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Letters for Anne Jun 2019
A witch howls with pain
As the full moon becomes clearer in the sky
Reminding her the death of her lover
Letters for Anne Jun 2019
Park benches, coffee, and cigarettes
A morning picture with you
Sometimes a book in hand, with my head on your lap and we would call it a nice day

On rainy days, we would curl up on the couch
Blanket wrapped around us, and I would wear your most coveted gray hoodie.
Switching tv channels, we would never find something interesting enough to watch
We'd instead nap and still call it a nice day

We went to a Sunday mass once even if I never prayed since my grandma died
I never believed much in anything,
Not even in angels nor the saints
But I wanted to believe you're a blessing.
That Sunday was such a nice day
Letters for Anne May 2019

You were the first two drags of cigarette
After a long day
The first sip of coffee in a tiring morning
A warm blanket, always wrapped in your warmth


A fleeting memory
A shipwreck a thousand feet below the sea
A name that won't be uttered


A few pictures kept in a box under the bed that you find on a day you like to tidy up
An old and unknown melody played in a beat up guitar, bringing comfort
A well-loved book touched again to tell you your favorite tales
Letters for Anne Jul 2016
I once met a girl who apologizes for everything she does.

As if her every move and every breath was a mistake; as if her whole existence is something to be sorry about.

She had hair darker than the empty night skies, and eyes that will haunt you even in your peaceful slumber.

When she was young, I later learned, her mother blamed her for every opportunities she lost and every dreams she let go. She was never called pretty; she was never treasured as a gift.

Her father made sure to leave scars on her. On her back was multiple scars of cigarette burns, her hands a map of mutilated lines, and her heart a million shattered pieces she needed to pick up. She became the living proof that even old men can hurt little girls.

She was made from regret and was born as one. She never needed words, she knew this even before she learned how to speak.

As a little girl, she never had a father to push her on swings; a mother to brush her hair every night and tell her how beautiful she would be one day.

She was like an old portrait hanging on the wall-- always there but was never noticed.
She was like a hidden gem, just waiting to be found.
She was a lost cause of this world.

With every words she said, there'd be a little whimper that sounds like, "I'm sorry."
Letters for Anne Jul 2016
I am a damsel and I don't need saving.

I am a damsel of my own who doesn't need a white horse with a perfectly straight silver hair. I won't be fooled by your beautiful facade.

I am a damsel, contented with my own set of spears and solitude it brings me. I got a better set of sword to fight for my own.

I am a damsel who doesn't need anyone to sweep me off my feet and carry me away from my own home. I don't need an empty castle to wallow my time away.

I am a damsel who doesn't need a prince to become a princess--I am already the queen of my own life.  

I am damsel who doesn't need a hero to take her on adventures: I've got my own map for the expedition I planned on my own. I won't be taken into barren lands, I'll explore the depth of the oceans and wildness of the land.

I am a damsel who's in a tower, without a ladder. I don't need your ropes to help me down. Only to find out, it'd be the same rope that you'll tie around my body. No, I'll break every brick and torn the tower apart to grab my freedom. I won't be freed just to be caged again.

I am a damsel
And I can handle my distress.

— The End —