Tuesday, May 27, 2014

This Is Home

(image credit here)

How can you
so peacefully
in this bed
when I could barely
let the same sheets
touch my skin?
can you close your eyes
and let me sit
in the middle of the kitchen floor
at four in the morning
and watch the sun rise
over this joke of a life
I now have
Cradling a bottle of whiskey
or vodka
or tequila
or some other poison
to my chest
a hole carved out
where my heart used to be
dripping bitter blood
into my glass
save for the excuses
I made up for you
Of where you had been
all those nights I slept alone
Probably entwined
around another woman's body
like the night you said you missed me
and I found you on someone else's bed
I can see the lie
at the nape of your neck
All the love crumbling
on that hotel room's doorstep
If I could go back
to the time it fell apart
will I understand
the person I found?
Since when did I start
to not recognize your eyes?
Since when did your scent
told of liar
instead of husband?
The person in front of me
is someone I don't know
Scarier than the monsters
beneath our bed
is the monster
who kissed me goodnight
like he never did
a wrong thing
in his life
Our life together
was not a life at all
A farce, an act
a world
where only you are satisfied
Do you have to ruin
all the lives
of the people
who had the misfortune
to be loved
like you?
Before I break
your neck
before I break
my heart
I raise my glass
to cheer the stupidity
of the heart I thought you had killed
but still insists
to beat and live and love
I raise my glass
and let it fall
to break into a hundred jagged points
of pain and waste
an intoxicating mix of something
you had the nerve to call love
I pick a point
any point
and raise it to the light
of a moon
that thinks I'm too pathetic
to show its face
to somebody like me
whose pride
cannot be found anywhere
even at the bottom
of a bottle of alcohol
or under a fake bed
of a pretend marriage
with make-believe vows and promises
You upended my life
and all I get
is a ring on my left hand
that had lost all meaning
it may have ever had
What was supposed to be forever
was forgotten
under the skirts
of a girl
who probably melted
under his touch
like I did
when you promised me
worlds I have never seen
a love I cannot begin to imagine
As I lay my soul bare
for his hands to explore
I tucked these promises
into the pockets of my heart
to save them for later
All those promises
now thrown over his shoulder
after his pants
and all of his other clothes
The hand
with our wedding ring
somebody else's body
The same lips that kiss me
behind my ear
and under my jaw
whispered some other name
as it skated over a body
that he has broken
with promises he cannot keep
The same lips that kissed me
kissed somebody else
I should have turned
and run away
from those dirty, unfaithful hands
and leave with the remaining shreds
of self-respect
I may have left
Why does my skin
call out for your touch
when all I can do
is cringe in disgust?
Why do I still curl up
and keep your voice
in a corner of my heart
and let it play
in the absolute silence
of the loneliest nights?
Your existence
can still make me shake
Sway the fortress
I thought I had built
against you
until I realized
that the fortress was still you
it was always you
it always will be you
Why do I choose to stay
when every instinct screams to run away?
I don't want to be
another murder story
of a woman
who lost who she was
when her husband found comfort
in somebody else's arms
I don't want to be
one more death
in a tragic love story
that was doomed from the start
I am no saint
but I could be a martyr
a martyr
to a promise
I swore to keep
I don't need a freedom
that somebody else
has decided
but my own
I will drop the jagged points
that are the shards of our marriage
into the trash
along with everything
I thought was true
Of a house that held
a pretend family
and a living corpse
of a woman once loved
I will climb back into bed
Slip in between the sheets
Let myself be caught
in the prison of his arms
Be part of the tangle
of arms and legs and hair and fingers
and so many nerve endings
Burning, igniting
meeting, departing
the patched-up hole in my chest
Tear apart my rib cage
and set my heart free
Let it bleed
as I lie in this bed
and live the lie I wanted
A lie of love
I am willing to take
as I bury my heart
in the arms
of the man who killed it
and the child that kept it beating
and I smile
close my eyes
and think myself free

Friday, May 23, 2014

Let Me Stay

(image credit here and here)

