I lay my head on my silk pillows and rest my hands on my stomach, one on top of the other. My legs are stretched out straight with both my feet perpendicular to the mattress - toes and all. Every single muscle in my body is relaxed, still as the air in the room. My breaths are now shallow and soft as I try to be acquaintances with the lonely night. I close my eyes. Everything disappears. If seen from above, I look like a lifeless corpse ready to be put to eternal rest inside an overpriced coffin made to make the undead feel good about themselves at funerals. I might as well be one already, especially with this gorgeous vintage Valentino dress I have on. I can feel the delicate sharpness of each sequin overlapping another with my fingertips. That reminds me, I bought a packet of razor blades too just now — 4 in a single pack, half-off at Walmart. Too late.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale—
I’m still here.
This isn’t working. The people on that pathetic forum said that ten pills should do the trick, but I feel like I just downed a handful of Skittles instead. Fuck. I paid good money for this. I wonder if they take refunds. Maybe I can replace the missing pills with some breath mints or something. Or Xanax. I’ll just scrape off the wordings. Those clowns won’t know the difference.
I open my eyes, and everything still looks the same. The fan above me is still rotating counterclockwise, and I’m still alive. The wall light to the right of my room still flickers annoyingly every few seconds, and I’m still alive. That gecko on the wall near the window has been eyeing me from the minute I closed my eyes, and it’s still there now. Still shit green in colour and I’m still fucking alive. One sleeping pill should make you drowsy, but I took ten and, wait, I feel a yawn coming — no, false alarm. This is not a yawn. And now I find myself face to face with what my ass says hello to every damn day. It feels like I’m breathing out fire. My throat is burning and going on overdrive — stomach acid is a bitch. Great, now my teeth are going to rot. Dr. Roberts is going to be so angry at me, I just had veneers done a month ago at his clinic. All of his hard work, gone to waste. So much for dying beautiful. Now I’m going to have to live ugly like the rest of them.
Wait a minute, I forgot I still have those razor blades. I lift my head from the toilet bowl and turn my head slightly to the right. But it’s so shiny and clean. I didn’t realise Miss Rosa came by this morning and waxed the marbles of the bathtub.
I wonder how hard it is to get bloodstains off of a marble surface.
of
mothers made
crippled
by wavering truths
that bombard them
like bombs
in an
emotional warfare,
of
children whose
bedtime stories
went from fairytales
to eight o’clock
breaking news
that broke nothing but
hopes and hearts,
of
lovers gripping their
other halves tight
behind their ribcages
and wishful thinking
becoming a contagion
that no one
wants to cure,
but
the light at the
end of the tunnel
is dimming
and the lining
in the cloud
is anything
but silver,
yet
I still find myself
glancing up
to the sky
every now and
then with my
swollen eyes and
desolated smile,
craving
for the day when
the metal bird will
fly back home
and sing for
me all the
two hundred and
thirty-nine lost songs. i will follow you into the dark
He's been a part of my life ever since I was, what, eight years old? But I never really knew him back then. He's always been around, but he's never said hi or anything. Took me ten years to finally realise he existed. But ever since that moment, everything changed. He has never left my side, day or night. No matter where I was or what I was doing, he was always there to keep me company - from the time I won't go to bed without my stuffed teddy bear all the way to when I went to my senior prom with my then-boyfriend. Johnny didn't mind it though, and neither did I. I wanted him there, and he wanted to be there. I mean, it wasn't like three's a company or anything.
He was my best friend, and I loved him. And the best part is - he loves me too.
But, things change. And do you know what I want right now?
I want Johnny dead.
I want him to take a vein in my body and wrap it around his lumpy little neck, and end himself. I want him to choke on red and leave my existence. I want him to lose his way in the midst of travelling my body. I want him to grow bigger and bigger until he no longer fits my body so that he'll finally let me go. I want him to get pricked by a needle on every surface of his goddamn body and understand that he doesn't belong with me. I want him gone. I want him, gone.
