if it meant
i had to write forever
to get to your heart,
then prepare
for the small notes
i’ll pass to you every time i see you smile,
for the little songs
i’ll sing every time you sway your hips and move your soft hands to its beat,
for the poetries, oh god,
for the poetries i’ll continue to write
as if i’m writing a book only your eyes are worth to see,

if i had to write forever
to get to your heart,
then all will be worth it
for i’ll never fall apart.

help

me.

i

am

falling

back

to

the

arms

of

those

who

hurt

me.

for whatever i do,
with someone new,
there’s a small part of me thinking
it could have been with you.

if loving again meant,
sooner or later,
i’d go back to hurting
then i don’t want to.

if loving again meant,
nights staring endlessly
on the terrace outside my room
watching as lights glimmer from the distance
wondering if this is too good to be true,
then i don’t want to.

if loving again meant,
countless cigarettes,
ashes on the floor,
overthinking that maybe
i’m still not good enough
— that i’m not worthy —
then i don’t want to.

if loving again meant,
remembering all the why’s
and how could you’s
that were never answered,
then i don’t want to.

my dear,

if loving again meant,
i’d go back to the version of me:
hurting because of people that weren’t you,
then i don’t want to.

in a meeting in a small room and you want to throw your trash at the other side of the room.

it’s a small room for some. it’s not that hard to stand up, go to the corner and throw it down the bin.

but not for you.

as soon as you see the distance, it just gets farther. it’s as if the room itself multiplied its space 10 times.

your chair clings on to you as if its weight is connected to your body. with its pegs all drilled down to the floor.

the eyes of everyone, oh dear, their judging eyes once you do decide to stand up and walk, you’d feel as if they were just waiting for you to make a mistake. to trip and fall, to spill the coffee you were holding on to your shirt because we all know it’s not the caffeine that makes your hands quiver.

you wait. you wait till everyone in the room goes out.

you, holding that piece of trash in your hand, unlatch yourself to your chair, walk calmly and quietly towards the bin, giving one last glance at the trash you held as if it were the only witness that could tesify the whole story.

you let it go and walk out of the room.

i’m crying now not because you’re hurting me.
i’m crying for the me who’s grieving because he held on to empty words. look at his hands: even though you already left, casket sealed, buried six feet under. his hands are still holding the crumbs you left piece by piece in that same red brick road that showed promise but brought him to where he is now. a funeral: of what seems to be you — for the lack of a better term — the idea of you.

so the next time you say that you’re ready to put up with me. my dear, kindly understand. that you’re putting up with me now, me from then, and me every time i see the glimpse of the future.