I told you before.
Do not fall in love with me.
Because I am a writer
And I will write stories in between our thighs
about how you read me until the ******
just to leave you with a cliffhanger.
I will plot chapters on your tongue
Make sure I go in and out,
And all around.
I will make sure you remember that
I taste like fully fleshed out tragedies,
I will create pages out of
the way your eyes looked like at sunset
or the way you brushed your hands through my hair
then rip them all out.
I will tattoo letters on your skin,
I will make the words bleed out of your being
You will know how it feels to be broken into pieces,
and still be considered a masterpiece.
Because I told you didn’t I?
Do not fall in love with me.
Because I am a writer
and I can love you too
and destroy you
all the same.

if i show you
will you understand?

how i've outlined these arms
vein after vein
where sunlight runs
i see only
lines to trace

i got a barcode on my wrists

scan me for the price
of beauty

i am as expensive
as what people think of me.

do you know what it feels like
to attach your worth
to weighing scales
and waists that never
slim down?

is this why they call them
shoulder blades
to cut through
your skin
to be called
"pretty"

thigh gaps that map
the distance between your legs
to make you
matter so much
you can't stand on your own
feet.

when you walk the shoes
we wear
will you know?

the path to be
called beautiful
is full of
self-hate

and we pay for that bill.

I am so sad.
I know I should not be
drowning myself
in this deep water.
And I have swam
across this
so many
******* times.

But my arms
and my legs
are already
cold
and limp.

And I am just
too tired
too weak
to keep swimming.

I am finally here

I finally watched the series you promised to watch with me—alone
I finally had the courage to talk about you with my sister and laugh
I finally talked to someone and not see your shadow in his steps
So many small finally’s
To trample the used to be’s
So this is how
it finally feels
to finally get over you.

There are no more vines in my chest
No more tangled mess
between loving you and letting you go
It took a long while to sort myself back
but I can finally feel my lungs again
No more choking when your name pops up in conversations
No more sadness when I walk the same sidewalks I used to walk with you
The wound has turned to scar
The scar took shelter on my skin.
Everything heals the moment you decide you want to heal
The wanting is always the beginning of the becoming
The world moves, and so do you
If you believe it to

And in my heart, there will always be space for you
And in that same space, I’ve rebuilt a home again
This time knowing
I can never unlove you
but only love you in a different way

And I will.

It took a long while to sort myself back
But I am here.
I am finally here to say
Thank you.
Thank you for stopping by.

i feel like there is so much love left
when people leave us
and we have no idea what to do with them
so we keep them in boxes,
we store them in drawers
and sometimes,
we wear them on cold nights
when no one is watching.

all around us we make sure
we live in a place
with no trace of what has been
yet every closet is filled with the bones
of a dead love
and every corner is a reminder
of where we got lost

we hide the things they left behind,
we create mausoleums out of our rooms
and call it “moving on”

even my room is haunted
with his hasty departure
his old sweatshirt,
his silk necktie,
and the ocean blue summer dress he gave me
gather dust as a relic of a past
i have exhibited in the walls
of my broken heart

i buy cigarettes
and try to remember the taste of
his nicotine mouth
i study my face in the mirror
and try to remember the look of the girl
he fell in love with
i stay in the nights longer
i skip all the cracks in the pavement
i keep wishing he come back

one day i woke up
in a cold bathroom floor
filled with my tears and *****
that’s when I knew
where all the leftover love goes
it seeds hatred
then grows into despair
and finally bears the fruit of grief

there is no reasoning with a broken heart
only grief

and grief is the greatest leftover love there is
it spills all over
and seals your chest tight
until you feel no fight
and no other

so i waited and wasted away
until my ribs cracked
under the pressure of all the grief flowing out

and one day
i realized
i left one of his jackets
in my old apartment abroad
i couldn’t bring it any longer
my luggage is filled with so many new things
and his was a heavy garment
i just couldn’t carry anymore.

Manic Pixie Dream Girl
fingerpainted rainbow
on a flat canvass, you are
cardboard pretty.

Like this pastel-colored cupcake
you once saw on television
with sprinkles and little marshmallows on top
something you know
you can never taste
but still thought
“That must be delicious.”

