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Pain. Suffering isn't it?
First, it will hurt you.
It's like tearing you slowly into pieces.
You would feel the emptiness running through
your veins until you slowly get used to it.
Your body has been warped
with drugs,
It's a battle with yourself
and there's no other way but to
find comfort in every slit you make.
Then you'd be drowning in slumber;
hands dangling off at the edge of the bed
to let the monsters
know you are willing,
and there,
you'll find yourself in great relief.
You find your cuts
bleeding under your sleeves
and it makes you
in love
with it.

You suffered
so much, yet
you are willing.
Curiosity lingered the atmosphere when I saw you the first time -through gathering of all faces, you were there, sitting in the comfort of your own, gazing too. There was a sign of a ******* in you, and I had this distinct impression that you make out with several girls you met in PNR since you’re a hot looking guy and outgoing who found solace in drinking and that I won’t be your conquest, simply we won’t vibe. But you’re a typical college student-athlete summoned by workouts every mid-afternoon at the field and college demands at night, yet a happy go lucky who never puts exertion pretty sure in class. Our first conversation just revolved around math and how much of a fool I was to flunk my first term exam, I was worrying if I could still be a college scholar but you believed in me that I could still make it. You believed even at the most times I’m in doubt.

You stared at me oftentimes, a smug taming look peeking on your face (probably your way of getting someone’s heart) and me being timid, I could not stand a second of it that I had to look away or hastily whip my rosy face from your sight. It became my habit giving you a gently squeeze to your hand, which honestly my favorite thing to do. And even though you wanted it intertwined from mine, you still let me do it because you also loving it. I could almost see your soul, guaranteed to pique my interest every time we express what our hearts yearn, and with that, it filled me with wonder. We both knew that we were temporaries and that our eyes we got lost into connects us to the moment so, we make the most out of it.

You are terrible in singing, you embraced the fact that you are only good at it when you are drunk, and your voicemail had honestly scrunched up my eyebrows right after the dilemma of hearing it. The taste of cigarette haunts you, it became your five-minute escape but I never see you hold a paper stick filled with tobacco leaves around me, perhaps you didn't let me to, but your mama would certainly scold you if she finds out your ***** little secret. And have  I ever told you that your smile reminds me of Ryan Gosling?

We had the same standpoint to some, but also differ in many ways. It appears we won’t like something just because everybody else does; we had the same antipathy over the things that the majority of the population seems to be fond of. We despised immaturity and entitlement- to us it is shallow and toxic (that we frankly knew it was the past relationships we were referring to). we were overwrought in hanging out idly, it brought us refuge and my space had always been our rendezvous. I was thrown into fear of opining because somehow, I don't think this world is worth hearing them yet, on the contrary, you are confident to speak up and use your voice since you got plenty of words in your pocket. You found pleasure in sports and numbers whereas linguistics and arts is my cup of tea, yet it never ceases to marvel one's wit ( I have been a mania of minstrelsy and I remember you were astounded through my montage that was written 2 years ago before I had my writer's block) When my tongue loves the taste of coffee, yours is in the tang of alcohol (you never heard me ask you to quit your vices because those are part of you.) and while you have the habit of tearing someone into pieces, I let people take my pieces to let them whole.

We were both lost, wandering through the crowded people and only happen to be two strangers caged in one's abyss. We were trapped by a gaping orb and convenience but perhaps we are something ephemeral; it all happened so fast, it doesn't last. That was early summer and it was vivid, I never heard anything about you since then.
People say we can’t choose who visits us, but it’s our choice whom we will let in. But in my case I have kept my heart open for everyone who barge on my door and knock. I stayed at my place not chasing anyone but because I hoped to be searched, I wanted to be found and the day you came into my life, I welcomed you with open arms because that’s what home should be - to be someone’s shelter and comfort amid the storm.

