"He may have had good intentions—pushing you."

You are the only person who has ever made me feel this conflicted. Maybe I needed the push, but why does it sting? Why does it feel less like guidance and more like a wound that never heals?

You have always made me angry at the world, at myself. I push myself past exhaustion because you have made me so afraid to fail. How can you still see me as the same weak child? You know how I've changed. How I stay on my feet from dawn until dusk. Yet, you only ever see where I fall, never where I stand tall. And when life is unkind to me, you never fail to remind me that it is my own fault. More than two decades have passed, but your voice still shakes me more than the world ever could.

You always told me to speak, to open up, to step into the world with confidence. But have you ever wondered why I stay silent? Why I shrink and shut down before I can even communicate? Why I feel insecure in my relationships? Why I have the tendency to leave?

You deserve to be loved because you were there, because you provided. But truth be told, I am broken and you played a part.

If love is vast, then so is grief. If love is a force, then so is the emptiness it leaves behind.

After laying down all my cards and spilling my love into words, hoping to place it somewhere other than my heart, I learned that it is simply too much; That no matter how I try to set it aside or fight it, love seeps into the smallest spaces. It spills through the cracks, demanding to be acknowledged. And every time I give it even an ounce of attention, it takes over me, growing into something bigger than myself.
I tried to outrun it, drown it in reason, bury it beneath time, but it lingers in the quiet moments until it consumes me whole. I'm left with no choice but to give in, fall to my knees, and let it take me at its mercy. I guess misery never really ends when all we do is call into voids without hearing another echo.

Could I stir fate into action by declaring that I have finally learned to hold love with careful hands? That I am better now? I want to be exactly what they need. I want to pour myself into every glass that needs filling, this time, neither too much nor too little. I want to be someone uneasy to let go of, to become the same love that haunts me in my silence. It's Valentine's day, and I have no other desires but to meet love where it stands.

This has held me back more than it’s ever pushed me forward.
This big feeling, a consuming fixation.

I’ve delayed myself for it, time and time again.
I’ve broken promises for it,
suffered the consequences, no matter how punishing,
not for my own benefit,
nor anyone else’s.
It hasn’t moved me closer to anything. It’s taken a limb but hasn’t taken me anywhere I’ve wanted to go.
It keeps me stagnant.

Mendiola Street feels different these days.
I still walk it, tracing the same path I always have; Mondays and Thursdays at midnight, when the city breathes in silence. On other days, I walk as the morning sun rises, its warmth pressing against my skin.

Some days, I stop by the nearby cafés, sit by the window, watch people come and go. Their lives briefly intersects with mine before vanishing into their own stories. I sip my coffee and, for a moment, relive that late afternoon from two years ago. The way the dimming light stretched long over the pavement. The way peace and excitement coexisted in my chest. The way happiness made me feel like I wasn’t even touching the ground. The innocence, the unfolding story, the hope, the magic. I keep trying to step back into that moment, but time doesn’t work that way.

My eyes always wander to the people, the sky, and the trees. Their branches used to cast shadows on the ground, dancing patterns of light and dark. But now, the leaves are gone, leaving the street bare, emptier than before. And yet, the trunks remain, standing tall, holding onto memories even as everything else changes.

Most days, those trees see me worn out, hopeless, and frustrated as I head home in the afternoons. They have seen how I outgrew my naivety, how I lost and regained kindness, how I fought to survive each day, how I was pushed to grow thicker skin. But they’ve also witnessed my happiest moments, the ones where I felt like light itself, beaming and shining down the street. And maybe, just maybe, they remember.

Amid all the ordinary things I pass each day, I still hope for something unexpected; to be found without searching, to stumble upon something that makes me feel weightless again. But I've been contemplating leaving for a long time now, and only time will tell if I'll still be walking the same pavement next year.

She stained the rim with her lipstick,
And I lifted it to my lips.
Red, intimate.

The faint smudge, a trace of her presence,
A friendly face masking the turmoil beneath.
When I think of beauty, I think of her.

There’s a quiet seduction she seems unaware of,
Like how her eyes hold an unintentional allure.
There is slender grace in her form,
A quiet elegance I cannot help but notice.

She moves in ways that stir something within me.
She made me understand what captivates me, what draws me in
She is careless in a way that only makes her more enticing.

Lastly, she made me realize
What simply liking someone feels like;
For that's all she'll ever be.

I refuse to be caught in someone’s prayer,
To be the name they speak to a distant sky,
As they move on with their lives,
Until they tire of saying my name,
To a higher being who never answers.

Whispered wishes alone won’t shift a thing.
But who am I to think I’m worth the effort and bravery
When I, too, have grown selfish, tired,
And reluctant to breathe life into my own desires?

Why do I have to stifle the part of me,
Once quick to act,
Now sinking into the life I chose,
All to prove I can abide by the rules.

You have always retreated into the depths, into places where I cannot follow
Unwillingly, you linger
Unwillingly, I grip harder
A fleeting presence is how you'll be remembered

Sleek and serpentine, a thread of liquid silver,  
I reach for your tail
But you were made to slip away

Teardrops fall, sending ripples across the still water
And when I say 'stay,'
Does it reach you?
Do soundwaves break through the barriers of our world
Or do they dissolve before they arrive?