One-sided postcard
With a beautiful scenery at the front
and empty surface at the back
No words to tell
No stories to give
Just a vacant lot.

Manic Pixie Dream Girl
I’ve always thought you were beautiful.
with your colors spilling out of your being and your smiles
that could light up anybody’s world
I’ve always thought it was like peering through a kaleidoscope
And you were a perfect symmetry
of everything a little boy could ever dream of.
So as I grew up
I dreamed to be something like you.
And for a while,
Without really meaning to
I was something like you.
People often told me,
“You are so pretty.”
“You are nice and funny.”
“You have a great smile.”
“You are fun to be with.”
“You are different.”
and guys liked me.
They adored me.
most especially when I exist
only for them.
When I am there to pick up the pieces
and make them whole again.

But manic pixie dream girl
I realized I am no dream girl
I am just—

me.

I feel ugly most of the time.
I eat a lot when I’m sad.
I am very impulsive.
I give irrational comments.
I have temper tantrums when I don’t get what I want.
I get scared of the dark.
I cut when I am hurt.
And there are days when I just want to sleep
and disappear forever.

I am no dream girl.
I am just a real girl.
Trying to make it out alive
in the real world.

I am not a navigator
meant to save lost boys.
I am not
a box of crayons
meant to grow smaller
as I color this blank page of a guy
I am not
a white glue
meant to disappear
once I am dry
I am not
a bandage
meant to heal wounds
on careless little children.

I am not supposed to be a fantasy
I am flesh and bones
I am human
with ribcages that are meant to crush
with the weight of a broken heart
I have lungs
I can breathe on my own.
I don’t need a broken boy
to feel that I have a purpose in life.

I am my own destruction.
I am my own salvation.
I am no dream girl.

Please
wake
up.

When I take my clothes off,
You will see all the places where they have been.
From the way they kissed my hair under the moonlight,
As we walked through the night sky and took me off of my feet
You will see the promises they have left on my pinky finger,
And the way their fingerprints danced on the spaces in between my hands,
I will be stripped naked of all the memories they had created on the arches of my neck,
And the way they implanted kisses on my chest
And made flowers bloom in my stomach.
You will see that they are a constellation hiding on my body
Waiting to be revealed
You will feel the pixie dust that they left on the gaps of my thighs,
When I flew with them to Neverland
Only to never see them again.
You will see that I had held on to them for far too much and too long
They have created marks on my palms and scratches on my wrists.
You will see that I still bear all the scars of their love
You will know why I am so scared of you.
So when I take my clothes off
You will see me.
You will see the dusts of my ex-lovers embedded on the folds of my skin.
And I hope you still accept
Who I have been
Naked as I am.

Ever since you left me
I have been wearing
lovers
like strings of pearls
upon my neck,
one after the other.
pretty pearls
adorning my skin
with their kisses.
They say
“You’re beautiful.”
But I still feel

nothing.

Thank you for staying alive today.
Thank you for waking up
and stretching your branches up to heaven
even though sometimes they’re too weak
to grow and reach further.
Thank you for opening your eyes
even though sometimes
the darkness is more peaceful than the light.
Thank you for deciding to take in oxygen
and never letting out of it,
never holding your breath,
Ready to dive in to the day
Ready to drown,
Ready to fight back the waters.
Thank you for staying here.
Because you matter to me,
to your friends,
to your family,
And that is enough.
You are enough.
Always.
Thank you for being a fighter.
even though sometimes you feel like
nobody notices,
nobody cares,
nobody appreciates,
and that the world is continuously
Stepping on your fingers from holding on.
Thank you for going into the world with bloodied bandages
on your arms and feet
Everyday may be a battlefield
You get wounded.
You feel that you’re weak
But wounds are not your kryptonite.
They can only make you stronger.
Because you know better
I understand that you’re below empty
I understand that you don’t want to do this anymore.
I understand how it feels like when you just want everything to stop.
But the truth is this
Life may not be the most beautiful thing in this world for you right now
but maybe someday you'll understand
that life needs to throw you into the fires,
scorch your skin,
burn your flesh,
for you
to be
reborn.

