funny, isn't it? how facebook displays how long it's been since a person was last active. they remind me that i was a mere three hundred seconds from catching you online, but that's okay; no, really!, it is;

because my fingers are hovering over my keyboard and the blinker's just blinking in its white little space, this Type a message... glaring at me accusingly. wait, give me a second. what do i tell you? what should i say?

hi is safe. so is hello. hey seems a little too casual, doesn't it? should i put an emoji? a heart? no, no. a smiley face. but just the normal smiley face, not the one with closed eyes and everything. or maybe i should use that instead?

but /then what/?

i guess i could ask you how your day went. that sounds well enough. i can ask you about the weather. no, ******, it's always hot. nothing interesting there. i'll just branch out after you tell me what you've done today, where you've gone. oh, you went to the movies? that's great. last movie i watched was Captain America: Civil War. are you team cap or team iron man? peachy. just peachy. perfect. i've got this. i am s--

*******, you're online. why are you online? the green circle is just staring at me and oh my god, you're typing, you're typing in to our chat box. oh my god. i liked it better when you were inactive. when you were offline. now i just wait, maybe pretend i wasn't this loser waiting for you to talk to me, this loser who had you on my mind, this loser overthinking what i should say to y--

You (12:39 PM)
Hey. I was just thinking about you. :)

i am fascinated by the connections high school forms. who knew that that friend of a friend who was my sixth grade enemy’s classmate was the ex of my best friend? it’s a labyrinth of familiarity and camaraderie, and some might call it a trap; if it is, then it’s the most beautiful maze i’ve gotten lost in.

one too many times, i’ve made a list of my own; of people i know, of faces i recognize and of everyone in between. i’ve mapped out names and drawn lines to them like a game of connect the dots, all those relationships overlapping like venn diagrams with open ends.

with that being said, oftentimes, i wonder how the people i know describe me to strangers. i wonder how many times my name has shown up in conversations i was pushed to be part of.

i barely have anything to say about myself, so what would they have to say about me?

that kid with a camera. someone who can write. pretentious tweeter, Tumblr girl, member of a few clubs and organizations. student. *****. daughter. sister. ******. friend. it’s a possibly endless list and a mess of adjectives.

most days, i don’t know what- rather, who- i am... but here’s one thing i know:

i don’t want to be just another person in a story.

i’m not just ex girlfriend; not just used-to-be classmate; not just girl best friend; not just someone’s crush or someone crushing on someone else. i’m not somebody else’s past or future or present. i don’t want to be just that, don’t want to be confined to a constellation of connections that someone has created for themselves. yes, i may not know who i am yet, but i won’t let myself be a pronoun thrown around, a fill-in, a joke to tell. i’m not your punch line. not your ice breaker. not that one person you should talk about when the rivers have run dry, if you know what i mean.

i’m a bigger believer of coincidence than i am of destiny. i am here because of my choices, a build up of everyone else’s words and actions over the past years. i am here not for a reason- i am here, and along the way, i’m making my own reasons to be.

you know me not because of a bigger plan. but maybe because i ran in to you in a hallway. maybe because the administration put us in the same group when we were transferees. maybe because you complimented my music taste. maybe because i asked if i could tag along to your auditions.

we are whatever we are because of choice; of coincidence; of chance. call it luck. call it unfortunate. call it karma. this is what we have; this is what we are; this is what i am; and it can only be accounted to you, and i, and so many other people, and so many other factors.

you are bright and warm and beautiful. you are a constellation without them. don’t let yourself be a secondary character. this is your story.
be the villain, be the hero, be whoever you want to be. believe this:

you are not what other people say you are.

do you want to know where i got these scars?*

"i have no idea. they were just /there/." my mother merely traced the fading lines on my pale skin and frowned.

"i must have scratched it somewhere." i offered as assurance and she agreed, the topic dropping as quickly as she dropped my hand.

do you want to know where i got these scars?

"i fell down the stairs." i blurted out, panicking at the question. it was the most unconvincing answer in all the history of self-harm, but what was a girl to do in the case of sudden confrontation?

my friends (god bless their souls) nodded and turned away their gazes. "those are awfully symmetrical for an accident," one murmured once she thought i was out of earshot, and it took everything within me not to turn around and yell at her for calling me out on my feeble fib.

do you want to know where i got these scars?

