The other way around

I’m sorry but I’m not that girl.

Or at least I’m trying my best not be that girl—

Who’s going to sit around and wait for grand gestures that will sweep me off my feet. That girl who’s going to get flattered with the words or phrases you coined to touch that chamber beneath her bosom. That girl who’s going to spend all day walking to and fro, thinking what’s the best gift she could hand you on your birthday or on Christmas day. That girl who’s going to share her whereabouts with her family or with her friends (not unless she’s too drunk and too lonely and she just need someone to talk to via SMS). That girl who will worry if she’s the reason behind that particular fondness of a certain song, which lyrics clearly speak about the story that you’re sharing for the past weeks. That girl who wants to spend her spare hours near your workplace, so you can drop by to grab a drink with her after those exhausting hours you spent working for things that don’t really work out for you.

I can’t read you and I can feel that you can’t read me, too.

Because I am the girl who’s going to be a walking confusion or perhaps an interesting mess who you would miss when you are becoming that girl who’s going to sit around and wait for grand gestures that will sweep you off your feet; that girl who’s going to get flattered with the words or phrases she coined to touch that chamber beneath your bosom…

Yes, that girl who you sometimes wish her to be.

i like my body when it is with your

i like my body when it is with your 
body. It is so quite new a thing. 
Muscles better and nerves more. 
i like your body. i like what it does, 
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine 
of your body and its bones, and the trembling 
-firm-smooth ness and which i will 
again and again and again 
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you, 
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz 
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes 
over parting flesh ... And eyes big love-crumbs, 

and possibly i like the thrill 

of under me you so quite new.


-- E. E. Cummings

Shattered glasses

Watch me drown myself in tears and beer. This is how it is going to be for the few hours, days—

Or maybe months.

I will tirelessly listen to the most painful stories, sugarcoated lies and crafted truth.

I will determinedly figure out the details in between.

I will dauntlessly face the pain that wounds and bruises can bring.

Fuck you.

I fought. I tried to keep myself away from better things because I love you.

But who am I to blame you?

I chose this. I chose to walk away. I chose to breathe in wider spaces. I chose to discover more of myself…

Only to discover the greater pain.

Will you erase me, too?

I am dropping all the metaphors in this entry. This is me, thinking out loud in the cyberspace.

Over dinner, a friend and I talked about Eternal Sunshine of a Spotless Mind—the movie that reminds the story I had with this guy whom I recently broke up with.

My friend asked me, ‘So is there something that you want to erase just in case we have that Lacuna Inc. in our country?’

In all honesty I answered, ‘I’ll erase him in my memory. But before I do that, I’ll tell you to introduce him to me again after the process.”

And maybe I’d also ask the Lacuna Inc. to delete the other guy in my memory. This guy whom I met and introduced me to things that I’ve been missing for years. Maybe, I would love to meet him in another time. Again, in all honesty, I could fall in love with this person. But I am not ready yet.

I am fucking confused.

I’ve lost things. I’ve lost him. Or maybe, he lost me. And sometimes, I’m giving clues for him to chase me back to his arms. But he’s just too numb to feel that I’m asking him to have me back. While this guy—the other guy—is giving me all the reason to stay, be with him and have a new beginning with him.

Falling in love. Falling out of love. Finding new reasons to feel again. Declining facts. Seeing signs.

This damaged self.

Honest lines at 230

We drink. We kiss. We make love—or at least we pretended there’s love in between.

Life is too short to worry about this madness. This cycle. This trap. This crap.

I just don’t want this to end right now. 

I don’t expect you to like me

In fact, I never expected anything from the beginning. You met me while I was under the influence of alcohol. I talked to you because I was finding a reason to stay up late, because I was bored and because the one whom I wanted to talk to was nowhere to find. I talked to you just because. And that just because brought us together watching the dawn by the shoreline. A romantic occasion for lovers, a strange moment for strangers—

Like us.

