my dear F,

i'm sorry things turned out this way.

as much as i want to believe that we are the ones who make our own fate, some things just became too heavy for me to carry and i wasn't ready. and believe me, i tried. i tried so hard but it's hard to brawl against something i couldn't even see like destiny, or whatever other word people have for it.

see, i haven't been doing too well. when i look at myself in the mirror i see a houseplant that is about to die. the guilt consumes me more than anything. other days i just feel like a lit candle dying a slow death and this, i accept. i'm sorry i hurt you while i was hurting. i have been a dreadful person.

and i'm sorry this is all i can give you -- another futile attempt to gather my thoughts and then turn them into something not even mildly coherent. but this is all i've got... for now, at least.

i don't know what to say anymore; i just don't want to cry on christmas eve again. i'm sorry i can't go back in time and fix us.

maybe in our next lives, if i'm lucky, you'll find me again.
or i'll find you. either way, i will be waiting.

but i understand if you hate me.

love always,
N

drawing
stick people
trying
not to make them look
sick
wasting time being
wasted
because when something inside
your chest feels
broken
the clock seems to be working
slower than
usual
praying
to someone in the ceiling to
please stop the
aching
looking for my sanity
just another thing
lost
the lingering question
following me around
like a red balloon
tied to my
wrist
unanswered still:
lover, do you like yourself
better
now that you're with
her?

Pianist's fingers,
preacher's tongue,
she is the dark sky
where the stars
are hung.
A living dream in
men's perfume,
she speaks of oblivion,
the nothingness
and doom.
The question you have
remains to be answered:
How could a lady
who is named after someone
so holy
declare that the key to
people's heart
is a knife?
How could you,
who is named after someone
so wise
lose your wits
when she looks at you
with those eyes?
Fortune favors the bold
has been inked on your skin
at fifteen so you shrug
and fearlessly accept
the Little and Big
Death.

and his strong hands
covering your
pretty green eyes

alexander
and his surprises

fireworks before
christmas and the
new year

fancy wine and
slow dancing

a necklace
that felt like a noose
and flowers
for your heart's
funeral

for a minute there
you almost
forgot
how much you hated
*plot twists

i.* Build me a concrete house and I will not put a single clock on its walls because timing was never on our side anyway.

ii. This boy called Cupid is so irresponsible; he needs to stop drinking before he goes to work.

iii. One time we were so close to each other we almost touched hands
but we are sadly the perfect metaphors for continents that are constantly drifting further away from each other.

iv. I'm all ears. I don't understand why you never said anything to me before.

v. I only speak two languages but I'm cussing you in seven. Also, I miss your face but ******* and your stupid hair. You look like a  broccoli.

the soft sound
of the turning of
newspaper pages
in the morning

the damp circle left
by your coffee cup

the gentle kiss
planted on it

the tiny smile
that reveals a perfect
deformity
on your right cheek

a yelling neighbor
and fine china breaking

let's move to pluto,
you say

you leave me speechless
half of the time

and i nod in agreement

malakas na halakhak
namumulang mga pisngi
sa sulok ng utak
ay may nagsasabing
ang luha rin
ay babagsak
ano mang sandali

Her, watching you silently. You, doing the same.

Stealthy like a cat.
Innocent glances that are not so innocent.
Forbidden, like the apple. But so sweet--
never mind the toothache or
the possible heartbreak.

Your name rolling on her tongue
so smoothly, so holy
makes you want to sin again and again.
You ask,
How do I stop?
She grins, bares it all.
You do not want to stop.
Skin burning hot, careful not to touch but
not touching feels like hell.

Hell, she sings songs like an angel in pleasure
and in pain
so you sing with her an immaculate duet.

Your warm mouth on hers,
bodies gracefully moving together.
A perfect synchronization;
one thousand over ten.

Bliss.

a bus ride to somewhere
tranquil or at least to
somewhere less loud
i look high or tired or
a combination of both
                              what is the word...
                                                         there.
                                                     pa-thet-ic
maybe traveling with
an empty stomach helped
because normally
i would've puked
banana bread and tea by now
                           i've always hated shaky
                                drives and the smell of
                                                      air freshener
do you hear all the noise too
there's a madman shouting
in my ear, a ****** karaoke tune
and a tiny voice saying
                                       you're immaterial
repeatedly
                                                   or is it just me
how do you function
when you feel like you've lost
an arm except in my case
it's my brain that's been missing
                                 you should see my stash
                                                       of milk cartons

endless sips
and countless
spinning
of bottles

silly dares
and frightening
truths

tired young
souls

binge drinking,
can't keep up
with the world
turning

you are not much
of a reader
but spread her
like a book
and learn her secrets

it is only *****
when it is done right

do you know what i mean

take her icy hands
and place them
on your chest

make yourself
her fireplace

let her sleep
let her rest

i think everything
was too much

for her

small bumps on the road,
the orange light from the street lamps glow
like a midnight sun and i fell in love
with the girl beside me,
sleepy and lovely
with a scar just above her left brow --
a childhood souvenir because
she could never stay still;
her hair free and wild
like her

and i'm flooring it while my seat belt is off
stupid and spirited, i know i will
give her name as the answer when
fifty years from now a child asks me
about my youth.

