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I'm making this for you
To show you how I feel
I told you last night how I felt
And it felt like a weight was taken off me
Maybe I'm doing this for me
To help me deal with you
Not in a bad way
God you're so perfect
Welcome to your blog
I remember the first time someone explained to me what the word gay meant.
We were in middle school
Playing on the swing set behind Stoy Elementary
"He’s so gay," she said
Bitter disgust poured out of her mouth with every syllable
I could not think as to why being happy could be such a horrible thing
And so I asked
My exact words being
“Whats so wrong with being happy?”
Now both my friends looked at me weird
“Don’t you know what gay means?”
“Doesn’t it mean to be happy?”
“You’re such a little kid, gay does not mean happy. Gay is a boy who likes another boy”
I stood there wondering why it mattered so much that a boy liked another boy;
why it was such a distasteful thing.
And why it meant gay couldn’t still mean happy.
To be locked in a room.
Just me and just you.
To make the whole world bloom,
only for us two.

Drinking words from your voice,
being satiated by your sight.
A glorious rejoice,
that could last the whole short night.

And then, maybe, along the hours
my skin could feast with yours.
If we where in the same room.
 Dec 2014 Marinela Abarca
jacky
It all began with a ‘he’
he who said I was pretty
  when my face turns sideways and
  the right amount of sunlight casts shadows
  on the planes of my cheeks
he who kissed me in 6th grade
  in front of my best friend – whom he used to date,
  his lips were cool and moist
  moist – it didn’t feel anything.
he who requested love songs during our high school intramurals
  when all of my friends and all of his friends
  cheer us up like we were the sweetest thing they’ve seen.
he who danced with me the whole night of our junior prom,
  my shoes dangling behind him, my arms and his arms were sweating
  he whispers now, “You look beautiful.”
he who gave me wilting flowers on the 15th of February
  because I skipped school – too scared to face the truth
  that no one would do what he just did. He proved me wrong.
he who said “I love you” too late.
he who said “I love you” too early.
He who made me believe that fate, destiny, sparks, forever, and all that *******
  were real, written in His holy book. Should I still believe in you?
he who said would wait – the next month telling me he realized
  it wasn’t me he was waiting for.
he who told me to stay.
he who left. he who never went back.
and oh – he
he who was never here in the first place.

it all began with a “she”
she who danced in front of the class
  with all her sass, snaps, and we laugh.
she whose hair used to be straight
  swaying down her waist, flows smoothly when she walks,
  falls perfectly down her collarbones. Let’s not start with collarbones.
she whose eyelids flutter like butterfly wings
  making the ones inside my stomach dance like hummingbird’s wings
  her eyelashes are thick, outlining her brown eyes – her perfect brown eyes.
she who throws he head back when she laughs
  not knowing I drift and crash back to the sea
  like a wave thrown back by her chuckles and laughter
she who reads and reads tons of books
  when she could write about her day
  and that’ll still be the greatest stories I could read
she who held me close when she stumbles towards the bus station
  when she’s drunk
she who wanted nothing between us – worried it will not work.
but she made the raindrops of yesterday meaningful
  so it could wash off all the hurt from everything, from everyone.
she who changed me. – no.
she who made me face the mirrors I’ve been running away from
  all those lies I’ve been hiding alone
  all those pain, all those bad memories
she washed them all away, like a hurricane
   she dragged my whole town with her
she who made me forget.
she who makes me ache at times but it’s the kind of ache
  you’d gladly take – a suffering worth all the suffering
she who outshined all of – in the best possible way I could imagine
she who made the stars insignificant.

It doesn’t end with a ‘he’
It doesn’t end with a ‘she’
it all ends up with a simple ‘who’
that person who will always come through
for you

I learned that love sometimes doesn’t last that long
sometimes it doesn’t even start at all.
But I know one thing, you cannot fight it.
I don’t know where – maybe in his hands
or in her eyes. It will make you move like you
have no choice at all – like a puppet stuck
******* and down nylon strings
by the puppeteer
dictating your life
like you have no choice, at all.
This is supposed to be for Slam Poetry =) But I guess, it's okay to post it here.
I
h
a
v
e
f
e
e
l
i
n
g
s
that
form
thou
ghts,
that
form
words,
that          form
sente            ­     nces,
that                       form
rope,                         which
ties                               itself
into a                            noose.
Your                         ­     words
are also                    a rope,
that saves me from
drowning.
Sorry if you can't read it.
Kinda.
She parts like the sea
When she is underneath me;
These salty skin and heaving winds
Compare no depth to when she is with me.

She clings on to me like I do to her
Storm swept lovers longing for the coast
Of the joys of home and the warmth of summer;
When all this that I could remember:

My name on her lips.
Her eyes when I kiss
Her senselessly; her smile,
Her hands, the way her fingers dance
Against my skin;

I am bursting
With vibrant passion
When she finds me again.
The parting of the sea:
Where she parts and I breathe
Alone and never has been,
But she has always

always drowned me.
(inspired from a character driven work and a love that shouldn't have been the worst)
 Dec 2014 Marinela Abarca
Riya
Wave after wave,
Each one hitting her harder than before
Black clouds gathering above her, inside her, behind her,
All of them surrounding her in an eternal darkness.

Gasping,
Thrashing,
Screaming,
Crying.

She sinks.
"Love me," she whispers.
"Love me," louder as she grabs at them.
"Love me," she cries.
Again and again, night after night.
Hit after hit, high after high.
Tear after tear and guy after guy.
Never once satisfied.
Sitting home alone, she cries.

Easy to judge her.
"No one will love her."
Bitter words from hateful mouths.
Oh so needy, "please just love me"
All she cries as you lay her down.

No love for that girl.
Give her a quick whirl,
Then we pass her to the next.
She hates everyone, mad at the world.
Wanders around with her head so vex.

Hard to understand her,
Easy to demand her,
"Do this! Do that!"
As she will.

Everyone watches and waits for the time bomb, everyone wants to see her fail. She's something to look at and something to speak of, without her, where is the thrill?

But what people don't notice, what they don't realize, is that she's hurting behind the pills.

Those cries aren't pleasure, they are pain. She's looking for something that drives her insane.

Searching for love in such a wrong place and can't even see it when it's in her face. It's never a search, really more of a chase. You can tell she's the girl when she's in that place.

The cries aren't from passion.
They are from confusion, but she'll make you ignore it, call it illusion.

She is that girl that no man understands, the girl who is fragile and always in wrong hands. The needy girl always searching for love, hoping that someone is hearing above.

She's sick and twisted and at other times sane, she bottles her pain as she hears them say her name. Never good news, but it's part of the fame. We all know this girl will always hang her head in shame.

Everyone has baggage, but this girl's is quite a lot.
People open her bags up and run once they see what she's got.

But I know this girl when I give it some thought,
we treat her so nasty and do it a lot. We aren't helping her, because it's nobody's problem. Someone has something we want, then we rob them. You have got to latch on to what you want in this life, whether it is wrong, or if it is right.

Remember that girl, by the end of the night. She won't make a fuss, she won't try to fight. She'll just keep moaning "love me" But really, who cares? You can see when you touch her she's not really there.

This story is troubling and very much true, but this girl is me.
What if she was you?

*kd
This perfect little girl
seems like she's a storybook away,
and the image you wish to see
is drenched in black,
a shadow that won't reveal
the identity of its master.
This perfect little girl
used to hold your hand,
but is now letting go
to search for something greater
than protection -
she's searching for herself,
and this perfect little girl
you tried to create,
isn't who she's looking for.
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