But he never listened. Instead, it was my hair that left my body, strand by strand. It was my skin that dulled out and turned grey like those movies back in the 1920s. It was my figure that started disappearing into thin air. But he, he wouldn't move an inch. He has created a home in my misery where my happiness used to live. He has created feasts where my insides used to be. He has found shelter where my soul used to linger.
I've tried to get rid of him, believe me, I have tried. I've put myself through hell just to get rid of the Devil himself. But he loves me. He loves me so much that he will never leave me. That is, until I leave myself. And maybe even then, he'd still be following me.
I've embraced him until my arms grew weak. I've carried him until my legs went numb. I've kissed him until my lips went dry.
Though, I still haven't decided whether it was him, or the chemo. Ah fuck.
explosions in the sky
Tuesday, November 5, 2013, 1:41 AM
Suffocated by the secondhand smoke snorkelling through the air, like microscopic serpents crawling into the cavities of my body. The floor vibrating - a 6.5 on the Richter scale, causing massive damages to my insides. I look up, and I see blue lights flashing, quickly switching to pink, and then green, and then blue once more, and then more blue, and then more blue, and then more blue.
And flash, and flash, and flash, flash flash.
Until the stage becomes the sky and each sound morphs into a blurry cloud, surrounding every inch of my fingers all the way down to my toes, sending shivers through every strand of hair flowing like a waterfall off my lightly-tanned scalp.
I feel it in my bones, and in my bones; it makes its home. euthanasia
Wednesday, October 9, 2013, 10:36 PM
A year it has been.
1 year.
12 months.
52 weeks.
365 days.
8765 hours.
525949 minutes.
31536000 seconds.
Every second of every minute of every hour of every day of every week of every month of that year was spent breathing. I would say all that time was spent being alive, but then that would be a blatant lie. I was breathing, yes. My heart was pumping blood, rushing through my veins like a river running wild, every inhale carried oxygen into my lungs where it then seeps into my bloodstream and travels all over the continent that is my body - every pant and gasp and huff and puff courtesy of sleepless, sweaty nights and lonely, lethargic mornings. Converting oxygen into carbon dioxide like it's my full-time job, compensated by the very fact that I am still alive to live another day.
Was I existing? Yes. If only I was of existence.
Seconds turn into hours, hours turn into days, days go by like the tears running down the structures of my cheeks. My face was a map and my tears paved a one-way road taken every day for as long as my heart was still pumping red. I couldn't remember the last time I felt this hollow. I was aware of every single thing that was happening around me but it was of no significance to me in every way possible. I could hear every heartbeat, every breath, every step, every accidental teeth grinding; and to think that it should've driven me (at least close) to insanity but to my surprise, it didn't. It has made me desolated more than anything else.
Empty, I was.
Not lonely, or angry; just hollow, from my toes to my skull. He left me lying askew on my apartment floor for days, wondering - racking my brain - for exactly what it is that made him walk away. I can't even remember when was the last time I felt his fingertips grazing against my skin, or the last time he looked right into my eyes when I uttered something. I can feel his stare scanning my face, but never did it once make direct contact with my eyes, which have now turned into two pools of melancholia, filled up to the brim waiting to spill. And I told him.
I told him exactly how I felt. I told him - between the short gasps for air and the persistent weeping - that I just felt lost and undefined. My life was a labyrinth and everything was an obstacle in my path. He seemed like an obstacle to my then clouded judgment. I was selfish, unstable, and emotional. He was sick, tired and bored of my 'antics'. I knew it, but I refuse to let my stubborn self believe in the fact that the one person I thought would be able to read my mind cannot even make a tiny dent on this impenetrable wall I have built around me. I was experiencing a blizzard of thoughts and emotions but all I felt was... empty.
Little did he know that to me, 'empty' was just another word for 'open'. por favor
Tuesday, September 24, 2013, 11:12 PM
Steady,
it holds,
like wheat in a paddy field.
Tints of gold,
only when light
is shown.
Some move left,
some go right,
some defy gravity,
curls like Australian waves.
Flyaways stay up
like the Summer sun,
weighted down
by the wind of Fall;
rooted in Honduras. over and under
He had a preconceived notion in his head; an idea of what mornings would be like waking up next to her. The outline of her lips, the scent of her hair and the shape her body makes as her limbs lie askew on the other side of the bed. Even in her slumber, she rendered him speechless.