think about how
we see ruins
as beautiful
like the
Acropolis or
the Colosseum
and Pompeii,
though they’ve spent
years and years
breaking,
crumbling,
disintegrating,
until all that’s left
are fragments of what it used to be
but we still see it today
with awe
and admire all of its glory

and i think maybe
it’s the same with people
it’s easy to fall in love with the remains
of something you did not see
fall apart first.

skins aren’t skins
in this world.

they’re

death threats
inked permanently
on your bones
covering your body
with scratches and stereotypes,
bringing bruises and bullets to your head

and the only way to stay safe
is if the ink is white.

skins are signs
to know which ones
will pay the price
if you close your eyes
you will see the color
to marginalize

warped in a wrapped world
do we even see beyond
what pigment we have
or are we
wrapped around a warped world
where pain is really
skin deep.

isn’t it strange?
we live in a world where
the color of your skin
indicates how people
see you and
the darker it is,
the more invisible
you become.

i wish
we were all
color blind.

i once read that
there are names for the spaces
in between
body parts,
architectural structures,
musical notes.

names for spaces
as if they are

real
concrete
solid

and not just
gaps
voids
silences

like
buccal vestibule of the maxilla
is a space between the cheek and lateral face

or piscina
is a space in a wall near an altar

and
F A C E are the spaces
in between
the lines of a staff.

spaces with names
because they are part of something.
even if technically they are
"spaces" and not just

hollow
empty
blank

so i think their names suits them well.
because at least you know
what to call them.

but there is also a space
between you and me
it bears no name
and i think

this suits us
just as well.

i. do everything they want you to. wear clothes that are not too short or not too long. wear shoes that make you look smaller. do not, and i repeat, do not have piercings and tattoos they look ***** on you. After all, you do not own your body.


ii. displace your beliefs and put them all in stacks of paper. shove them all in your mouth and don’t talk unless you’re spoken to. if this is not enough, cut your tongue and sew your mouth shut. always remember: your opinion doesn’t matter. you’re just a girl.


iii. if they stare at you, ignore it. if they call you names and speak to you as if you’re not human. treat it as a compliment. you’re pretty.

iv. never aim for greater things. the worst thing for a woman to have is ambitions.

v. finally, smile and keep those legs open. soon enough, you’ll forget who you ever were. You are worse than nothing—
you are just a girl.

i witnessed a burglary today.

kids were seating at the back side of the jeepney
***** feet hanging,
snot running down their noses
the one beside me says,
“these kids will be thieves one day.”
and i look at these
little mud-eyed ones
filled with silent anger
and confusion.

if this is how we cast them
how could they change something
that was molded in stone for them?

we are responsible for the next generation
and yet we rob these children
a chance to create their own identity
and blame them for things
we should’ve
done
something
about.

The first thing about suicidal people is that they're not always the people who lay in bed, cry or sulk in a dark room. In fact, that’s a common misconception. Most of them, are highly-functional people. They laugh, talk with their friends, go to work, go to school, whatever. They do the things they need to do. It's part of the routine. But they still feel that they don't want to live anymore.

You see, just because they do things living people do doesn’t mean they’re not dead inside.

Second, suicidal people don’t want help. They know they need help but they don’t want it. Because they know you can't help them. You can try. Words of encouragement can help them understand that you want them to live and that people care about them. Words of encouragement help them stay for a while longer. But it doesn't make them want to live. At the end of the day, their resolve to die, doesn't change. You can't help them. They want to help themselves. But they don’t know how. The world is a ******-up place. Now all they want is relief.

And that is death.

Third, when suicidal people tell you they want to die, it's not for attention. But it's not for help, either. When they tell you they want to die, they're tasting the words come out of their mouths. They're tasting the sweetness of each syllable and bitterness of it all at the same time. And they're afraid that it tastes good. That it tastes just right. It echoes in their heads and they want to swallow death instead of life eating them alive.

Fourth, suicidal people don't need to hear the words "Please be okay." 'Cause more than you, that's the only thing that they want. To be okay. To be fine. But they’re not. They wrestle with their demons everyday only to find out that they’re only making love with them all along.

