And yes, this is still about you.

Maybe I am getting better. Everyday, the corners where our stories are imprinted greet me with mockery—reminding me of the tales of joys and pains we drew with our hands, our footsteps, the inhales and exhales we shared and gave each other. I face them—without a blink, without hesitations, and I let every morsel touch me. I let it wound me. I let it tickle me. I let it push me back to my bed that’s used to be the warmest part of my apartment.

The agony of waiting and hoping destroyed me, consumed me, and made me an indignant, heartrending figure of misery. But I guess I am starting to learn how to pick myself up, little by little. Nonetheless, I am numb and I have misgivings about the attention and (maybe) love that people are showing me. Fuck trust. I am not ready to give it—at least, not now. And fuck love. I have nothing left to give.

But still, I am hoping that one day, I’ll find myself back—not in your arms, but in that state when I am genuinely happy for cooking and preparing meals at 5 o’clock in the morning. Genuinely happy for washing the dishes, for washing the clothes that are not even mine, for waking up in the middle of the night just to check if everything’s OK, for getting drunk just because I am celebrating my life with someone else; those moments when I am indisputably blissful for sharing what I know and for giving more than what’s expected; those moments that I can say I am really in love and there is no turning back and whoever goes along the way would be damned because I fight for the person whom I truly love.

I miss you. I miss us.

But what I’m missing the most is that unadulterated loving self who doesn’t care about the but’s, what if’s, and what the fuck’s.

Heart failure

The words are running out. You took them—most of them, when you told me to stop, when you told me to let this go for good.

Why is it so easy for you to walk away? You think I’ve been in that state, slamming the door, refusing to look back, running faster than the hands of clock tattooed on my wrist. Truth is I didn’t runaway. I stayed right behind the door, waiting for you to open it, waiting for you to invite me back to your arms (those arms that work better than my blanket).

I heard knocks, I heard squeals, I heard rages. I heard them, I felt them, but I didn’t really see them. I was at the other side of your torment, suffering from the agony brought by that decision. Strangers saw me. Couples laughed at me. The curious ones thought I was a brand new story.

The silence in your room scared me. Now I am trying to open the door that you—apparently—locked when I decided to step out just to give us time to figure out why things are getting all fucked up between us. You didn’t really try, did you? 

Blank sheet

I haven’t written any poetry about you. I used to do that to people who delight my day with a cup of coffee or a pack of chips—because I’m sentimental and little things easily move me. I remember you picking on my food while we’re having lunch—you love vegetables as much as I do. I remember you offering me a bite of your cake—you hand me your fork covered with icings. I remember how we shared a bottle of water. I remember the pot we lit under the northern sky. I remember every single detail, even the surprise of that spine-tingling rub you did when you played with my hair. I remember the tunes we sang together and the mixed-tapes we traded. But still, no poem was written to sketch such sentiments into words.

Maybe because, you don’t deserve the kind of poetry I write. You deserve much better writings. You deserve much better sentiments than this kind of infatuation I easily give to strangers whom I just met. I am too messed up to give something more. I’ve been in this abstract state for quite some time now and this surreal space where I currently wonder and wander is becoming too comforting, that I don’t want to leave and take more risk.

Rub my back. Hold my hand. Bring me to my bed. Kiss me goodbye. Let me fall asleep.

A selfish gratification

I thought I’ve been in this state—messing around like an irresponsible, angst-driven teen. Everything feels new, yet I know the outcome would all be the same—fucked up days, wasted hours, disgusting realizations, and unhappiness. I’ve never learned my lessons, or at least not yet. I constantly involve myself or let other people involve themselves with me, only to find out a carcass of putrid mistakes and regrets afterwards. This morning, I woke up feeling extra happy. I’ve never felt this kind of joy for months now; maybe because, I haven’t done what could possibly be the worst font of bliss. Who would have thought that the worst nights could indeed bring  the best mornings? It is a bit bloodcurdling to realize that there is no guilt or fear lingering at the back of my head, despite being in an ugly, unforgivable state. They used to be there—the shame, the chills, the second thoughts—and they used to love biting the better side of my soul. That side is the shadow that kicks me straight right in my gut to make me puke all the terrible thoughts and desire that put danger in the empty spaces between my heartbeats.

