That first time

He’d sit right in front of me as our rose-colored chairs were lined up facing the blackboard that was filled with drawings and letters written in various colors. The inscriptions didn’t make sense to me at that moment. I’d hit his head repeatedly, in a blind and impulsive effort to catch his attention. I’d stare and silently marvel at how his glossy hair bounced; in sync with his every movement.

He’d turn around and scream at me. He had a small face, one I wanted to cover entirely with my tiny, innocent hands. His eyes were enchanting; a light brown color emerging from such round objects placed below his humble forehead. His skin was tan, yet smooth and seemingly soft. I’d chase him outside by the playground where I’d show off at the monkey bars; my upper body strength was quite impressive for such a small frame.

“HEY!” he’d exclaim, each time I bullied him so. He’d turn around with his crunched up nose and either run away, avoid me, or stop himself from hitting me back. “Stop it!” He also had a lisp that seemed strange to me. It seemed charming to me. Everything about him was.

I wanted to sit next to him. I wanted to share crayons with him, or maybe even brush his hand a little when we’d pick materials from the straw baskets scattered across the room. I wanted him to notice my drawings on the board when I was assigned for the artwork of the day. I wanted him to listen to me as I recited poems, acted out Goldilocks and sang in front of everyone. I wanted him to congratulate me when I wore all those medals at graduation. Being inconspicuous was something that just didn’t come naturally to me.

I was a little girl then, barely 5 years old. Twelve years later, I could only remember so little. Having a childhood crush seemed so surreal to me, yet it’s a memory I just had to chuckle at and embrace with either humiliation or just plain amusement. It could be both.

His name was Kevin.

In different worlds

Photo by Fritz Dalida

She was on her bed, staring at the bland ceiling that greatly differs from the clutter in her home. She closes her eyes and inhales for a split second, imagining herself in a place where the wind was cool, the heat was ticklish, the sun was satiated, and the smell was salty. Everything was bright, cheerful, and wonderful. She dreams to be back to the place where she forgot everything that hurt and everything that had to deal with reality.

"I hate feeling sorry for myself, feeling so sad.” She chokes on her words, hugs on to her worn out and shapeless pillow, and tries to stop another tear from falling.

She keeps remembering the sound of the waves that crept up to the shore; its inconsistency mysterious and alluring. She remembers the texture of the rocks under her feet buried in the sand as she faces the horizon, the intensity and play of lights in the sky with the sound of laughter blasting through her ears.

 The shadows of her companions; their presence triggered both peace and adrenaline that still keep her wishing for longer days off a coast where not much roam. Her eyes would usually meet another’s, and her instinct made her face the other direction. For a split second, she thought it was just a look of chance. It was just them in their haven, under the sky that seemed to have endlessly kept them close, untouched.

And here she was, alone again with her own troublesome thoughts. “I just need to know that it still exists."

She positioned her head towards her window, facing the thick and cracked glass. The moon resembled something familiar and hopeful.

“I felt something from you,” she sputtered. “Even if it seemed like it was nothing, I still hoped it was real.” The vulnerable soul imagines him there, his silhouette; she makes out his face, the face of a man that occupied all she could ever lose control of, holding her in his arms and stroking her hair as the tears suddenly kept falling.

“I want to open my heart to you,” she utters, “even if I know I can’t, because I know I’m not what you want, and I never will be.”

The barren room slowly fills with salt water she tastes so knowingly. Washed away are all that is futile. She leaves herself weightless, as the waves bring her to another land of solace. The image of his thoughtful face makes her heart burst. She closes her eyes and drifts away.

Sonnet #8: To no recur

Shrill screams emerge from a fragile body

What burden of headaches and strident cries

Unable to stop, no inch to safety

Heart beats faster, with not a chance to die

Nerves shooting from one end to the other

Inside of me where veins throb and eyes burn

My body shakes, wishing it was over

I am helpless for breath, with sleep to yearn

Choking for air, verdict, and words to goad

Drowning out voices of people around

Let the violence and terror unfold

Those cuts and blood shed, too far to be sound

With just one to ingest, making me stop

I cling on to bed sheets, still as a rock

Slither

Photo from my Tumblr

It slowly creeps up like a ruthless virus waiting to eat the very core of your being. It silently awaits in a quiet, vacant, and dimly lit room, waiting to pounce on its victim, helpless, and oblivious. How it pushes you to the very edge and breaks your bones. It triggers your insides, leaving you numb, raging, and desperate for purging the very burning desires of your wretched judgment.

And when you give in to that temptation, you hold the world in your hands. You have the power. The excitement erupts; the warm brush of his fingertips against your delicate skin, the stroke of his hand, the softness of his lips, and the way he holds and caresses you. The abrupt movement takes you by delightful surprise and brings you to heated ecstasy, in all forms irrefutable, mind-blowing and raw, though despicably evil.

It is in the undeniable sensation that you let yourself go.