Fifth, most suicidal people don't show how they're suffering. And most of the time it's because they don't know how to say it to people. They don't know how to explain it to other people. That waking up is sometimes the hardest thing to do. That waking up is sometimes the worst thing that's been happening to them. How can you make normal people understand that? How can normal people understand that suicide isn't just lonely and depressed and gloomy ****? Suicide is also the exhaustion of this world.

So when people say they didn't see it coming. They really won't.

Sixth, most people think suicidal people are weak, lame *** beings. But the truth is, sometimes, they're the strongest people you'll ever meet. Why? Because they’ve been through hell and they’re still looking at you straight in the eye as if the world has not crumbled beneath them. It's just that they have become strong enough to want to die. What people don’t realize is that, being strong is not a state of being, it is earned. You have to do your ****, keep your **** together and still be able to actually be there for other people. But it's tiring. Most people do not understand that just because a person is strong doesn’t mean everything is alright. In fact, everything is not alright, that’s why they’re strong. Everything is falling apart but they appear intact.

Do you even realize how hard that is?

Everyday you keep fighting back and everyday you fall to the ground. Nothing changes. You lose everyday. Sure, some days are happy days. Good things happen once in a while. But happy things don't last. All good things must come to an end. And when you've come to that realization, what's more to live for? When you know you'll be happy then sad or angry or tired later on? Most people will say that that's what life is about.

"Overcoming challenges!" Well, I say, *******. I know everybody is fighting their own battles. But we deal with our battles differently. And lucky you, you haven’t given up yet. But suicidal people are just done with putting up concrete filling when all they feel inside is empty.

Seventh, suicidal people have been through a lot and they have fought and fought. That's why they still haven't pulled the trigger to their heads. But the thing is, life has become more of a war for them rather than something they must enjoy. They don't understand the essence of it anymore. They're just tired. They don't know when it will all end. They don't know how to fight wars when all they got are bare hands and a body that gets easily scraped and bruised.

Everyday they keep fighting it.
Everyday they lose.

But suicidal people,
God, they’re trying.
They really are.

Mother you saw the cuts on my hands
you asked me what they were
I told you they were barbed wire scratches
when I climbed up a tree
in our backyard.

Mother,
there are no trees here.

but you stayed silent
in the church pews
praying to a god
who couldn't save your daughter.

Mother, remember when you tucked me at night
and held me
because I am afraid of the dark but
told me nothing would go wrong because
you are the light of my life.
and everything is gonna be alright.

what happened?

one day,
you asked me if he does things to me
when we are alone
I felt your chest tighten
as i replied with nothing but a straight face
i forced myself to shake my head

just to see you breathe again.

Mother, you saw the lines under my eyes
you keep telling me I should go home earlier
go to bed earlier
but you do not understand
that monsters do not always hide
under your bed
sometimes, they welcome you

"home"

Mother, I want to tell you but
do you really look at me?
or you just see the
smiles
and how hard
I try not to make you worry.

do I really have to end up in
hospital beds
before you finally see
how unhappy I have been?

do I have to destroy myself
even more?

Mother,
tell me
when is everything going to be alright?

Mother you know how much
I hate enclosed spaces and
darkness
but right now
caskets seem like a pretty good bed
to finally
sleep.

Mother, tuck me in bed-
one
last
time.
okay?

So here you are again
at the footsteps of the walls
I’ve rebuilt over
and over again
asking me to let you in.

I know
this is not the first time
that you’ve returned from your
wars with the world.
You are wounded and weary
Your eyes look so dead
I can see the graveyard behind them

You've lost so much, my love.
including yourself.

and you know,
if you would just let me
I would tuck all those bombs away,
Throw them to the skies
and let them light up our lives
instead of them
burning and bruising our bodies

but you won't give up arms

yes, you're reaching out
but you won't let me hold your hand

So we both know
this wouldn’t end well
my bones are still shaking
from all the trauma you’ve caused

my love, please understand
my heart is not a church.
You cannot just return when you feel like it
and pray for me to forgive your sins.
I am not a god.
I am only human.
And there is a limit to how much hurt I can take.

Do you think your “sorry’s” are enough
to sew these spaces you’ve sown in my soul?
Don't you know how hard it is to keep living
when all you've been doing
is leaving me behind?

I still love you.
I think I always will.
But please don’t think
I can keep on breaking myself
just to keep you whole.