But now they’re all gone. What is left here is nothing but a hollow flesh poisoned by a surreal concept of happiness.

The bathroom discussion

She's at it again. Puking every single chunk of the scrumptious fare she had.  Every calorie is a war. Every bulge in her tummy leads to self-loathing.  Getting full, feeling full--and not liking it. 

Her insecurities, loneliness, and all the other feelings left uncharted inside her are feeding on her again. Sadly, they eat more than she does. Because after gorging on loads of sugars, fats and carbs, she would head straight to the bathroom and discuss her pathetic hopes with that inanimate porcelain bowl.

This system is so fucking screwed

Fuck a stranger. Fuck your relationship up. Fuck your friends. Fuck a man. Fuck a woman. Fuck yourself with sorrow and nostalgia. Fuck food. Fuck self-loathing. Fuck confidence. Fuck beliefs. Fuck the society. Fuck tomorrow by getting really drunk tonight. Fuck memories. Fuck regrets. Fuck ideas. Fuck boredom. Fuck stability. Fuck confusion. Fuck discrimination. Fuck work. Fuck school. Fuck idle moments. Fuck experiments. Fuck hope. Fuck dreams. Fuck love. Fuck the concept of fuck. Fuck whatever.

Yes, try fucking every fuckable thing to find your fucking way back to happiness. By the way, please don't trust the words of a total fucked up like me.

A sigh for the beloved

There’s so much loneliness behind these smiles. There’s a looming pain somewhere deep down in my system. It’s hard to utter the word goodbye because for one, that would make tomorrow frightening and the next few days would become episodes of some painfully pathetic drama that should have ended long ago.  Because we chose to linger, as we’re both terrified of the what ifs and what the fucks that would surely come in our way.

And then out of false hopes, of fucked up signals and misunderstood gestures, I would ask myself: Is it really about that scary feeling? Or maybe there’s really love in between? Or what if we’re just being too selfish to let each other go? How long are we going to hold on to these strings of memories and emotions—love, lust, longing, anger, regret...

It’s too ironic to say that—

We’re both terrified of the what ifs and what the fucks that would surely come in our way—

When in fact, we’re breathing in that state for months now.

To breathe again

I think all people are afraid to be alone. I think even those who swear that they wouldn’t get married, that they would rather grow old alone, still think that their life could be better if they would find themselves waking up next to someone who is always willing to put up with their shits. Sometimes, people feel that they are so damaged that they don’t deserve to have that kind of person in their life. But, isn’t we all have our fair share of downtimes and issues, that we all have a damaged part of us that we wanted to fix—and so we somehow deserve to find someone who will make us realize that life is worth fixing?

I am hopeful. 

I am not apologizing anymore

I think I've hated myself enough. You’ve grown callous and indifferent, and I’ve seen how you treated my sadness as some kind of a joke—as if I really deserved to feel this melancholic because I started the fire that incinerated everything that we’ve built. I don’t feel the sincerity in your words anymore—you’re becoming a total different person who’s heading to a total different direction. It’s just sad to realize that I've let myself get stuck in this spot for months now, and the only things that make me feel alive are pain, tears and some self-inflicted wounds. 

Here's the thing

She can’t fall in love with someone else because she’s still in love with you. She knows she can’t afford to just runaway and forget those moments that you shared for years. It was never an easy task. She is not ready to move on.

And so she keeps from spinning and dancing in that hurricane of memories and hopes, where the sins and regrets—all brought by the instability of her fucked-up self—go along with the wind of these thoughts that harasses her cold and bruised skin.

Separation Anxiety

You left your coffee mug on the table and I sadly watched how it turned colder. And then I had this gut feeling that you would return with a bad news. And I was right—we’re counting down the days and I know that the weeks to come will never be as calm or as intense as those weeks that would always be remembered in this corner where we used to spend our working hours together. I wish I could make things better, I wish I could ask them to make you stay. They have no idea—and even you have no idea, how much you make things better for me. The mere sight of you brings joy and excitement. But I know these reasons are not enough…

Let’s find time and more eventful moments outside these walls. Let’s make those reasons count more soon.

