When you teach yourself something as a kid
expect that it would either be something you'd avoid,
be proud of or it would probably just be your coping mechanism.
And, I had taught myself to express in just one emotion,
and it was through tears.
My happiness needed to be in tears
and so should it be with my disappointments,
regrets, hatreds, and fears.
Growing up with this lesson
is as heavy as I carried five books
down the street as a five year old kid.
I’m turning eighteen
and I still struggle to easily carry
these five books from my childhood.
And so.. let it be it.
Why do you always feel
the need to write
it all down?
Well, I think I just want to be reminded
that if I ever get to be in this situation again
I just have to turn to that page–
read what I learned and actually learn from it.
or
Maybe I just wanted to count the times
where I felt this way
and had no one to share the pain with
Feel.
Learn.
Repeat.
Someday I want to be able to provide for my family and actually,
independently, give them the life I think I deserved
to receive in the first place rather than give in the future.
It sucks how selfish that may have sounded,
but I also do hope that my reasons are valid enough
for everyone to know that I deserve something too.
Everyone asks for certainty, but not everyone
deserves details and specificity.
Master that
When I talk about my dreams, I feel small.
When I speak of my insecurities, I feel too big.
So tell me, where do I really stand?
She gives everything she can,
yet they complain
for all that she couldn't.
I hope someone sits with me in front of the mirror,
and hopefully feels the heavy denial of my reflection
that would last for as long as I can remember.
The thought of being here scares me more than death. This question always haunts me from the moment I wake til the moment I try to reward myself with some rest: is this really living?
I sit in a classroom for at least twelve hours, for five days. I leave the classroom, the week comes to an end, and I stand here thinking that I actually learned.
But then as time passed by I came to realize that I didn't truly learn any, but to always be present. And, they say that presence is all that matters, but, if I’m being honest, it doesn't always work that way.
In this life we exist, and, unfortunately, existence isn't a full package that comes with joy, bursts of sunshine, rainbows, and luck. In fact, at times, it lacks will and certainty which is a possible reason why we are generally known as the generation of depressed and rebellious teenagers.
That great reality is what scares me the most, that I'm here and I don't really know what to do. And, to tell you the truth, I tried to live. I really did try to live my life to the fullest, and I kept coming back, then stumbling down to being just a seventeen-year-old girl who exists in a big world– I don't want to die with that name.
I want to.
I fear I can't.
And, so I sit and wait for what is there to regret.
I had fun, but for some reason..
I struggle to acknowledge that.
I love my mom, but for some reason, I keep
convincing myself that I hate her.
Every time I find myself struggling,
I turn away from everything and blame my mother.
It’s as if she is another God that I point my fingers at and say:
"fck u for treating me like this"
and "fck u for giving me this life, a life full of ur stupid plans"
And, for heaven's sake, I hate that these words come from me–
I love her so much, but then I am attached to the idea
of needing to hate her just to make myself feel better.
School starts tomorrow,
what a beautiful day to die.
This time I won't have to regret anything.
I wasn't afraid to take the chance
and I'll be making the most out of it.
Fourth of June. Under an old tree down the lake, Arez perched with me as the sun began to flash a scene of farewell. Leaning her head on my shoulder, the wind brushed through our hairs when a sudden uncertainty pounded my mind. Does solace caress Arez’s heart warmly?
If there is a God she prays to, listen.
If there is a boy who loves her, stay.
If there is a father she seeks protection from, defend.
And, if there is a mother she tells burdens to, comprehend.
I sat and asked myself, is there an Arez she trusts? The smile on her face fails to assure. The first thought to arrive addresses my saddest concern. Her soul appears to be covered in blues, and her love, at times, grows to be a covert anger.
Behind the confidence hides her flaws. Within the jewelries come her scarce independence. Upon this friendship rests her home— someone who could be anything and be anyone for her.
Arez can fight. I knew that when her demons failed to take her away.
Nights were haunted, my soul heard it.
It was deep terror beneath her silence.
How strong could she still possibly be?
In my dream, she lives a life to envy because Arez is to envy.
breathe , breathe, breathe
city lights always bring me back to
grief, grief, grief
Little town knows where to hit me. I wander around my words. Big world, little me, insecurity. My roads, they lead me to a place I don't want to be. I don't want to see inferiority.
My heart beats for whom? Do you want it to be you? I’ve been walking through this thin line. Not sure what is mine. Do I even hold my own time??
Intoxicate my body with your words instead of alcohol. Bleed me out with your glance, and I’d blame it on my own hands. I hate that I feel small. I always thought that I was tall. Everything has its fall, and I didn't know it was my fault.
Inferiority, what about me? Inferiority holds my body Now I can't breathe, but I do move.
I move with their commands.
I breathe through my aching heart.
I sometimes feel like there should be more
patience and willingness in helping.
Everyone NEEDS that.
And, I hate how I NEVER really move
when they need some.
Pretentious little me.
Most girls value themselves in a way that their
reflections become more of a villain.
Most girls value themselves
in a way that it would depend on his new girl.
And, most girls are just too angry to show
so they act pretty, sad, and powerful.