"my cat scratched me."
"you don't have a cat."
"oh, ****. did i say 'my' cat? i meant a wild cat. jumped at me out of nowhere. crazy, right?"

she shook her head. "if you're going to lie, at least make it convincing." she advised, and i shrugged.

do you want to know where i got these scars?

"i had to fight off my monsters." i wiggled my eyebrows, tugging my jacket sleeve a little more snuggly around my wrist. "i'm sure you did," she humored me before turning serious. "you can always enlist me to fight them with you."

i didn't know what to say.

do you want to know where i got these scars?

"cold nights and even colder razor blades."

she nodded and passed me the bottle. i watched as she took a shot from her own glass, her shirt riding up ever so slightly; faint scars seemingly outlining the portions of herself she wanted to cut off shining under the moonlight.

i didn't ask.

i don't believe in ghosts (or rather, i don't want to)

but there's no other name for my first love who still haunts me, the reason why there are still times that love feels like bile in my throat;

and there's no other name for the nightmares i wake up from in the middle of the night, this echo of what i was never able to do for others;

and there's no other name for the girl i killed years ago; this version of me i murdered, this version of me who was potentially much better;  

i don't believe in ghosts,

but i have a few and i've named them so that they can keep me company when no one else can,

(my favorite ghost, her name is regret; she's often seen with what if and could have been)

and i have stories to tell, not at camp fires, no, but maybe over the phone when it's three a.m in the morning and i've had one too many to drink,

(let me tell you about how he left me; let me tell you about how many times i watched my friends die in my sleep; let me tell you about the person i was before i decided i can't be her any longer)

and i can't get rid of them, no matter how hard i try.

(i throw salt and offer prayers but it doesn't seem to be effective)

everyone has ghosts whether they believe in them or not; ghosts they want to get rid of, ghosts they can't get rid of, ghosts that only they see, ghosts everyone else can point out;

who's yours?

when you are looking down towards me, hesitating in the moment when you should be leaning in, i find myself smirking. i am eight inches smaller and yet, i will never tire of standing on my tiptoes to kiss you and whisper coward against your lips.

recount the votes, they demand, as they stand on the ground where god-knows-how-many innocents have been buried; all our people that we lost, all the burdens we have refused to carry,

no one has ever called out to count how many were taken and never seen again.

we want justice, they cry, the irony heavy in its circumstances;

wanting equity and honesty for the man whose father murdered millions; a man wretched in his father's absence; our voices have grown hoarse pleading for righteousness for our victims.

when will we get our *amen?

a hero, they proclaim with their blue and yellow banners. how dare they say that word and wave our flag as they stand on the bones of the defenseless, on the bones of the silenced, on the bones of their grandparents, on the bones of their relatives,

on the bones of our countrymen.

this is not a "thing" we can get over with. not a war we can just stop fighting. we have barely found our voices, and yet they want to kick the wind out of us once more; i refuse to submit to silence. refuse to let them win. i will scream until i'm hoarse and rebel until i'm sore.

because if not i, then who? if not now, then when?

his name is josh,

and he would send me selfies of his other half and babble about her until i am almost praying for the tomorrows we are not promised, all because i want to see them together years from now. on nights when his thoughts are all over the place and he does not know what to do with his emotions, i worry; but he shows me that he can conquer anything and everything, eventually, with her hand in his. that really, sometimes, love can be all you need.

his name is paolo,

and he walks me home even though he doesn't have to. in between coke floats and sidewalks, i came to know a boy who would plan a spontaneous harana because he had a guitar and formal attire; who would find in his heart patience and forgiveness when it was he who should have been receiving it. on the days i fear he is on the verge of crumbling, he keeps his chin up and begins treading the walk home by my side with nothing but stories of admiration for the girl who puts the lyrics in his music.

his name is steven,

and not a day passes that he doesn't check in on me-- to remind me that i should eat three times a day; to ask me how i'm doing; to send me links to things as forms of harmless distractions. he has proven over and over again to be ideal despite certain setbacks. he is fiercely protective and he knows how to listen, and although there is no one for him at the moment, anyone he has loved and will be loved by him is lucky, whether they realize it or not.

his name is ian,

and whenever he talks about the girl he loves, he brightens and i am sometimes left to wonder if he is talking about some other thing; like the celestial beings of the universe, or the wonders of our earth. he is as balanced as a boy can be and as fair as one could ever hope; he is so many good things in the world, and yet, love holds him captive in the best ways known to man. i will never get sick of watching him fall over, and over, and over again for the same person.