Memoirs of my 26th part 2

Something dawned on me, right after I felt a certain pang when I found you inside me: I no longer wanted to be pleasured by you. I no longer wanted to be that woman who would want to wake up happy and contented the morning after we became intimately involved. You do not provide answers to this emptiness, to this longing. But I think I have finally found an answer to one of the questions that have been bugging me—I no longer want you the way I think I wanted you to be.

I am just too messed up to determine where I want to see myself right now. But I should know that random sex and alcohol and drugs, will never really give cure to this pain that worsens every time I wake up still intoxicated from every madness I did hours before I put myself to sleep.

Memoirs of my 26th part 1

And last night you were there, looking exquisitely beautiful and fragile. Your eyes dazzled like they were part of the colorful rays of lights suspended around the universe-like space--where we spent those hours wasted from the hallucinating chemicals that make the world we live in more superb, more open-minded and more exciting.

And in between those intoxicating minutes, our feet were silently talking and cuddling under the table. I long for your touch, I long for your kisses--I long for the wholeness of you. The wholeness that I know cannot take, as much as I cannot let go of. And hours after breathing in that indistinct realm, we found ourselves resting, our arms tangled, our breaths warmth by the taste of beer. We didn't kiss. We didn't make love (or maybe it is better to say that we didn't act upon the things that we wanted to happen that night). We fell asleep and in my dreams, we were still together--running away from the world.

Self-diagnosis

I think I have this kind of sickness that makes me subconsciously push people away once they've learned how to like or love me. Not that kind of safe, platonic love that one can dauntlessly admit to a colleague who have grown to become a friend. It's that kind of love--or whatever you want to call it--that makes some unlucky people think that I bring joy and completeness and excitement in their lives because they think I am fascinating and they can make hundreds or thousands of stories with me. By sharing this, you may think that I am some self-absorbed, delusional freak but I don't care. I know myself and I have a lot of stories that prove how shitty and fucked up I am. I don't know how some things started, how I invite people in my life or how I manage to get involved in their little tales but one thing is for sure: I have this tendency to leave in the middle of a flourishing story, I have this tendency to disappear despite happiness and comfort, and I have this tendency to destroy what was once dubbed as beautiful.

Because I am a terminally fucked up creature

I’ve been feeling this sadness every now and then. When I’m breathing, it’s like my throat would all of sudden hurt like crazy because there’s a lump that pierces the muscles and nerves inside.

It’s my birthday next week but I am not even excited. I’m turning 26 and look, I’m still writing like a fucked up teenage girl who doesn’t seem to know what her problem is. I have a blog 8 years ago (which I deleted because I can’t stand the seeing the drama and angsty stories I had) and it’s all about the pain and the seemingly-endless quest for love and cure. Now look what I have here.

Desirer

She put her fingers between her thighs and felt the damp of desire. She was thinking about the curves on your chest—those succulent breasts. She was thinking about your timid cunt. She was thinking about the wholeness of you. You were like some free-form liquid flowing along the ducts inside her head. You were everywhere.

                                                  

She kissed the wind, thinking that your lips were suspended somewhere between the dusts and the darkness that enveloped her somber room. The wind, too, might carry those kisses to where you were lying right at that moment. She held the pillows close to her body, as if those pillows were your body.

You were once a dream. But days ago you came into view… and days after you were, yet again, a part of those illusions that visit her emptiness.

The warmth of a fucked up skin

She can’t tell if it’s the void feeling inside her that makes her feel this cold. She’s longing for warmth. She’s longing for something genuine. But when these things are already in front of her, embracing her, kissing her, she would long for freedom. She would long for some time alone.

She is so fucked up sometimes she unconsiously drags people down to the pithole where she’s headed to. She doesn’t know why she can't learn how to stop, she doesn’t know how to commit, she doesn’t know how to have faith. She is so fucked up sometimes all she wants to do is to slit her wrist and watch the blood flow out the veins.

