at least for now

here comes the desire to breathe in your mouth

since we are talking about breathing here,
you probably know already that I can’t stop myself from doing so
once you allow me to

missing a second will make me miss how you beautifully stroke
your hair
your hands
move like a bundle of paintbrush, shading the gaps between each strand
with colors that even a 3-year old child will pick to make
an inanimate flower on a paper smell  like Spring

missing a minute, on the other hand, will make my heart race badly
I will painfully hold on to what is left in my lungs
and because the air inside me reeks of cigarette smoke
I might passed out
and that will make me miss more of you—
the way you melodically put on and take off your pants
both reveal  the contours I love to trace
the second I wake up
in between our naps
while having an almost hard to believe kind of orgasm

missing an hour, missing a day, missing a month
I have yet to know about those

(but I never really wanted to find out)

You all fucking bore me

I chase things that I should run away from because I like fucking things up. I like the complication, the mess, the pain—I like them when they make me crash. I like them when they make me feel weak and vulnerable. I like how my tears draw the line of murder and regrets on my cheeks. I like the ecstasy brought by torture. I like exhausting myself over because I know that when I have nothing left to give, there will be no reason for me to stay or to step backwards to give it another try. I like destroying things you all dubbed as beautiful. And when I feel like giving up, I will make myself remember how much I like fighting for that last breath to give myself an opportunity to get back on my feet to search for something that would take the pain a notch higher than the usual.

So it goes

You think you’re damaged, don’t you? Just as how those shattered glasses gleam on the floor of your apartment that reeks of the scent of grief

you (oddly) pride yourself with the kind of exquisiteness that only
wounded people who know how to swim in the hideousness of agony
understand
(and admire, because you all fucking love the cliché, misery loves company). 
You seem to forget how beautiful you are—despite the countless hours you spent
in front of that mirror, not so long ago,
loving and romanticizing the glow of morning afters.

And here I am, infatuated.

Writing your name in the air,

in the spaces where we used to sit and drink,
in that bed you (still) share with your former lover,
between the tangles of your cat's fur,
in the sticks of half burnt cigarettes—I write your name everywhere.
Yes, you have no idea that I’ve been doing that for days now
because you are moping and you’re eyes are too clogged
with tears, to witness how I try to perfect the strokes 
of your initials, of the letters Ts where I crucify
this seemingly teenage agony. I am writing your name so I could hold myself back

from tracing the ink on your arms, from touching that wounded body, from touching that wounded heart. (For Tefiny)

You sad, sad creature

Just when I thought that things are finally getting better, I found myself once again digging a deep hole where I can hide from the rest of the world. The plainness of these cycles are burning me out—that I’d rather run to and fro than sit with you to watch the sunset, which clearly is nothing but a natural phenomenon worshiped by all those pretentious artsy fucks. Destroying things that you call beautiful is a desire that I can’t get rid off. It’s like asking someone to build an awe-inspiring house with you, by the beach, where you can feel the gentle breeze coming from the coast, where your feet can touch the warmth of the morning sunshine. But then again, things like these tire me. The sweet scent brought by those events will eventually turn into a tasteless aroma...just as how a warm cup of coffee loses its charm, failing to sober up a junkie who is helplessly lying on his cockroach-infested floor.

Why do I have this urge to fuck things up and break free? Clearly, it’s because there is something wrong with me and I don’t deserve anyone’s attention and love. I don’t deserve a good person and I certainly don’t need someone who wants to spice up his/her boring life with my fucked up situation. I am not the element that makes other elements explode once we turn into compounds.

Believe me, being with someone who’s as screwed as me is not worth it.

Run, naïve girl. Run. This girl right here doesn't need you to save her. Let her sink in that fucked up trance because that's where she belongs.

Noodles and Burgers

At that moment, all she ever wanted was to see you in that corner where you once plan to meet her after almost 3 years of being out of each other’s radar. Yes, just a mere sight of you would be enough. And perhaps that would be coupled with small talks that would mean nothing right after a bottle or two.

Every sip of beer she was having that night reminds her of the beauty that she thinks only her can see and understand. The beauty that made her admire you the first time she saw you—the beauty that went beyond the curves and the lines of your body when she started knowing you through your unspoken poetries.