I try to avoid clichés, such as the word ‘someday,’ but I can’t deny the hope it carries. It’s beautiful and promising, like the first light of day. Seven simple letters that hold the weight of my dreams.

Someday, I’ll write about cool winds and peaceful rain, about afternoons spent wandering through gardens. I’ll describe the grass beneath my feet, as though it thanks me for walking this earth. I’ll write of vast cities, where new streets hum with life, new places I’ve visited, and those yet to come.

Someday, I will only wait for sunrises and sunsets. I’ll leave the sciences behind in favor of what nourishes the soul. I’ll indulge in simple joys, like flipping through recipe books and learning the art of crafting the perfect soup.

Someday, my writing will shift. It will be less about others and more about me—how I am loved, how I am loved well, and how those I love are lucky to have me. I’ll be hidden, only found by those who seek me in my absence, who know that I’ve always left the door open. At the dining table, I’ll sit with friends who stayed, who made me stay, and who never took me for granted.

Someday, I’ll spend more time analyzing constellations, and less on pondering why relationships fail. I’ll always have the right words to say, no hesitation, no delay. Someday, my writing will be simple and clear, no ironies, no hidden metaphors.
Short, and sweet;
No traces of past pains, or of having dealt with goodbyes.

But someday is still a distant thought. For now, I let the ink bleed a little longer. I let the pen spell words like grief and loss.

Let the paper remember everything I ought to forget.

Another silent night where a moth flies with all its might,
To the flame, a beacon, too warm and bright
This entrancing distant spark in the vastness of the dark
Is proof that beautiful things, too, could end a life

“I could never blame you for how you’ll ruin me,
for I have always loved in extremes.”

The soft wind blows, enhancing the flame’s curves
The fearless moth draws nearer to the heat
It knows the cost, but it does not fear
To lose its wings for a single kiss

It has become a curse to remember so vividly,
those moments, simple yet profound.
Like smiles, the sound of breath, and the warmth of their palms.
Loving, I’ve realized, is often about memorizing.
Attending to every detail whenever you can.
Their presence becomes integral, no matter how scarce,
So you rely on all your senses to keep them alive.

And when it’s time to leave, everything falls silent.
The glass feels more half-empty than half full
You realize, that their absence, too, hangs in the air
A feeling you don’t just remember, but live in
And you’re left wondering,
why their absence feels more permanent.

They say to maintain emotional balance, we need three positives for every negative.

Anatomy taught me that two-thirds of the heart's mass sits on the left side of your chest.
Since then, I began to imagine that negative emotions gather on that side.
And when the positive falls short, and the scale tips too far, the weight becomes physical.
I named this feeling 'lopsided sad' — when the heaviness tugs at my ribs, pulling one side of me toward the ground, as if half of my body is anchored to the earth.

Why do I keep collecting more baggage than I can carry, clutching it all in one hand?

I've been counting my blessings since that day, in an attempt to restore balance.
With desperation, I listed everything that is good,
every little thing that counts;
word by word, letter by letter,
I collect each one like pennies,
wishing that every line and curve that forms them
would suffice to outweigh the bad.

Three for one.
The equation has been flawed from the start,
three sparks just to dull the dark.
Maybe this is how we're meant to walk the earth—
always leaning on one side, never upright

I'll be up at five, so I can leave by six. For this rare occasion, I won't hit snooze. It does not matter that my bones are creaking, and my eyes still craving some sleep because a longing heart can defy anything that's making me weak.

For love, I will ride motorcycles, and respond uncomfortably to men who do not need to know anything more than my name, and where I'm headed. We'll hit the road obnoxiously, and take turns on unfamiliar streets. I will put all my faith in the helmet I'm wearing, and in humanity, while I hold on for dear life.

After a dreadful ride, I will step foot inside an unfamiliar building. I could place a bet that I'd get lost inside because well, it's me. When I finally find my bus, I will hop on anxiously. Yet, despite everything that's running in my head, peace will come to me.

It will come in the way the early sun lies in the palm of my hand, its warmth, melting away my worries.
And from the pair of bright innocent eyes peeking from the seat in front of me.
Calm will come from watching the bus slowly fill with passengers from the city.
Especially, from the thought that all of us are headed somewhere for a grand reason — for love.

Dread will become anticipation and anticipation to plain excitement.

I will wait patiently behind the soft murmurs of strangers. And when the conductor finally hands me my ticket, I would think that I could do this as often as you want me to.

In my seat, I will sink with both childlike wonder and a new sense of independence. There, I will find joy in all the unfamiliarity.

The ride will be a cycle of seats getting emptied and reoccupied as the bus traverses through cities.

And when it gets emptier, I will tell you that I’m almost there.

The world has gone dark that you can't really tell
Whether your eyes are shut or wide open

I'm just a shadow
An unfamiliar name with a strong desire
to learn everything about your existence