A few days ago she was in bed with this woman she likes. That feisty yet delicate woman who just confessed that it was her first time with another woman. Ladies and gentlemen, she is yet again on the brink of fucking someone else’s life.

No morning after

The rays of the sun were peeping between the window pain. The early morning breeze was embracing the sunlit room, where they both used to spend late nights watching movies, eating pizza, making love, talking, crying, laughing--everything. That room used to witness the love story they had for years. And this morning, the room witnessed how she was weakened by subconsciousness and longing.

He was headed to work and she was still asleep when he was dressing up. Moments after, he bid her a goodbye kiss--a soft peck on her cheek. She smiled. And in between sleep, happiness and early morning sunshine, she whispered, I love you.

As expected, he didn't say anything back.

Look who's broken now

Last night while I was drinking with my colleagues, one of them opened up about the heartbreaking situation between him and his long-term girlfriend. His story reminded me of the things I felt five months ago--how I can't seem to find contentment because it's so hard to commit to things when you think that you still have a lot to experience in life. Hence, I asked him if he really loves his girlfriend and he said--between sobs--that yes, he loves her very much and he knows that she's the one for him.


Thing is, it seems that he's just staying just because they've been together for 8 years and he told us that he knows that he won't find someone like her ever again. And he doesn't know if that is enough to make him stay in their relationship. I remember saying exact words to myself and to my friends, a few weeks before I fucked things up. And so I told him the realization I had when I lost the person I loved and still love...


Sometimes, we think that being too comfortable is boring and excitement is what we really need life. But in fact, comfort is the real thing that makes love last.


I don't know if what I was thinking was true. But what I'm sure is, I still regret that we fell apart just because I can't bring myself to contentment and I look for exciting things--which are just ephemeral.

somewhere i have never travelled

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands


-- e.e. cummings

I guess I am willing to crash and die anywhere

I am that frail, thin leaf that once detached itself from an old oak tree. Right now, I am flying with the million dusts that blissfully dance with the breeze. I am floating, trying to enjoy every twist and turn, embracing my so-called freedom, kissing the beaming sunlight that paints the sky gold. I am running with the flock of birds and butterflies. I am free.

But I am starting to get exhausted with this seemingly-endless flow. But how can I rest if I don’t even have a home? Will I forever remain in the stratosphere—flying, floating and running along the nimbus clouds? 

Ashes to ashes

I thought I can handle it. I thought I’m done and over it. But the road was long and I haven’t even reached the middle of it. The air is thick, embraced by smog and dusts and I’m finding it hard to breathe. The details of the past are dancing, intertwining… occupying the corners, the random spaces that could be my refuge. I cannot move. I cannot walk. And I’m stuck in a place where all I can do is to watch those memories... flying, floating away from where I stood. They are the embers of us—burning. We are broken.

And end

I could spend all day looking at your face,

or perhaps, gently touching your porcelain skin.

I am going to trace your pores to draw diamonds

and other shapes that define the preciousness

of your capriciousness as a woman—

which I adore—

Always. Every day. Every single minute.

I could wait in front of your door until midnight

while you are somewhere else, partying, drinking,

perhaps kissing random strangers.

I could forget about those memories.

I could refuse to taste the beer that envelops your lips.

I would kiss your eyelashes instead.

I would love to feel those delicate follicles,

I would love to smell the scent of your tears

brought by yesterday’s misery.

I would embrace tonight as if this is my last,

our last…

Because when you wake up tomorrow,

I would reveal these desires I've been keeping

ever since I met you.

***For Andrea. Original piece, March 20 2012.

Ground Zero

After two months of abstaining myself from your presence, I found you again in one of the places where we once built a memory.

You found me—drunk and I bet you thought I’m happy. With a bottle of beer of my left hand and a cigarette on my right, slowly dancing to the songs that enveloped that crowded place, who would’ve thought that I was actually bleeding while I was standing on my feet? Who would’ve thought that I am weakened by the lyrics, by the ambiance and by the familiar faces around me?

I thought it was over—the storm inside me, or maybe I should rather call it the hurricane. The force is still there, destroying my sanity. Wishing to turn back time is a cliché but I am probably one of those hopeless mortals who want to make the hands of time turn counter clockwise.