She never asked for your wholeness. She never wanted to depend the deepness of her inhales on the strength of your exhales. Perhaps, it’s really just the sight of you, the small talks with you, the tragic tales you share over drinks, and maybe, just maybe, that warmth you unconsciously gave when your arms met hers during that deep slumber.

Somewhere along the Emerald road

Its 3pm and all I can think about are the walls that tightly embrace your comfort zone. Here I am, reminiscing the nights when you allowed me to make my way into the darkest corners of your lair. How you melodically put your guard down, allowing me to glance at your wounds, your scars, and even the marks that you made for the future slits that you would do to numb what’s inside you.

You said you are one of those deranged human beings who are brave enough to hold on to the morsels of hope suspended in the air they breathe. I am breathing the same air, hence, I know its bittersweet smell. I, too, just like you, is spending my life inside the box stained with the disasters I made out of love, out of lust, out of stupidity, out of fear, out of nonchalance. I, too, just like you, discovered catharsis through self-inflicted pain and even in the melodramatic motion of my hand that whines with paper and ink.

We find peace and comfort in the smooth taste of alcohol. We bask into the ephemeral bliss of listening to each other’s despair. We even listen to each other’s breathing. And in the middle of these dances, we know that we are wounded but we are healing. And yes, we are crazy but at least we know how to keep on hoping. 

Once a Upon a Drunken Night in a Hip Pub Downtown

After 12 midnight you shouldn’t expect that someone

would be available to listen to your miserable tales unless

you’re out in a hip pub engulfed in faint lights and smoke,

where everyone is friends with anyone who’s drunk enough

to take somebody else’s bullshit that stinks worse than theirs.

It looks easy to watch these strangers if you’re just right there—

sober, thinking you’re too cool to foster your despair with

a glass of vodka or a bottle of cheap beer.

So you would just sit and have a cup of coffee

right from where you could get the best view of these lonely hearts

that tirelessly whisper and whimper to one another.

And then you would remember that a few months ago

you were one of them—because after 12 midnight

you know that you couldn't count on your best friend,

for she is out of town with her lover.

You couldn't call your colleague because you know how fast

your sad stories would travel from her desk to the boss’ desk.

And for obvious reasons, you know couldn't talk to your parents.

You have no one after 12 midnight except the people in your photo albums,

the actors and actresses in the magazines, and the authors in your bookshelves.

Your bedroom has enough space for your tales,

But you know it's too cold to keep you company until you heal.

And so you would find yourself in the hip pub engulfed in faint lights and smoke,

and you would become friends with someone who’s drunk enough

to take your bullshit. In the back of your mind, this person

who is so keen to listen to the drops of your tears,

and is so willing to watch the movement of your mouth

could be the lover you've been waiting for.

And yes, she is that person.

She is the reason why you were in that hip pub before 12 midnight.

Because after 12 midnight you would be out with her somewhere

where vodka and beer are for celebrations.

Somewhere where seduction is over

and the only stranger that exists is the word despair.

***I wrote and dedicate this piece for people who have a bottle of alcohol on their left hand, and a handful of hope on their right hand. Original piece, January 22, 2013.

More of the aftermath

I think I don’t trust myself enough to trust myself to someone who’s willing to hold my hand while I walk myself out of this pathetic shit I’m going through. It is a rare opportunity to find people who feel and understand your pain and obscurity and it’s a common opinion that when you find them, you must not let go of them.

But how you can keep them if you can’t even keep yourself together? I swing back and forth to despair and I am becoming a selfish, numb monster who doesn’t care about the trouble that she’s causing with her indecisiveness.

I need to find my way out of this vicious trap.

To a fruitful year ahead

It is possible to float with the random impetus of feelings inside and outside this body which somehow make her realizes that she doesn’t really need a hand to hold her close or an arm that she can hold on to whenever she’s scared. It’s actually natural and it’s perfectly fine to feel a little sad and feel the nostalgia at times, especially during those moments when she remembers how the sweet fusion of roughness and smoothness of skin to skin feels like.

She misses a lot of things as much as she let herself missed certain opportunities that promise her to take her out of loneliness. But yes, she doesn’t need to take chances—at least not now, to escape those nights of pain. She tries to endure everything, as she watches how that person takes his steps away from her… away with someone else.

She’s wounded but she’s healing.  And one day, she knows that she will be fully recovered—geared with hopes and filled with love that she will surely share to someone who’s worth the risk.