old man Bukowski said:
the flesh covers the bones
and they put a mind in there
and sometimes a soul;
i believe God
poured and poured
all the glorious things on her
and gave her a hand-made heart of gold

and maybe this isn't going to end
well, and well, all of this is forbidden
like the apple but still sweet
so never mind the toothache
or the possible heartbreak.

the scent of something
familiar punches you in
the gut
and
you know that smell
very well--
some cheap detergent
on someone's clothes
that hurts your nose
and you try
not to fall down
nostalgia lane
again and stay there
for seven days
doing nothing but
writing and rewriting
wishing things were
different.

you're three years
older now
and you're still paying
for things but there's
no change yet.

you've heard theories
saying that time is nothing
but a concept,
that it is a mere creation
of foolish humans.
you close your eyes
and think
no no no no no no no

maybe if you repeat it
enough times the power
of suggestion will work

no no no no
     no no no
no no no no
no no no no no

time must come
and heal you

slow dancing in the dark
like we have all the time in the world

like
the world isn't a war zone
and a massive grave

the ghosts
in this house peek through the holes
in the ceiling, blushing and turning away
as we kiss

i taste christmas in your mouth
and slowly feel myself flying
through space

                                             was that the yellow balloon i lost
                                             when i was eight?

your laughter in my mouth
brings me back to earth and i apologize
for gripping your hand so tightly

i can't let you float away and never return
like my balloon did

Today,
a somber sunday
the streets flooded with
rain and ***** drainage water.
this town
has seen so many deaths--
men shot in the head,
the hopes and dreams of little
girls concluded far
too soon and the constant buzz
in my head that softly whispers
sad songs on loop.
i have tried
pretending that i don't hear it
just like how women become
temporarily deaf when some excited boy
catcalls them but
it wouldn't stop
so i taught myself how to
laugh and dance to the cheerless
melodies while grabbing death's
clammy hands,
kissing him on the lips
and whispering back,
not today,
*not today

when the church bell rings i hear sirens;
when i open my mouth for the holy communion
i fear that the things i am struggling to keep
are going to spill.

looking at the church under the nights eyes
hoping these simple prayers will suffice
searching for god through dark times

and i'm running out of rhymes
my brain is just filled with apologies
standing in the corner with my desperate pleas
it's just a simple yes or no
where do all my unanswered prayers go

Lady made out
of magic and mayhem
bottled along with stars
and flowers
and hurricanes
and volcanoes

A brutally lovely poetry

A work of art--
not post-modern but
pre-apocalyptic

and
if he lays his eyes on you
even Narcissus
will launch
his ship

write her a poem
on the back of a receipt from
two weeks ago

turn it into an airplane
and with all your might
fly it towards her direction

watch it land slowly
watch her pick it up
and laugh

jesus christ
she looks so pretty
when her eyes smile like that
but *******
you weren't prepared for
the crash

why didn't anyone teach you
how to wear a parachute

Tracing the cracks on the wall,
my eyes are burning but I'm fighting sleep.
The lonely hum inside my brain is
telling me to do something
but loving you is exhausting
and it's been raining white flags
inside my brain since summer.

The end of us felt like an earthquake-
something tragic I never saw coming
and my God, I never saw it coming.

Every night I remind myself that the more
I close my hands the more I hurt myself
and it's not easy being valiant but
I am thinking of you
quietly now.

save more money
by not throwing so much ****
into wishing wells for something
that you already know will never happen.

all your flowered dresses
thrown across the floor;
my bedroom--
our secret garden.

Twenty-three and skeptic. White teeth
and red lips.

*****-mouthed five foot seven countess.
Thoughts so lush, so green.

Intelligent but not unexciting.

Scarred right hand by climbing up but
wanting to know what falling feels like.

Unhinged.

Caught 4 out of 5 bouquets in weddings
she's attended. Claimed it should be an Olympic sport.

Breaks hearts like they are bones.