I want to go back to where it all began. And when just in case it happens, expect that you will never ever get to know me—that drunk person whom you found fascinating and carefree and happy. That drunk person who have been sincere and loving and full of hope. That drunk person whom you’ve actually destroyed.

For a moment, in the dome

We’re breathing the same air. We’re listening to the same music. We’re watching the same bands. We’re humming the same tune. And perhaps, we even have the same thoughts on some of the songs they played.

We could be less than a hundred steps apart. But it seems that we’re miles and miles away from each other. Yes, the distance is immeasurable now.

I guess it's time to walk away...

There is nothing left to save but the memories. Only the memories. Those beautiful and dazzling days and nights spent in shopping malls, in grocery stores, in movie houses, in airplane seats, in your car, beside the sea, beneath sheets, on random chairs in different restaurants…

Memories. Things from the past. I want to move forward.

I know that we both made a mistake but every time I see you, I can feel the fact that I have sinned more. I can see that you don’t look at me like the way you look at me before. Every time you ask me out to eat, to smoke or to watch a movie, I want to believe that you still love me, that you still want me, that you still like me. But what was left inside you, I know, is nothing but a dying parcel of the love that we used to have. And you don’t want me anymore. You don’t long for me anymore. You’ve grown insensitive and awkward and weird. You’re becoming a total stranger.

Sometimes I ask myself—what am I really waiting for? Do I really have that faith that someday, we’re going to be okay again? We both know that everything is not going to be the same anymore. And for that, I think I am just here to watch how you finish the murder I started. Kill it. Just kill it now. Maybe, death is what it really deserves—not a second life, not a second chance.

Detox

For a week, I thought I could never listen to Foster the People and Sell Our Door ever again. I even thought that I would end up getting drunk every night and I would end those nights by crying myself to sleep. I thought I would write a sad poem right after you told me the words that I thought I’m afraid of hearing.

But you see, just last night, I went to the bar where we had our first date, to watch Sell Our Door. And I enjoyed listening to them with my friends. The place brought a little nostalgia, but I was able to shake the thought off my system immediately because I chose to be happy. I do get drunk, but it is because I love getting drunk. It’s not about you and it’s not even like an every night curse. I didn’t cry—I actually haven’t for the past two months, I think. And I haven’t written any poem about you. Although this entry is somehow about you, it wasn’t love and pain conjured through poetry.

I'd like to think that what we had was a mistake. But it was beautiful. It made me happy. It made me forget about the things that truly hurt. You were like a vacation spot. A new flavor of drink. A distraction. A rebound.

Am I being cruel? I hope I’m not. But you know what? I haven’t seen things this clear for the past 70 days because I was high with your presence. Yes, you were the drug I took because I was sad and bored and I have that sad freedom to fool around like an angsty teenage girl. However, after detoxifying myself from the memories I had with you, it occurred to me: I can’t really see myself with you.

I can’t see myself sitting next to you, watching Family Guy or True Blood while eating instant noodles. I can’t see myself lying next to you, sobbing while confiding family problems and other personal issues. I can’t see myself shopping with you in the cheapest corners of a cheap shopping spot. I can’t see myself asking you to edit my essays. I can’t see myself laughing and drinking and eating with you in front of my mother. I can’t be myself with you, I can't see myself falling in love with you and I can't see myself growing in love with you.

Because that self, which I can’t seem to imagine spending those moments with you, stayed with the person I left because I was weak and stupid and destructive. That self chose to stay with that person and the person you were hugging and kissing and talking to for the past 70 days is the embodiment of emptiness, of loneliness, of despair.

I wish I could unite with that self again. I wish I could find my way back. I wish I would stop thinking about the what-could-have-beens because I know you have served your purpose and I thank you for that.

Being with you wasn’t a mistake. But being without that self and without that person who knows and loves me best is.

I loved you Reema Masagca.

Lost answers

Tell me I didn’t just imagine that there’s a spark in between. I've been replaying the memories we had together in my mind just to find out if I did miss something. Maybe, I have misread the past 70 days of warm embraces, wet kisses, morning afters, dinners, and all the talks and laughter. I am reading them again. I am carefully looking at the pieces you left, the pieces that seem to complete the puzzle, which ironically made me puzzled for nights.