Sonnet #7: Cape

Worn out, broken benches sit here and lie

History kept in a place near the sea

Those feelings as blue as the summer sky

Heat non-existent, as cold as can be

Currents, ocean waves crashing sandy shores

Wash away horizons of memories

Tears emit, down towards the ocean floor

Recall the night of damned catastrophe

Black clouds hover on memories so dark

Silence, last breath, last touch, last words spoken

Hearts beat faster, reaching for sounds so far

Hushed and fatal pace, damned and forgotten

Dusk settles with the brokenness that stays

Lights grow dim in memories of the awake

Authentic.

In a world full of artists sharing and channeling their masterpieces through technology, a virtual catalyst, I find great importance in handwritten letters and raw journal entries, along with ink blots, marks and scratches.

The energy of my thoughts and expressions are given more depth as they flow through my veins, ignite my muscles and trigger my hands to take hold of a pen and simply write. Write until my hand hurts; until the strain is felt and is treated numbly.

The curves of the letters or characters created, the smell of the ink and the embossed words on a thin piece of paper is what inspires me, knowing that I have created a work of art; one that embodies me and the different worlds that I place myself in. I take pride and utter happiness in the fact that I have created something raw and beautiful.

A day for her

From my Tumblr

They say a mother's job is the hardest one there is.

My mother has been with me through the ups and downs in my life and the troubled times I'm still bound to go through. Many times, I've failed to understand her. I've seen her as the enemy who can never seem to sympathize with me and my problems. Many times, I've taken advantage of her and her ways of showing how she would help me out and shape me into a better person. Many times, I have disappointed and hurt her.

But throughout my hardships, my stubborn ways, my troubled and crazy thoughts, my constant and sometimes unnecessary hunger and search for what lies ahead on that dangerous road, my little flaws and my little quirks, no one has ever supported me as much as my mother.

I suppose I never appreciated it. I suppose I never looked past the strong person who always puts us first, who has a different way of showing affection. I suppose it took me so long to understand her, but when I did, I became even more thankful for being blessed with a woman like her; someone to guide and strengthen such a person like me.

She is the one who has always been patient with me, who'd sacrifice so much for her family, who'd crack a joke or two and laugh like a maniac, who'd offer a day of shopping for therapeutic purposes, who'd remind us how good we have it, who'd never fail to be there, no matter what.

When I describe a person like her, I can never seem to give her justice. I love her in so many ways; ways I don't think she's even aware of.

She is a beautiful woman, full of love and compassion. It isn't and will never be perfect with us, but we manage and love anyway. Having her for a mother will always be something worth treasuring and again, being extremely thankful for.

Letter #6: Captured

This place is dark, love. I haven't seen anything more frightening in my life. The smoke released from their constant tobacco sessions suffocates me. The only source of light is the oil lamp in the far corner of this room they keep me locked in. The light seems so far. I can't reach for it even if I tried. I overheard them talking. They say it's been days, but I feel like I've been here for thousands of lifetimes.

Let me tell you how they've been making me live here.

They make me lay my head on rocks. I use an old, damp cloth as a blanket, one that barely covers my arms. It's cold, very cold. They throw a few pieces of bread through the small hole on this certain wall of the cave. I rely on a small cup of sewage water to quench my thirst. I don't know why I'm here.

The only clothing that keeps me warm is the one I've worn from the moment they've captured me; now it is dirty and torn, barely covering my bruised arms and legs.

Please help me escape. Please help me find warmth again. I haven't been able to sleep well, and I haven't been able to stay up either, for fear that they might come in again. Please find me; take me away.

Momentary: A Sonnet

I've seen countless skies begin to linger

Above us as we interlace fingers

His caress moves me to the ground and I

Move to the sound of melodic twilight

I look upon his dimmed though amber eyes

Alone possess oblivious goodbyes

A prickled sense does the grass send to me

Slight breathing makes I open now to see

Dusk begins to settle as I lose touch

As motion apparently seems robust

Still longing to live for one last moment

In time for the buds to maintain the scent

He kisses so sweetly with bitter taste

As I long for so much to never fade

Sonnet #6: Vulnerable Power

Pay close attention to his beating heart

A fragile creation placed in your hands

For what lies, a future seemingly dark

Beautiful girl, not knowing where to stand

This young love, such powerful emotion

Requited in many ways possible

She, overwhelmed by this mad sensation

Left mind-stricken, a state so logical

She looks into his eyes, susceptible

Being constantly pulled by love itself

Afraid to hurt, to be left miserable

A peculiar world, she's perplexed herself

Indecision strikes to the very core

To be lost in love, she awaits much more

As the ladies and gentlemen take their seats

Focusing their attention to the stage

Ending yet another act, so we believe

It is finally time to turn the page

Such theatre holds years of growth and prestige

Shall leave traces of love and bequest

Ties formed, sharing feats, memories

Everlasting bonds and glamorous moments

Dress rehearsals from Spartan lore

Years pass by and scenes replay

Exit stage left, for what lies in store

To far new roads and walks of fame

And so we are given, this time we won't forget

A last, warm round of applause

A standing ovation, once more on set

For the final curtain call