The love of my life.

i. The soft hum of someone playing Claire de Lune next door and you putting your hair up and exposing your neck makes me feel like I am in a film so perfectly made I  just want to capture every single movement of you and keep them in the safest and sanest corner of my brain.

ii. You say it's such a divine night; I say I'm so sure that even the
Devil's knees would buckle when he hears you speak.
I noticed the fireflies are lighting up themselves even more brightly.
I bet it's because they are trying to outshine you, but they will all fall dead even before they do so.

iii. There's a marching band inside my chest and for some reason tonight feels like Christmas, New Years and my birthday all at once.
The other day my mom said she thinks I am getting better.
I said, yes, mom, my old self finally decided to come home.

debussy softly playing in a dimly-lit room
i am watching the vinyl as it spins
and i can feel my head doing the same
only faster
my hair smells like peach and smoke
and you look like a hazy dream in your white shirt
mumbling about how we should've went
to that play instead of drinking
because we'd be sick in the morning
but you pour more alcohol into your glass and into mine
now all i taste is honey
as i get drunker and my giggles get louder,
smiles wider and hands braver
and maybe you're right
we should've just dressed nicely and went to watch
******* beowulf instead of playing russian roulette
because the bullet is supposed to bury into my head
so why does it feel like a cannon ball into my heart
every time you touch me and smile

girls with buzz cuts singing along
to beach house
the air thick with eccentricity
and anarchy
their painted nails beginning to chip slowly
like the minds of the older folks that are
too engrossed with their holy books

smart mouths and their pretentious words

they make you want to kneel and pray
but you know other things that you would rather
be doing with your hands
like
reaching for your dreams
or punching some guy's face for telling you to
smile, pretty lady

and

boys with long locks crying to
armageddon
the blue sea spilling out from their red eyes
their shirts splattered with distress and
confusion

mostly from people who are built like big boulders
and war tanks

too upset to see one of them crying
but you know other things that you would rather
be doing with your anatomy
like
building homes with pretty gardens
or sewing a dainty dress for your niece

Blue
mixed with black;
bloodshot eyes and aching back.
Nobody notices that 
Atlas is now
a twenty-year-old girl
carrying a less than mediocre
world.

in a multi-colored
tie-dyed shirt
and jeans too tight
born of a sometimes
sound mind
and other outright *****

mouth tasting of marlboro
and pink starburst
cancer and cavity
i think i spot my hearse

           is there an energy drink
                               for the soul

all i do is envy the cacti
on the window sill
sitting still
surviving on neglect
not being able to feel

Not all the times
the universe is unkind
It has been raining
nonstop
and this little house
is warm
enough for the two of us
I woke up to
the feel of your lips
on my shoulder
Angel face, you smell of
toothpaste and
cocoa
(What did I ever do
to be the one
you say I love you to?)
I regret
cursing the stars that
one
drunken
night

i was having my usual meal of a cigarette and juice for breakfast when you walked past me with your hair in a bun and your obvious makeup from last night. you wore a long-sleeved white shirt that was 2 sizes too big for you but you looked fine, although you almost tripped and muttered **** under your breath four times. you went inside a 7/11 and came out with a large coffee and a donut. i tried not to inhale when you walked past me again to get to your car and i think you noticed because you quickly looked and smiled. i spotted an air dancer on my way to work and thought, same. maybe some other time we could get breakfast together.

it was raining and i didn't have an umbrella with me. you were all wet as well-- your cotton candy pink hair stuck to your forehead like long spider legs. why was it raining in december? you pulled out a magazine from your bag and covered your head with it, took a deep breath and ran across the street shrieking. you almost got hit by a compact car and you shrieked at it louder. something about you just screamed stupidity and fun. i will bring a big enough umbrella tomorrow. don't die too soon.

i am a gambler
in life betting
all my coins,
fingers crossed

and fate,
like a child,
loves to play

strip and skinny dip
in the ocean of solace
float on your back
and watch the stars wink

entertain the seraphs looking
down on you
flail your arms and move
your legs
let them tell the creator,
oh god, she's making an
ocean angel

and you'll hear him laugh
in thunders

allow yourself to feel
small, so tiny
to be strangely frightened
but electrified when you smile
at some stranger in a dark alley

allow yourself to feel

because there is so much death
but also so much life
so

strip and skinny dip
in the ocean of solace
float on your back
and watch the stars wink

You did not even have to ****
that pretty daisy
and watch as its petals rain
on the ground to know that
she loves you
not.

I am God's draft,
something He was meaning to finish but
got distracted in the process with rainbows and tulips,
the birds and the bees,
certainly the much more beautiful and riveting things.

I was born three days late so I am always apologizing to
other people for my tardiness but mostly to myself for
constantly missing the good parts.

The angel keeping an eye on me would have six fat books of
the lies I've shamelessly spat out for almost two decades now
and I wonder if they would let me stack them up so I could have
even just a peek of what heaven looks like after Atlas
finally decides to retire.

I constantly think about death, tragedy and loss.

Maybe it's because of my problematic playlist or
the sick humor of my friends. Maybe it's just me trying to find
meaning in everything and studying things but in the back of my head
I can picture the philosophers howling in laughter.

Maybe it's because they know I'm meant just to be a draft.
I read somewhere that
                               *A work of art is never finished, only abandoned.