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recent posts. catastrophe with rue my heart is laden taking back the fat MH370 i will follow you into the dark malignant explosions in the sky euthanasia por favor over and under

catastrophe
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.


with rue my heart is laden


After all we've been through -
    the whirlwind of
what seems stupid now
        was not so stupid then,

morphing slowly into the
monster I'd hide under
   my covers from on
       thunderstorm nights
& dark gloomy mornings:

Regret is its name.

So we meet again, old friend.

I haven't seen you since
that time I made my
     mother
             cry;

       Oh

   forgive me mother for
I have sinned a g a i n s t you -

You who provided shelter for
               nine months
   without asking me
for a penny of rent money,

you who gave me food, water,
         your voice
singing me to sleep.

And yet I've let you down,
   by going behind your back
       I've let
                you
                   down.

There was a time back then
when you last carried me
       & put me down,
only to never carry me
        in your arms
ever     again.

  And because of that,
I retaliated by crushing
         myself
into tiny little pieces
  of guilt
        and failure,

so that the Earth can
        swallow me into the
ground once more:

         to cleanse me of myself -

only so I can rise above again:

a Phoenix birthed from the
       a s h e s
          of my past,
to fly into the sky
           lit aflame with
     fiery wings of
       
hope and chance.
taking back the fat


MH370

It’s been
seventeen days,

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

malignant
I grew up with him.

Johnny, I mean.

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 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

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
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

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