I'm that person that you would befriend
just to get close to my pretty friends,
sisters or cousins.
I'm that person who'll be there for you when
you're bored and you need to pass time.
I'm that person who you turn to rant
but once you feel better,
you disappear.

"Thank you for being
there for me.
You're a good friend," they'll
Say. Sometimes not at all.
They say I'm great to be friends with
and although I appreciate it,
sometimes it gets tiring.

I'm tired of being that person where I would
make an effort to look good
but no one would bat an eye
and think I'm pretty.
I'm tired of being that person who gets
to listen to someone I like very much,
talking about who they like.
I'm tired of being that person who listens
to people but no one listens to me when
I need someone to talk to.

Thank you for trusting me and
for appreciating me as a friend
But you're another reason why I'm wondering
what I did wrong as I stay in alone
on Saturday nights,
date-less.

-m.b

My mind is bleeding
with words. Every morning
I would puke. I'm over thinking
again. Only when I'm sleeping,
I could taste serenity. Dreaming
of things we could be. How interesting.
Then I'll wake up with my demons kicking,
I wish it'd stop obsessing.

-m.b

If I were to write every thing about you, I would. If I were to write about you every day, I would. You're like a missile; eye-catching, loud, leaves a print behind. It's hard not to record your every move. You're like the Earth; although people have dissected and has proven what's inside of you, they haven't really scavenged inside. Who knows what else is hiding in between your many layers? Stripping apart like getting home after spending a day in the open snow, tearing off each piece of clothing.

-m.b

Maybe one day soon,
I will cut my wrists wide open,
And find flowers growing in my veins.
Taking root deep within my heart,
Branching outward, trying to gouge out my eyes,
Curling around my eardrums,
Around my spine.
Blossoming in my temples,
And in my fingers.
Stems wrapping around my throat,
Making it hard to breathe.

With fuzzy vision, choking breathes, trembling hands,
Maybe i can manage to cut them out.
Carve up my hands until i can reach inside and rip them out.
Dig into my chest and tear them from the roots.
Maybe i can stop the pulsating, as the flowers try to make me beautiful
Try and make me like them
Try and **** me
Like we try to **** them

i don't know what
the future looks like
is it blue as the ocean
with treasures in it
or is it blue
as what i always feel

I wrote your name
In the sand.
So the water will wash
It away.
If the sea can forget you
Then I can too

-m.b

when i was younger, this boy used to tease me about my skin color;
how much it resembles coal,
and how it makes me look like an Aeta,
and how they can't see me in the dark,
but even before that i was insecure.
because when people bothered to look at me,
they'd only see ebony
and to them it was synonymous with ugly and *****.

but i don't blame them.

they're just caught in the current of colonialism
when we measured one’s status through the hue of their skin
and we followed.
we followed their discrimination of the ones whose skin didn't look like the exact duplicate of ivory and marshmallow.
we followed their system of supremacy of putting the lighter ones up in the stars to match whiteness with brightness.
we followed their standards of beauty which just happened to be the exact ******* opposite of our majority.

now our country is driven mad
by the idea of whitening your skin
until your heritage is nowhere to be seen;  
it has been scrubbed off by papaya soap,
masked by glutathione
and devalued by insults.
but hey,
who cares about heritage if you look like that European actress?
who cares about culture when you could pass off as an American?
who cares about natural brown when synthetic white wears the crown?