Please shut the door and follow me home
Let me lead you back
to the space between my arms,
the place where I can always hold you safe
Don't look inside the room
no one's inside
I promise you
there is no one inside
that will break us apart
Please close your eyes
against the ugly truth
That we are standing
a hotel room for two
in a city
five thousand miles away
from where I told you
I'll be
Please believe me
when I say
I was alone
Please don't stare
at all the signs
screaming at your face
Don't sniff out the lie
or the perfume
that wasn't yours
Don't reach out
to rub out
the lipstick smudge that wasn't yours
or the kiss you didn't give
on my neck
Let's walk away
from everything I've done
Please hold my hand
and it will strive to forget
the body it held
that was not yours
There will be no girl
inside that room
if you promise to forget
tonight ever happened
I would never have lied
And you would never have caught me
So please
let us go away
You and I
Back to our world
where you love me
and I love you
Let me love the pain away
strangle the accusations out of your throat
smother your lips with mine
to mute the sobs
that only betrayal can make
drown out your tears
in a sea of endless apologies
I will never be not sorry
for as long as I live
for as long as you let me
for as long as you want me
I will l tell you how much I love you
Like how I could
Like how I should always would
I will cook your scrambled eggs with cheese
just how you like them
Dance a waltz with you
while the radio plays rock and roll
Wash the dirty laundry
Throw away the trash
Break my ribs, take out my heart
Find the lies and rip them apart
Please let me try
to make things right
Let me make you forget tonight
Let me say sorry
Let me stay
Let's walk away
and close the door
Let the girl sleep
and let the light
of the morning sun
kiss her awake
instead of me
Let the bed cling to her body
every square foot
of skin and bone
be covered with sheets
that are the untold story
of all the correct mistakes
we think we made
instead of letting my lips
travel down
the planes and courses
of a body
that wasn't mine to keep
of a body
of a person
that wasn't mine
to anything
Let my fingers tangle with yours
instead of fisting them in her hair
Let me whisper your name
into your ear
into the beautiful curves
of heryour collarbones
Let me slip your clothes off your shoulders
Let your legs end and curl up with mine
Let me be yours
only you
So let go of the doorknob
and take my hand
Let's walk down the hallway
and out the hotel
Back to our house
our room
our world
Our bed
our sheets
our bodies
And when we wake up
let me cook the breakfast
and feed the baby
Let me stay
you and me
Our family of three

Wednesday, May 21, 2014

After The Act

(image credit here)

I disentagle myself
from the stained 
and crumpled sheets
Blink at the bleak morning light
peeking through the curtains
from a sun
too ashamed
to share its light
on somebody like me
whose dignity
lay in pieces
scattered across the room
like every piece of dirty laundry
that came off
with the remaining shreds
of self-respect
I may have left
For there is no turning back
from the time I lay open
Every part of my trembling soul
for his dirty unfaithful hands
to touch
to claim
to possess
and I gave it to him
Every last inch of the woman I tried to become
Somebody-to be's perfect muse
Somebody-to-be's ideal wife
as I slowly became the woman
I never wanted to be
There was no fitting the pieces back together
Because the moment he touched me
I was undone
The thread unwinding from the tapestry
of my perfectly imagined future
The moment he touched me
he crushed my soul into powder
I became the drug, the perfect escape
the scapegoat to all his mistakes
The moment
I let him touch me
ended any beginnings
I may have left
in this lifetime
There was no future
with a person
who'd replace his present with me
A present full of diapers and teething rings
Lipstick stains on collars
Phone numbers hidden in cigarette packs
A tan line on the left hand's fourth finger
And lying
and cheating
I became another notch
in another couple's bedpost
Another notch in the belt
of a cheating scumbag
Another check off
an adulterer's fuck list
I look around the room and observe
the crime scene of the death
of the me I could respect
I see the murder of a girl
who has no idea
of what a woman really is
That more than enticing flesh
model bone structure
and beauty that all the make-up
and fashion can fake
Was that the woman that died in that room
could have had so much
without having him
That she was infinitely more
than a one-night stand
or nights with a borrowed husband
That she deserved more
than being a lie or a secret
That she deserved to be loved
for the whole universe to see
But she will never know
for no one will tell her she was right
no one but the reflection
on the cracked bathroom mirror
of a girl with messy hair
a tear-streaked face
lips swollen from last night's sins
and a broken soul
who will tell her she regrets
ever saying yes
never saying no
No one will tell her
that after she leaves that room
she will meet the man
who wouldn't mind her scars
and wash away the stains
left by the man who bled her dignity dry
She will meet the man who will love her
and let the universe know
But no one will tell her
because she never left the room
The cracks on the mirror became a fissure
a breaking
to the blue-green lines
just under the skin
the warm, warm skin
of her face
her palms
her lips
her wrists
Long, jagged lines
of purple and blue-green
slashed to dark
dark red
No one will tell her anything
No one will tell her to fight
for she owns no one
no one to fight for her
no one to fight for
no one to fight
no one