Days after we were hanging out and we were making out. Right there and then, when we cut the thrill and all the chase that could have happen in between, I thought everything would be over. Well, everything is the wrong word. It should be something. Because right there and then, when I felt your tongue in my mouth, when I felt your tongue gliding down till you tasted what’s between my legs, I felt like you were trying to uncover more of me. As if I was a gift wrapped in five layers of papers.

Well, actually, I am. And you have already peeled off the first and second one.

But you should know that the last remaining papers will reveal that I am nothing but an accident waiting to happen. I am nothing but a self-destructive girl who wants to breathe in a world where love is not defined by strength but by excitement.

And maybe you, too.

And I will wait for that moment—that moment when I will regret talking to you just because I was finding a reason to stay up late, because I was bored and because the one whom I wanted to talk to was nowhere to find.

One day soon

When you’re driving, I want you to hold my hand and kiss it softly. I want you to gently pinch by cheeks, my chin and I want you to tuck my hair behind my ear. When we’re in your bedroom, I want you to tenderly kiss my neck, my shoulder blades and my nape. I want us to kiss passionately, I want your tongue get entwined with mine. I want you to run your fingers all over me. I want you inside me.

I want to hear you moan. I want you to crave for more even if you’re already consuming me. And when everything’s over, I want you to fall asleep beside me. And then every once in a while, we will wake up to kiss, to cuddle, touch. And then we’ll sleep again.

Sooner we’ll wake up--refreshed. Satisfied. Then we'll wear nothing but our best smiles, sharing the best talks over coffee while listening to the music that bound us since day 1.

That moment—I would love to do it again with you. 

Galapagos

She: Do you hate me?

Him: I can’t hate you. I’m gonna miss you.

She: I’m going to miss you too. My heart is breaking but we need this.

Him: I love you. I'm sorry.

She: I love you too. And I'm sorry too.

Thoughts at 3

There is something familiar about the sound of the rain on roofs. Of the screeches of car tires that hit the mudded streets. Of the ambiance brought by dim lights and heartfelt music. And of every vulgar talk and madness uttered in between.

The overwhelming sound and smell of freedom lie in front of her.

Caged—it doesn’t make sense actually. She was never forced to play outside the house. Ah, that house. It’s now ebbing along with the bright paints and flowery bushes and the aroma of freshly baked breads.

The reasons to stay are all fading. The desire to explore what’s beyond the world are coming in.

Is she even ready?

The risk. The sadness. The nights of tears and regrets. The nostalgia.

Thank you stranger

How nostalgic and sad (warm and familiar) the balance of things has become. For every reckless choice, there is a reason behind it. Those odd feelings it digs up, the constant coming and going of people and places and emotions. Home has always been this ebb and flow. But there’s something disconcerting about the new shift in priorities, the quiet, unsettling of lustful glances and wistful dreams, something uncomfortable about the glow of cigarettes and driving home in the early morning hours. About the buzz of the phone, the creak in the couch, the muffled voices and drug induced laughter. It is all about what I should and shouldn’t do, what I won’t and what I will, these replacements for broken hearts. I am stretching and aching and falling to the wayside, into things that aren’t negative but certainly not positive either, steady as we go, but my mind keeps reeling on—

How did we even get here?

Credits to: Poorly Written History

Catch 22

She looked at the mad crowd and realized what she was missing for the last four years. It’s not the surprises or the unwrapped presents that come along with warm embraces. It’s not even the printed photos of her or the spontaneous dinner.

It’s the world.

She thirsts. She craves. She wants for to breathe in wider spaces—and spaces where there is danger and pain and fear. Spaces where people are all strangers to one another…

But then she realized: Isn’t the thing that she has right now is what she once hoped to have not so long ago?

Since when did she become this discontented? Ah, ever since comfort came in.

Contentment is a big word that challenges once faithfulness. Love is an understatement. Happiness needs excitement. Fate is measured by faith.

When will she stop looking? When will she stop destroying herself?