When I was a kid, I once dreamt of flying to outer space, to be a little astronaut, and actually find out what's out there, what's bigger than me.
What's so awesome about the stars, the clouds, the little rocky asteroids, and mostly just to find out if the moon was really made out of cheese?
Well, sadly, it wasn’t.
How did I know that? When did I know that? And, why do I know that? I actually grew up, and didn't even realize that growing up, and outgrowing things were something of a weight.
My mind flattens to rest, however it comes to be with an infinite distance. The little adventurer in there never ceases to discover where it all stops. He takes a step, a leap, a tumble, and one day he shall take a flight– he won't even realize.
Under the grass he shall lie, beyond the wind he shall soar.
I knock on his door, it echoes through this home. I called for his name, the silence pierced through. I walk by his shore, he happens to be there. Where?
I paced back home, an echo of sound welcomed me. A sad, sad melody that brought beautiful butterflies along. They said that the little adventurer found the edge, he jumped to be one with the sky, and under the grass his body lies.
Our mind flattens to rest, free from fear.
on the hospital bed he fought, in the sky he found freedom.
to the sick and to the ones who already flee
My body couldn't fit in the mirror they had shown me,
and at the same time, my soul drowned
within the faces of strangers.
She survived another day of different shadows
following her steps.
Shadows that were bigger than her natural figure,
and shadows that fooled her true appearance.
Different flowers bloomed in the garden
only to die under the clouds of incompatibility.
Will we survive?
Will these books be enough to teach us how to live?
And, will we be patient enough to read if it were?
Education to success, and success from education.
Will success come with happiness or shall this wooden belief burn to ashes?
They would all rather be rich and die than be happily content before the ceasing of life.
“What makes you angry?” My professor asked.
If it were only me and him in that room with no audience to scare my softness away then I would've filled the room with the true presence of the flames in my hatred. I would've written all over the walls of the room with ink only his eyes could see as if I were an author filling the pages of his curiosity.
My words wouldn't have taken a step back, my knowledge wouldn't have humbled itself, and he would have left the room with fear that he might poke the bear within. He would walk the grounds with caution. His eyes would scan the room until the end of semester, his hearing sense would heighten over time, and his voice would tip toe as if nails flooded all of the paths.
This is what I could've told him; I am a mad woman with a soft heart. My laughter will easily meet death if your words clinged to the gaps of my body. My attachment would break in a second once your presence throws a knife towards my soul.
I am a mad woman with a soft heart. Earlier before you asked me that question, I had to throw a burial for the death of my Thursday motivation. There had not been a minute that passed by when I entered the place, however Thursday already felt pain on her chest right after someone unexpectedly pulled the trigger. Thursday motivation bled out of the body she came in with. And, there I was summoned.
What truly makes me angry is those who speak of what invalidates their feeling and proceed to invalidate mine. I am allergic to narcissism and egocentrism. I am angry at myself for not being able to speak and defend myself. And, it makes me angry when everyone hates me when I am angry, a prison of emotion where I struggle to express myself with the reasons on my hand.
I am a mad woman, and that makes me angry. I could've said that, but then I stood in front of him and said, “It makes me angry when I see my sister. She annoys me every time”
An uncalled major offense, lying to authority.
As I stand here and quibble about how hard it is to be a wife,
my husband beams at me from the living room,
striking me with the realization that he feels loved
by the love I am not giving.
A deserted island he is,
living unknown to the fact that the person he believes to be lingering
within has already fled.
“Promise me something.” He speaks.
Five years into marriage and he still loves pinky promises—
will it be another promise for me to break in silence?
“It’s my job to love you, and it is your only job to feel it.”
My heart beats rapidly as he speaks.
“Please tell me when it hurts and no longer lingers.
Promise to tell me when my love fails.”
Only a minute passed us by and the glass had already shattered.
When love felt like a chore,
he scrubbed the floor with me.
And, when the relationship
became a tightrope he made sure I never fell.
February 08, 1923
Your words are fries and ice cream together.
Your hugs feel like that one night from my childhood where I cuddled into my blanket on a cold night after swimming for nearly half the day.
Your presence is a ray of sunlight reaching through the curtains after the night slept in a heavy rain.
I remember walking down the hall, taking a tiny little peek through the corner of our classroom window only to find you waiting for me. A water bottle on my table, a smile on your face, and a random flower you stole from the garden– and mainly, you.
I speak to unburden myself, but I never expected you to bloom as if my complaints watered you well enough.
I found my dreams funny, you found truth in my jokes. We were both little girls who grew to watch a figure of a man constantly fade into light.
We were clouds and waters together.
Far from always being together,
yet too close to always be seen anywhere.
Sincerely, Abelias
Can this be the end?
Will your peace seek my presence?
Should I run away and create a different world once again?
I never really liked staying in one place for too long, not when I am seen through a magnifying glass.
I hate standing under the spotlight even with an audience of one. It feels as if a part of me withers then shrinks to disappear.
and so goodbye
do hope to hear from me again
don’t cry
2023
Phase Two Farewell