Thursday, May 8, 2014

To Newly-Twenty Me

(image credit here)

There will always be moments like this from now on. Moments when you are just scared of whatever happens next. These moments make you human, but these are the moments that would make you want to be invincible. But for invincibility, you have to throw away humanity, for those who are invincible have lost touch with their reality. They become invincible because they have nothing to fear, and the emotions that make people so helplessly weak are the same ones that make them so beautifully human. Fear of what tomorrow will bring, fear that no matter what happens today supernovas somewhere can create their own Big Bang. Your life can implode upon itself in as many stars are there in this galaxy but the universe will not care enough to stop. Rather, it would care too much and live on. All of us have the selfish wish that the world would acknowledge our existence, but there are other galaxies that function without the tiniest idea that we exist. We want the world to stop for our benefit but all it can do is move along and move on.

Raise your head, for even if there are pennies under your feet there is a lot more of the sky and the universe that you ought to see. Raise your chin, for although it is important to be humble you ought to know that you have a place in this earth. In this lifetime, in this century, in this millisecond, you are woven into the fabric of history; you are the needle and thread of one ordinary day of legendary possibilities. Raise your head and your chin, and know enough to claim your place in this earth. Raise your hooded gaze and see what world you have created with your very eyes. Square your shoulders and carry your burdens that you have more than one shoulder to help you carry them, like how people are supposed to stay together and how humans are supposed to be. The curves of your spine are meant to be straightened out, not by violence, but by love. Straighten your back to stand up for what is just; straighten your spine because you stand by what you love. And at the times we involuntarily slump in defeat, we square our shoulders, slap our cheeks. The pain will remind you that you are alive. The pain spurs revenge--the revenge against disappointment and unhappiness by being satisfied and happier.

The positive feelings may not last long. But they never disappear. Same as fear--it will never be removed from society. Each and every individual will possess a smidgen of raw terror at the darkest corners of their hearts, folded into a box that will unlock itself at the best and worst of times.

And it's okay.

It's okay to have and feel fear. It's okay to not be brave all the time, to feel like hiding under fifteen blanket layers and a rotten mask of cool indifference. It's okay to have wobbly knees, stomach butterflies, chills that take elevator rides up and down your spine for fun. It's okay to be a coward sometimes, and to feel like you're not up for the world. It's okay to admit defeat, because if you don't then the real loser is you. You lost to yourself, never to the world and its all-important natural functions, not to the society and their pretentious classifications of what perfection should be. Not to anybody, with different unique beliefs. No. You lose only to yourself, but that's okay. Because then, you can amend. In the end, you can win against the world. Contrary to popular belief, sometimes fighting the losing battle will show more merit in your character than anyone else has to say about you.

It's okay to lose yourself along the way, because eventually you will find and get yourself back. You may come back a little bruised, a few cuts and scrapes and all sorts of injured. You may also not come out in one piece. You can have your soul shattered into a million impossible pieces. Your heart can be ripped out of your chest, a hole punched through, and put back as if nothing happened. That hole may never heal, and maybe you'll be left with a hastily patched up piece of muscle that will not stop bleeding over the lives of the people you meet. It is sometimes not our choice to get hurt, but we go ahead and do it because we're stupidly, beautifully human.

It is okay to doubt being alive, existing in this tiny miracle that we call life. But never doubt your importance, not once, not ever. It is okay to be fearful of yesterday, and tomorrow, to acknowledge the many different phobias that stretch through time and space. But never question your significance, for your memories and experiences can never be repeated or duplicated by any single particle of even the most powerful star in the universe. For the idea of you was important enough that the usually cannot-be-bothered universe has fermented all the atoms that makes you a warm living, breathing creature, and yet it is still the idea of your existence that makes you significant in the existence of the universe.

You are the completion of the map of human existence. Remember your significance, for you are important. No matter what you think the universe says, there are facts that should always keep you going: you have a purpose, and you are important.