In his head, hundreds of different ways to tell her how magnificent he found her but only one he managed to muster up the courage to do. With his hand gently grazing the side of her face, he landed a kiss on her forehead. Immediately after, he whispered into her ears despite knowing that the love of his life was still very much asleep.
Such simple, beautiful words escaped his mouth; words that not even she would ever expect coming out from his mouth.
He's like that little tiny crack of light peeping through your curtains on a lazy Sunday morning, when all you wanna do is wrap yourself up in your blanket, from your jaw to your toes, as if you were a burrito and hide from the sunshine - despite your eyes only being shielded by your delicate eyelids - but you are more than aware that his very presence signifies your existence for yet another day in this mortal world.
The way he touches your body - irradiating your skin while he's at it - makes you exhale a soft moan as you stretch your body from an overnight slumber, trying to fix that kink on your neck. With your eyes barely open and mind half-conscious, you take a quick glance at your window, reassuring yourself that this is no dream. That this is very much reality.
Your reality.
As you lay awake in bed, you ask yourself whether or not you deserve to be given another day. You question the daylight, the birds chirping, everything. And then you look over at the source of light emerging from the left side of your room and you find yourself cracking a smile. Softly, you lift your hand and trace the sparkle in the air with your fingertips. He's so simple, so straightforward, but why does he put a smile on your face?
And then you look at your window again. As the morning ushers in a new day, it gets brighter and brighter by the second. Next thing you know, your entire room is illuminated by him. He is there, in your very room, greeting you. You say hi back in the subtlest of ways, trying your best not to scare him away because you know for a fact that he will leave you as the day goes by. But you also know that no matter how many times he says goodbye to you, he returns to you every morning with the faintest of wake up calls. You may think you hate him for waking you up, but we all know that you really just don't want to say hello to him only to have to say goodbye again.
He's never actually gone though; he's just hiding behind the moon, admiring you as you stare up at the night sky because he knows how much you love the stars. what's another word for frustrating?
Friday, August 9, 2013, 6:38 PM
You're like that strand of hair
caressing my forehead to my dismay,
the little tiny pieces of baby hair
that puberty left to annoy my every second,
like a bad prank on April Fools,
except the only thing I can do with you,
is take a pair of scissors, blunt or sharp,
and cut you out of my life.
But even if I build up the courage
to pull those scissors out from my drawer,
could I grow the ladyballs to actually use it?
It's morning here in Kuala Lumpur, and the haze has passed through. What used to be a blank blurry canvas is now once again replaced with the stunning sight of the skyscrapers thrusting into space. The mirror panels that make up the Petronas Twin Towers now reflect the rays of the sun once more. Oh, how I've missed the clear blue sky and non-acid rain. Amazing how one single phenomenon can re-instil my love for something I once took for granted.
This is a beautiful city that was - for a short period of time - taken over by intruders in the form of airborne particles.
This is a beautiful city, and it's my beautiful city.
Agustinus Kresnobudi Nindito,
a name longer than the hours I tidur,
likes to link me cheesy Indo songs,
then forces me to listen to it all night long.
With Xavier hidden somewhere in his long ass name,
sounds pretty cool but too bad he's still lame,
forcing me to write and post a poem about him,
so I'll include in here legos, cigarettes and the gym.
When I went to his house for the first time ever,
he showed me his Lego helicopter with no shame whatsoever,
it was yellow and green and red and blue,
now when I think of LegoFagget I think of you.
Trying to quit smoking by giving me the power,
letting me hold his cigarette pack to reward him every few hours,
but I should keep a closer eye in case he cheats,
cause I'm pretty sure it's his fault the haze is taking over the streets.
Every day he'd ask to teman him workout,
but I'm pretty sure he spends most of his time on Skout,
see Kres, if you spend less time cyber sex-ing,
we could all go out so I can kick your ass again in bowling.
So there you go, a poem just for you,
and I can only think of one way to bid you adieu,
you fagget,
fagget.
catastrophe
Friday, October 23, 2015, 2:33 PM