The world is waiting for her.

6th floor

I wish I could date you.

That dyed hair that you carefully tuck behind your delicate ears. Those eyelashes that sweetly kiss your eyelids every time you flash the most beautiful smile, every time you speak—

Ah, yes. Your voice—so remarkable, so exquisite.

Your lips. Sometimes I wonder if the tints you use leave taste on it—like candies. I often see you wearing pink and it reminds me of luscious strawberries. And sometimes red—for cherry. And sometimes orange—oh, the tang of citrus.

I wish I could date you so I could tuck your dyed hair behind your delicate ears when the wind decided to become playful with those soft strands.

I wish I could date you so I could stare at your eyes for as long as I could. Then you would talk about your dreams, your guilty pleasures. I would love to do that with you. I would love to listen to you because your voice is a music to my ears.

And after that date, I would drive you home and you would kiss me and I would kiss you back with our eyes close.

And with our eyes closed, you would ask me to guess the color of your lipstick through the taste of your lips.

The Monologue

For some reason, you couldn’t bring yourself to contentment. You thirst for something that you do not have. You yearn for things that you do not need. You are selfish.

You want complications to feed your imagination with inspirations that will make you write the things that you can’t put into words when you’re walking on a steady road. You think that your gift is also your curse. You need to sin, to hurt, to hate, to embrace what is forbidden, and to put yourself into shame to ignite that passion.

You let your weaknesses defeat you. You poison yourself slowly. You let your demons consume you. You refuse to experience satisfaction because you know that that feeling would end the pleasure of mistakes.

An epitome of a wretched lady. A poignant scene of despair.

Insignificant other

There are people who fancy acting like members of a classy clique. There are some who think they are a catch and a photo of them in a skimpy outfit would make the half of the world’s total population drool over their body. There are people who enjoy teasing strangers via internet with cheap talks in bad grammar. And there are some who enjoy talking ceaselessly about their life, as if they have significant roots in the society and listening to their stories is a fucking once in a lifetime privilege.

And there are people like you, who personify all these characteristics.

Your substandard lifestyle, your conflicting principles, your dense arguments and your delusions brought me to the brink of disgust.

Still counting

Almost four years have passed but there is still a tinge of pain every time you mention her name. How she still affects your mood. How some of the things that we used to love lead you back to the memories you had with her. How she inspires you to write those beautiful lyrics and poems.

But why do I even care? Almost four years have passed since we parted ways.

Yes, almost four years—but why am I still wasting a minute or two of my life thinking about this crap? Why am I acting like a highschool student who can’t get over her first love? Why am I acting like you were the one who left me for someone? Why am I being this pathetic?

Why did I even fucking write this blog entry?

Stupid me.

Evanescence

She never believed in magic but she once used that word to describe her feelings when she was writing the tale that ended a tragedy. The story was too enchanting, even the universe fell in love and so it conspired to halt the torment she was experiencing that time.

She was too charmed by the new-found story. She kept herself awake for months to sustain the excitement. Her greatest fear was to put an end to that tale, so she led the words to deeper realms. As she scribbles her thoughts, the twists become more and more intricate. The roads became way too obscure, she found herself lost in the middle of nameless sphere.

Now, I can’t find my way back.

Submission

There are nights when I allow myself to get possessed by this spirit.

But those moments  are not mystical. It is because the experience  something that I often deal with every time I pop a bottle open to drink and drown the sorrow, the frustration, the guilt and even boredom.

And there are times that when that spirit enters my body, it clouds my mind, my heart and my conscience. Yet there are moments that it makes my blood rush like the waters of Piscataqua.

It isn’t numinous but I have to admit there’s something magical about it—it brings me to some of the most interesting places  I’ve never been to.

It takes me to Galapagos. It takes me to the rings of Saturn. It takes me to someone else’s arms.

And right at this moment, I think I am possessed.

And it took me in this realm where I would perhaps choose to stay for good.