Saturday, April 5, 2014

Why Study Communication Arts?

(image credit here)

My brain-to-mouth filter is faulty at best. Sometimes, it works too well to a point that I don't speak at all, content with plugging off the rest of the world with songs from Japan to Great Britain to America and back to the Philippines, or defying time-space dimensions with books or movies or TV series. And yet, there are times that I let my words trip over each other in their excitement to get out and be expressed, telling of subjects, people, cultures that I am passionate about, wisecracking (admittedly) corny jokes, and trying to prove my inner swagger by talking like I'm one of the cool kids. I'm more noisy online, the flow of conversation easier for me without the eye-contact and actual people in front of you. Talking to people has and always will be tricky, for there are ticks and bubbles of privacy and personal space that you always consider, whether you do it through a screen or a keyboard or a phone or static space. Too scared to always cross the line, always too uncomfortable to be too close for comfort--that was, and always will be me. Yet I like warm hugs, like that cute animated snowman, and for the past four years I've been contradicting myself that made me want to have an answer. After all those years of education, who was the me created? How do you label and define the person typing these words?

I am a paradox; I came from an institution filled with numbers and equations and chemical formulas and inertia. There was constant questions about the universe and how it was formed, how we became to be as Homo sapiens. Friends have asked me: why enroll into this type of curriculum in high school? Why spend time solving and balancing equations when my head was more suited to floating around with the clouds, or buried into the books I read in class that, er, weren't related to class?

So I enrolled into this degree program. Following my heart, spending my parents' money on an expensive but privileged education, still not being allowed into malls because of the juvenile uniform, the whole nines. I've been careful not to mention my high school--not that I'm embarrassed of it in any way, just that there's a certain expectation and distancing that happens when people think you're smarter than what you really are--but when people do start to know, the same questions were asked. Why enroll into this degree when you come from such a different path? Why not try medicine or engineering with what you know? Why rather not be anywhere but here?

The answers I have only get to blog post and diary entry, but they stay majorly unchanged. This was my way of trying to answer my own questions about the universe, of the importance of the existence at this place and at this time, how we became more than a person, but as a human individual with sets of values and principles and quirks and philosophies. Of questions of why we exist, outside food chains and stupid pyramid hierarchy of needs. Of how we feel outside hormones and chemical reactions, how we became permanent in the only constant facts of change and death. That maybe by this choice I have bound myself would help me articulate everything going through my brain into words and speech.

And yet, here I am. Unable to look in the eye half of the guys in my block, the same people I've been with for the past four years. I'm not the expected communicator this degree would churn out, all booming voice and overflowing confidence. I still prefer to sit tucked into the corner, the left or right of the very end of the second row, depending on the classroom and the professor's preference of alphabetical pseudo-order. I stumble over my words, use the podium or whoever is sitting in front of me as a shield whenever I brave to prove a point. Everything that requires talking in front of the class, stating opinions that may go against theirs, goes against every cell in my body screaming to stay away from conflict. Never good at handling arguments, sitting back from taking any major decisions (with the exception of meal choices, or my friends and I will have end up not eating anywhere in said four years). I rant through tweet, status reports, and creative retelling of events in this corner pocket of the interwebs. My accent is still beautifully native, unable to adopt the most-prized twang of the DJs and TV personalities and lack (or refusal?) of practice. I converse in the vernacular, yet write and think and dream in this language that felt like a second skin of my brain, ally of my ideas and witness to the written words my mouth could not express.

Descriptions of me range from quiet and aloof to overly adrenalin-rushed and exuberant, and I don't know what to believe. There are a million possibilities of conversations running through my head, possible scenarios from this world or other dimensions. Yet rarely do I speak outside the written word. And there is the power of the speech of silence that I have learned to value throughout the years; something about choosing the battles you fight and win and lose.

I never know exactly where to put myself.

I'm not exactly the stereotypical student of the art of communication, the whole base idea weird to begin with. For not all of us want to be in front of the camera, for we understand the utmost importance of the people behind the lens and the lights. We are not always noise and glittering lights, and enjoy the importance of being alone with ourselves. Nor are all of us performers, because there is an understood need for the people behind the curtain to push the right people into the spotlight. We are not all of an attention-hungry race, for we value the silence of coffee shops and libraries. We do not always act out tragedies to get out of responsibilities, for we know the responsibilities we hold with the media that we handle. Not all of us are at parties, for we all had thesis requirements to pass. Films to make. IMC campaigns to flesh out. Advertisements to make believable. Plays and events to plan. So many things to try, so many things to do. We defy the very word of stereotype, for there will never be one type, not one mold to fit us, not one label to contain us.

