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.