I am not seeking for love. I am just seeking for answers. Tell me something real. Tell me something that isn’t covered with fear. I can sense that you’re scared of being responsible for breaking someone’s heart. But let me tell you this: You didn’t break mine because it was I who broke my own heart. Yes, it is possible. It is possible to break your own heart because of the choices you made.

I chose to walk down the road in high heels instead of wearing my comfy, old sneakers. I tripped and broke a joint. I bruised my legs. You weren’t responsible for that. You weren't responsible for anything, really. All I wanted is a proof that I haven’t gone crazy and I just imagined that there was you and me.

Yes, it’s you AND me. Not us. I'm aware and I’m perfectly find with it. And I guess it's not just me, who have misread this hullabaloo. It's clear with me that there is you, me—separate individuals who have found happiness in each other’s arms. It is as simple as that.

Estranged

For a moment, she was lost. She found herself standing in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by thistles and thorns and dusts. And all of a sudden a blue sedan appeared and the stranger behind the stirring wheel wholeheartedly offered her a ride a home. But there was no home. She wasn’t even sure where she was going. Confused and scared of being stuck there for a long time, she decided to hitchhike and told the stranger to bring her wherever he wanted too.

At first, she was dazed because the stranger didn’t even complain. In fact, he happily agreed to give her a ride, even if she told him she have no idea where she was going. But after a while, the fear and confusion vanished. She started to enjoy the ride. She enjoyed the scenic panorama of green meadows, the glistening creeks and plateaus—the surroundings literally showed her that the grass is greener on the other side.

She didn’t want to get off. Not only because she was unsure where to go, but because she adored the sights, the company, the ride. The experience was ecstatic. Although there were instances that the trip became wobbly and the roads became rocky, she remained thrilled and happy. But then, a few miles after, the stranger became uneasy. She saw that look in his face—the look that says I am missing the silence. I want the trip by myself. And yes, she saw it coming. She knew that sooner or later, he would ask her to get off because he wanted to be alone, because the air is getting thinner and he cannot breathe. The space is becoming tapered and it is making him claustrophobic.

True enough. The stranger stopped the car and told her those things. And yes, she was just in for a short ride. 

And then again, she found herself standing and now, aching, in the middle of nowhere, surrounded not only by thistles, thorns and dusts, but with the memories of that euphoric and almost cinematic ride she had with this stranger…

Whom she almost fell in love with.

And once again, yours truly have ran out of words

Thus, I am posting this lovely poem entitled, After a While


After a while you learn
The subtle difference between
Holding a hand and chaining a soul
And you learn that love doesn't mean leaning
And company doesn't always mean security.

And you begin to learn
That kisses aren't contracts
And presents aren't promises
And you begin to accept your defeats
With your head up and your eyes ahead
With the grace of a woman
Not the grief of a child

And you learn
To build all your roads on today
Because tomorrow's ground is
Too uncertain for plans
And future have a way
Of falling down in mid flight

After a while you learn
That even sunshine burns if you get too much
So you plant your own garden
And decorate your own soul
Instead of waiting
For someone to bring you flowers

And you learn
That you really can endure
That you are really strong
And you really do have worth
And you learn and you learn
With every good bye you learn.

-- Originally written by Jorge Borges / Translated by Veronica A. Shoffstall

This, It

How I wish I could determine if THIS—everything that’s happening in between—is an inspiration or just an unnecessary stress. But I’m not even sure what this is called. I’m not even sure what is happening. I have been unsure for the past months and I somehow hope that you bring clarity, assurance and comfort. But I can’t tell you that. I know that I can’t expect anything from what we have (or do we really have something in between?).

I wish we have a term for things like this, because calling it a ‘this’ or an ‘it’ is not fucking enough. In-betweens are more complicated. In-betweens hurt more. In-betweens are more fucked up than they may seem to be. I wish I have the courage to ask you what this really is. But I am not ready to know what this is, where this is heading…