So I sit here and type and try to answer other questions that started this whole shenanigan, and realize I have the answer.

What am I doing here? What am I trying to do?

More than a ploy to romanticize the already dramatic "great scheme of things", there's a tentative reason why I willingly went through all the readings and papers these past four years. There's also the unstoppable need to prove yourself--to your professors for the grades you want, to your peers for the acceptance into this circle, to your parents for the assurance that their money isn't going to waste, and maybe most of all to yourself, for the assurance that you are not going to waste.

So I sit here and write, and tentatively answer. That I don't know yet. It is hard to assume your purpose in the world when you have yet to map out what that world really means to you. And maybe that for now, it's okay not to know. And eventually, the answers will arrive at my doorstep after constant wrestling with the universe, ready to meet the person that I am. All I can hope is that the universe likes what it gets and choose to stay.

I don't have labels. I don't have a clear definition. But I am a human person, and the beauty of that comes from being able to try on different identities and choosing which is the most comfortable against my skin. I am a human person, and with the constancy of change comes the assurance that nothing will permanently stick. By the time we expire we are to be identified by a few words in our tombstones, but the joy in living comes with the ability to constantly shift outside different words into others.

I am a human person. I may not have the best brain-to-mouth filter, but I try my best to get across the important stuff.

If I may choose any definition to remain, let it be that I am human, and that I have been good at it.

Tuesday, March 25, 2014

Platform Terminal

(image credit here)

As published in The Chronicle A.Y.2013-2014

Train stations and delays, flights and arrivals and departures. You were always the question mark in my carefully mapped out plan, the only wrinkle in my path to tomorrow.

You were that question I can never answer.

I know the basics, like how you came into my life (it was college, everything is scary, and you were the first friend in the sea of faces and strangers and sky-high expectations), but I don't know how you made yourself so important. Nothing was ever permanent, but you made me feel that you are. Through deadlines and stress and all the unhealthy habits, you were always beside me, or else in the background but still a significant presence.

You were there. You were always there. You were the only definite spot in the map, the only landmark of my failed romantic ventures. You were the last saving point in a game, always there to urge me forward and try again.

I never realized when you turned from the saving point to the goal.

You were the princess to be saved in the tower. The final stage, however, was also you.

Despite your permanence in me, you were never one to be still. You were the dictionary definition of action. Movement became you, and life happened with your step and smile and snap of your fingertips. And despite my geeky, video-game analogy, you were never the one to wait for a savior. You were the type of princess who owned the castle and made friends with the dragons and trolls that guard it.

You never waited.

You said so yourself, until I met you. You said the last four words lightly, but I heard the weight of the words.

I was your anchor, and you were scared of that. Anchors kept ships at ports, and you only saw ports as changing points for the next adventure. But ports were also safe places, for repairs and refreshments and getting to know what it means to have stability.

I was an anchor. You were the princess in the tower.

Maybe we were waiting for each other. For the ship to set sail, for its final passenger. Maybe, just maybe, this was why we waited.

The train is slowing to a stop, the final boarding call is being sounded out. There were places we need to go. It was time we stopped meeting them alone. There were crossroads to be taken both ways, with held hands in both directions. There were paths that needed wrinkles for people to try and iron them out, questions that needed to stay unanswered until that right one comes along and the right person answers.

Coming along, then?

Monday, March 24, 2014

The Touch Language

(image credit here)

I never understood
what it meant
to be this close
to another human being
Before this,
before us,
I only read
of fairy tale beginnings
and beautiful endings
I have yet to learn
the secrets of
the language of skin to skin
Of the creases and calluses
of hesitant hellos
and fingerprint friendships

I don't know
what became
our beginning of everything
but I know it included
singing in the rain
without an umbrella
and twenty-inch pizzas
Doodles behind notebooks
and guitar chords
Swept up hair
and drunken
must-be confessions
and maybe a sliver of
confusion(?) and denial(?)
we became

This bundle of blushing
bumbling idiots
With a million undiscovered nerve endings
on every inch of skin
from the shoulders when we leant into each other
to our fingers
as we held on and wondered
how deliciously different
this feels
whatever it is

was our loudest answer
for we are born
in the quiet of each other
amidst the noise
of a thousand people
bustling with their own brands
of hellos and goodbyes
while here we stand
meeting each other

Hand to hand
finger splayed against finger
palms together
with signals from every known nerve ending



(image credit here)

What drove people
to create things?
Monuments and destruction
were the endings
of all the wars
that ever were.
So what was the point
of all the music and
the movies and the
paintings, all the art and
dance and bombs and
explosions and births
and orgasms?