I remember I asked you about your past relationship and you told me it was the worst. You caught her with another guy and you didn’t make any fuss about it, you were blaming yourself that time and that day I promised I won’t hurt you, that I’ll stay beside you no matter how hard it gets the situation, but deep inside, I wanted to be your permanent address; no matter where you go, I knew you would come back to me because there’s no place like home. I wanted to be your peace where you could find the silence you need and your favorite spot overlooking the city where we could slowly dance the night away; not just a place you could go to because you don’t have anywhere else to stay. I wanted to be the calm in your raging sea, the music that drives you into heaven, and the warmth that you crave for colder days; not just a passerby who would rest on my arms for a while but walk out right away and desert the things we could have been.

I welcomed you with open arms because that’s what home should be -to be someone’s shelter and comfort amid the storm. But I left the door open and decided to leave, because you had the chance to do so.
I was wondering if there would be a chance you would contact me and talk about what had happened to us, that maybe we could see each other and maybe by then I’ll have what I need-closure. Maybe by that, I could find acceptance and finally say that this is the reality and I have to face it. But I know it won’t happen. I know you, you should have done it earlier, at least?

I’m still waiting for your message. I’m still holding on maybe we could work this time again or maybe we could sort this out but I know that the more I try to connect with you, the more painful it could be since you already cut me off from your life and I don’t want to become selfish to your decision. To be honest, everything is still not clear to me. Maybe because I didn’t get the answers I deserve, that I still lack your explanations to the point I’m wanting to see you so we could settle this out, and maybe by that I could finally have the courage to say my last goodbye. I’m wanting to see you- to make sure you’re okay, to hug you for one last time, and to tell you I’m thankful for everything.

Maybe we could see each other again, for the last time. And maybe by that, I would finally feel the freedom and assurance that it’s over.
When we were young,
we used to cover ourselves
with thick blankets
just to hide ourselves
from the monsters under the bed,
until they started to come out
and keeping us awake overnight.
As the monsters tried to halt our feet
dangling off at the edge of the bed.
as it goes unsteadily, the cowardice
seep back in;
We tried to escape from the battleground,
but I knew it was useless as it kept us coming back.
Because we were the soldiers with caged fearsome,
and we are still at war with comes most naturally
to us.
The first time I wrote a poem was pure brokenness, where sadness became my relief, and the pain who has crushed me and tore me to pieces gave me comfort. But when I met you, I tried to change my genre into something blissful, something permanent; no more writings about my dark days and empty feelings because knowing you were here beside me and the overwhelming feeling I’d never thought would put me at ease became my inspiration to make something peculiar out of my familiarity. But my hands betrayed me, my mind was in knots that I couldn’t seem to follow. I ran out of words. It felt like a complete derailing of thought where despair defeated me as I could feel this wasn’t for me and had to give up the poetry inside me.

The first time I wrote a poem was pure brokenness and today I’m writing a poem out of it, because the day you leave me drives me into deep-seated words, my hands are dying to be written until my fingers bleed. Things before I was certain of turns blurry, but the only thing I’m sure of is that creating art today gets back my longing into poetry.

I stopped being a poet when you arrived,
Today, I’m back at it.
Today, I woke up with regrets,
but no, don’t get me wrong.
I never regret meeting you,
a hectic mid-afternoon at the field.
I never regret the days we spent,
your arms held us close.
I never regret holding your hand,
fingers intertwined at all.
I never regret the intimacy,
your touch leaves marks.
I never regret it, no.
But I do regret
holding on to chances, I thought I got something to look forward to.
I regret being certain, I assumed
this entire book could be written.
I regret giving myself
but has only left me torn asunder.
I regret letting this happen,
I should have been wiser.
I regret not holding enough.
I regret not doing enough.
I regret not being enough.
Today, I woke up with regrets,
but no, I’m not blaming you.
After all, there’s no one to blame to but my expectations.
You did nothing wrong, baby
It’s my fault,
I broke my own heart.

— The End —