp of the gun waiting
for my head.
i. You left me without any warning. You let me fall into the pit of agony. You exited from my life not caring how I will about it. You are a selfish fucktard.
ii. I tried finding my way back to life. Little by little, I took steps in order to move on from you and towards happiness. It was darn painful to leave the fragments of our love behind but I cannot spend my whole life staring at it, wishing to remake the past.
iii. Through the help of my family and friends, books and cats, I was able to get through all the pain you made me suffer. Though there will be always scars left, my wounds have been healed.
iv. You came to me, begging for me to forgive you for breaking my heart. But it was too late. I’ve closed my heart from you. I’ve dumped all the possibilities we could ever have.
v. I told you I can’t love you anymore, not in this lifetime, not ever. I left and I heard you cry.
I know, you’ve been through the darkest dawns and the harshest storms, and they all left you with deep wounds and scars embedded in your soul. But I’m telling you why I’m here, your countless cries at midnight are never a violent downpour for me since I see them as gentle as the round dewdrops falling from the damp leaves after the morning’s early mist—this is you at your most vulnerable—you trace your shaking fingers in the trenches and cracks in your skin then rip it down like a wallpaper to show me how terrible and broken you are through your shattered voice and chapped lips. You show the network of thin lines of threads that’s been holding your bones intact for years, and as well as the missing pieces in your heart that had been severely damaged because of an old love. Tiny spiders and sticky cobwebs found home inside your ribcages, and the more you open up yourself to me, the more I think to myself that you are something like an abandoned house where your rusty joints restlessly creak while ghosts and shadows reconcile in every bone. People come; people go, and as cliche as it may sound, someone, no matter how wrecked you are or how disfigured you may be, will find a comforting home inside you. You see, everything in this universe is beautiful, dear. Keep that in mind. The fact that you’re here means you’re beautiful—you always were. And the thing is: At some point, all beautiful things will be robbed of their pristine state—we are all bound to be blemished and broken and eventually, end. But I believe we can still be repaired by someone equally as damaged as we are, and that is why I’ll stay—I found home in you. And dear, I’m in love with you, and I don’t care how uncertain you think I am but every one of us is sure about some few things, and this is one of mine: I’m in love with you and all of me knows it—my eyes will always look for your eyes, my hands will fumble for yours, and my heart… I think we were tied together since the beginning and my broken parts fits your missing pieces perfectly.
When I was younger and when I used to stay with my auntie, she taught me how to communicate with people. Street smarts of sorts, if you may. She would make me talk to waiters for our orders and cashiers for paying our groceries. She would tell me how to properly address our concerns to other people.
It helped a lot. I grew up not being shy in telling people what I need. I need not to ask the people I am dining with for them to say what I want to say. When I want to ask something to people, especially those working in the service industry, I don’t feel shy. I just talk to them and everything from there flows smoothly.
However, without me realizing it completely, my aunt taught me how to fight for the service that I deserve, even if it means being mad and rude and inconsiderate with service workers. Growing up, I saw how she would talk down to employees just because they got the order wrong or because it is taking too long for them to serve the food that we ordered. Over the littlest of things, she would already get irritated with the service.
By virtue of behaviorism and how we learn through imitation, I found myself doing the same thing. Just earlier, I was asking an employee where I could pay the one item that I would buy, hoping that the customer service counter of the supermarket will allow one-item purchases due to the queue of customers. When she said that I should fall in line because it was unfair for other customers, I let my temper get the better of me, talked down to her, and walked out.
It killed me of guilt, let me tell you. While I was hating my classmate for being rude to the clerks at the graduate school office for not having her forms prepared, or my supervisor for scolding the delivery boy due to the ice cream that melted before it arrived one hot day, I am actually one of them.
It is sad because I call myself a communicator and I have failed to understand people. It is sad because I am the violator of exactly what I hate about other people. I saw my aunt do it, but it does not give me the instant free pass to do it, too.
We are all workers of the society. We should not hate people for doing their job because we all have roles to play in the community. If they are not doing their tasks well, there is always a better way to say it. Also, not everybody has the ability to emphatically understand how other people feel and what they are going through. For us who can understand them, for us who want to understand them, for us who believe that we could, let us not add in the burden that they carry from people who don’t.
We cannot hate people for why things happen. For all we know, the service conundrum may be out of the worker’s control. Everything can be dealt with in a peaceful manner. Say things nicely, not because you are afraid they will spit on your food after your complaint, but because you understand and you are willing to accept the situation and adjust yourself to it. Say things nicely because that’s the right thing to do.
Hello I’m a water droplet, and now I’m dropping. If you thought that water droplets like me fall fast to the ground, we don’t— well maybe in terms of human time, we do fall fast, but really, we don’t. As we fall, the whole world reflects on us. We capture more images than your cameras can within a second.
Like in my situation, I’m dropping because it rained, and I’m dropping from a playground monkey bar.
I was hanging on the cold metal for at least 12 seconds when I saw that the playground was empty, but in one corner that reflected on me, a little girl was sitting on the seesaw. It just stopped raining, so I thought she’s just excited to play again that she’s here already. But by the way she was sitting, I noticed that she doesn’t want to play. She was sitting almost in the middle of the seesaw, legs straight, feet on the handle. And when I thought she’s just waiting for her friends, she isn’t— she stayed there while it rained, her hair and clothes soaking wet, not minding the water falling over her face.
I am now starting to feel heavy, more water molecules from the rain are being gathered with me, and I know that I will drop. Anytime now, I will drop.
The sun is almost out again and the end of the rainbow is about to show. Too bad I won’t be able to see it full in this position. I like it better when I’m up rather than on the ground.
And here comes the other kids, being accompanied by their guardians. They are all excited to play again in the playground, except for the little girl who’s still sitting there, soaking wet.
Oh, it’s time for me to fall.
As I was falling, I noticed a different water that flowed on the little girl’s cheek. It sparkled more beautifully than the rain water falling on her face. Did her eyes tear? The droplet seemed to came from her eyes.
I am now a halfway to the ground as I saw a taller boy that looked like the little girl. I noticed that he was walking towards the seesaw. Is he running? I didn’t noti—
Oops, bye now.
Please be mine,
oh please, divine.
Take hold of me
like a bottle of wine.
Spin me fair
on truth or dare,
or bite and scratch,
and say beware.
Enough with the tease,
I beg you please.
You’ve made your point
while on your knees.