Why does longing
for the warmth of human flesh
struggle to find descriptions
that raises the blush in your cheeks
and memories that should be kept
in heart and not grey matter?

Do we long for perfect
first kiss stories
to hide the ugly truth
of why the world
is falling apart
in its seams?

Or weep over
the things we cannot control
to show that we
are truly grateful
of all the things
we take

So why does it seem
that for every wrong
there are
a multitude of rights
to make you feel guilty
of what you can have?

Why do we seek
to find
all that is
and take a picture?

Are we that afraid
of wiping out
our own species
so we are now
all desperate
to leave our mark in the world?

Every polluted molecule
every sullied part of nature
we are there
every birth
and every death
we are there

Of the things we deem ordinary
and the things we may not understand
our existence
is woven into every droplet
of rain
and paint
and tear
and alcohol
that ever existed

We are there

Every grain of rice
of sand
of wheat
Every leaf
of tea bushes
and marijuana

We are there

In the midst of creation
there will always be
the destruction
and decomposition
of what we know
as "the self"

For what is the self
but beliefs
and memories
and feelings
coming together
to form
and everyone else

So why do we have
to make sure
that someone
would remember us?

Is this struggle
made for the comfort
of those we leave behind?
To have a final say
in how we want
to be remembered?

Or do we create
for the sake of creation
to fill the urge
of emptiness
seeking for
pretend completion?

Tuesday, March 18, 2014


(image credit here)

Our love is spelled out on the cracks in the pavements
and the dirt caked into your fingernails and your once fair skin
now illuminated by neon-light signboards and faint lighter glows
and the cigarette fires screened by the hazy clouds of smoke
pumped out by blackened lungs and nicotine-stained gums
and curling into spirals around your fingers laden with cheap imitation rings
to hide the patch of whiter skin on the fourth finger of your left hand
like a scar, now clutching a fistful of empty, polluted air
as everyone else goes home to their partners or families or
imaginary happy relationships or procrastinated papers
and you order another drink, a tall glass of your own
choice of poison and watch the stream of people reduce
to a trickle, looking around hopefully for another soul as lonely as yours
But like as many nights, you fail yet again
with nobody but the bartender to bother
Who every night wears invisible headphones of indifference
and slaps on a fake smile of concern
for vagrant misfits that assault him, not with broken bottles and glasses
and spilled alcohol, but with the deepest pits of human consciousness
awakened by spirits and the hidden need to be heard and understood
And you, the you I now barely recognize, were the bar's regular,
the girl with the reserved bar stool of sorrow and shame
Drowning your tears in liquid numbness, the alcohol dulling the pain
of unreturnable yesterdays, regretful todays, and lost tomorrows
As you retell the story of the day you never wanted to remember
you look up and around and realize you were alone, more than ever
The bartender was clearing your glass, wiping the tears and drool
you left on the table, and tell you, not too unkindly, that it was closing time
And you reach for your wallet, groping at crumpled bills
and finding the last love note I wrote you
before stumbling out of the bar and the bartender lets slip 
the fake understanding to give way to real sympathy
And you stumble out of the cab that takes you home,
kick off your shoes, and fall face first onto the bed
You let the sobs begin, shaking your whole body
from every tangled hair on your beautiful head, to the toes that curl up involuntarily
against the raw truth of it all, all that has happened and all you have refused to accept
As you fall asleep again this way, your body is a lonely apostrophe
in a bed that was too big when you shared it with someone before
I long to wipe away the tears still falling from your closed eyes
from the happy dreams you are having
of the two of us together


But I could only make the breeze blow softer on your face
Jealous that it could touch your skin, ruffle your hair the color of baby corn
in the first hours of the morning, while I sit here
Denser than air but less solid than water
Cradling your head in my arms
Holding you, but not holding you
Always in the void, the in-between
Of nothingness, and almost-somethingness

Our love is spelled out on the cracks on the pavement
Broken, unfinished roads to once familiar
now unknown destinations
Of what was once whole and known
into fragments of what we've built

Our love was spelled out on the cracks on the pavement
was my last conscious thought
as my life's essence flows away
Filling in the cracks in the concrete
but cutting unhealing wounds
into your heart
and mine

Wednesday, March 12, 2014


(image credit here)

You stood there
head bowed
back straight
pink-tinted cheeks

You held the gaze
of every heart
Everyone envied
the wall that was your friend

Everyone wanted
to be that one guy
that would raise your head
and make you smile

But you were busy looking
For patterns in the dust
Too scared to see constellations
In somebody else’s eyes

You were so busy
Making yourself small

But you were everything but
Unnoticed and invisible

I wish I could tell you
All the things I’ve said
But this whole conversation
Was all in my head

For I was leaning
Against the opposite wall
Nursing a drink to my chest
And wishing I wasn’t so tall

I wish I could tell you
How pretty you look
Or how the lights made your freckles
And your dress light up the room

Or how the sweep of your eyelashes
Against your cheeks
Made me want to be brave
And make small talk

Everyone wanted to hear
How the wallflower speaks
Was it a whisper to the heart
Or a shout to the universe?

But you are a wallflower
And I’m more of a weed
But the walls are our anchors
Our ports, our barriers

The room was too big
To be too close to you
The room was too small
To be right next to you

I thank time and space
For bringing us here
Awkward but not cold
Quiet but not alone

But the universe can
Only push me so much
I am too attached
To my wall and familiarity

So when I saw you
That night at that party
Both of us not knowing
Why we were there

I can only look
Stop, and then stare

Too scared to try and ruin
What I built in my head
Imaginary happiness is best
Without the emotional baggage

For you are a wallflower
Beautiful, but not fleeting
And I was once
a non-believer

But the chance I got
To see your smiles
Across the room
Made me think

That you were a flower
With you own sun
And your existence was
What blooming really is

Tuesday, March 11, 2014

(Not) A Special Snowflake

(image credit here)

You never were a special snowflake. Special, yes, but your smiles are too warm and your hugs too comforting for you to be likened to the snow. You are more like a breath of fresh air, gently caressing my face with your little laughs and our inside jokes. Never cold but for when you are not around, you are the sun that makes my morning.

Cold was when you turned away. Cold began when you stopped smiling. Frozen was when my heart ran out of its supply of your sleepy face when you just woke up and the voice that cracked when you sing songs that were too high. Frozen was when I ran out of my supply of your smirks and witty comebacks.

Frozen is what I am now.

I can't pretend to not know what happened.

There was enough evidence in the news and the papers.

I wish I could just go back to the sunshine and the warmth. But you were gone, and enjoying it without you seemed like such an insult to you, who taught me how to enjoy it.

At the very end, you snatched away the warmth you gave me in the first place.

In the end you really were a special snowflake. You were special, and you were cold at the very end. You melted away with the sun, and froze with the warmth of a thousand unhappening tomorrows.

Tuesday, February 4, 2014

To Take a Peek at the Unknown

(image credit here)

She wonders if she steps over the ledge if anyone would cry. Holding a bunch of wildflowers in her hand, she grimly thinks about how she would be bringing her own funeral crown to her casket.

Then his voice called out and she remembered. Why she had flowers in the first place, who gave them to her, and the reason she was holding them.

And then she steps back from the rusty steel railings, takes her foot from the ledge to the more solid concrete stability of the rooftop's floor, and her life, and turned around to smile at the boy with the lopsided grin and the floppy curly hair, and whispers

Thank you

For taking me here

Rusty railings can't tempt her to take her life, nor can the bluest sky, as long as she had the almost wilting flowers in her hands and that unbearable thought of never seeing that lopsided grin again.

For now, she holds the flowers to her chest, and held out her hand to him. He runs a hand through his curly hair before it joined her hand, faint lines of rust tracing the skin of her palm, like what his fingers were currently doing.

Falling down heights and through the endless expanse of sky was nothing compared to falling into the endless depths of his eyes, the secrets they held and will tell, and falling falling for him.