his name is niño,

and though he is what you might call a reckless romeo, there is no one in love that has ever equaled him. the things he will do in the name of that four-lettered word has driven me crazy; i have watched him struggle with it too many times. but the beauty of it all is when he still stands after being kicked to the ground, how he fills the cracks in his heart with love and nothing but that. how he willingly gives out pieces of him to complete others. how he will adore his girl until the rest of the world shies away, until he has re-defined it for everyone to come after.

you see, if you ever plan to love me, know that i have stood as witness to heartbreak and heart ache... at the same time, i have also been exposed to the most beautiful brands of love; different fights and different names of courage and different reasons and different people to fight for, but still, all the same, in the name of love.

they have taught me to be brave, and patient, and kind, and reasonable; and soft in all the right places, brutal when it comes to it; they have taught me to be what a person expects in love and they've taught me what to expect from the person i love, as well.

i refuse to settle for anything less.

fall, (v.)

what i did.

home, (n.)

when i am with you, there is nowhere else i'd rather be; and i am a person who always wants to be somewhere else.

hurt, (v.)

i have vague memories of what i said the night i lied to you that i did not love you, but i remember my voice hitching in my throat. i remember it hurt.  

kiss, (v.)

our faces are inches from each other. you freeze, and i giggle before calling you a coward. i rarely kiss first; but if i didn't, then i don't think that distance between us would've closed at all.

lost, (adj.)

i was willing to let you go, and yet, at the same time, i have never wanted to be so /selfish/ in my entire life.

love, (n.)

you.

mine, (n.)

what i want you to be.

name, (n.)

your mother's maiden name was the same as my ex' middle name. i remember laughing until my sides hurt once i found out.

prom, (n.)

"you're all mine on prom night." prom night never happened, but it's the thought that counts.

song, (n.)

all those corny tunes on the radio have been reminding me of you lately.

sick, (adj.)

you, too very often. i wish i knew how to take care of you but i can barely do that for myself.

sing, (v.)

my most vivid memory of you includes you auditioning to our glee club with *together in electric dreams. you ******. we would laugh about it later on.

stay, (v.)

you make it so hard to leave.

your leg still bounces up and down when you're nervous.

i still bite my fingernails when i'm bored.

some things don't change.

(like how i'm always missing you.)

threading the thin line of uncertainty,

you had told my closest guy friend ****, i think i'm falling for her.

and later you would pinpoint that one moment, that one moment we realize we adore a person,

as the slightest second you were staring at your lock screen, which was my photo.

it had been a collage of me doing wacky poses in eighth grade,

a photograph i had posted on twitter as some sort of throwback thursday.

unbeknownst to me, you had saved it to your phone,

setting it as your lock screen and showing it to me the next day mainly to spite me.

over the next few weeks, you would save the photos i'd post or send you,

and set it as your wallpapers,

and come up with some witty one-liner to annoy me with.

and you'd tell me months on about that time you went to unlock your phone, stopping to smile at my old photo in all its chubby cheeks and corny poses glory,

only to realize,

****.

i have never been more thankful for throwback thursdays.

what's your full name? got any nicknames? pet names you swore to god you'll never let anyone call you?

do you have any siblings? pets? what are their names?

do you know harry potter? if yes, the books, or the movies? if no, have you been living under a rock all these years?

how do you take your coffee? two sugars, or more? do you mind if me drinking one too many cups is an equivalent to getting sugar rush? (i do that way too often, the caffeine overdose. after my sixth mug, i urge you to stop me.)

are you sure you like me?

what's your favorite color? ice cream flavor? movie? time of the day?

if you were a disney princess, who would you be, and why? which disney movie had the best ost?

any weird fetishes? kinks? fantasies? are you looking for a manic pixie dream girl? because let me tell you right off the bat, baby, you ain't gonna find her here—

can you tolerate awkward phone call silences? introversion? having me disappear on you because it's one of those days, well, really, it's been one of those days with me for almost years now, but that's not really the point;

will you hold my face and tell me it's okay even though i repeatedly tell you it's not? if it comes to it, will you take the pills from my hand and empty the barrel of its bullets and hold me closer even if i scream at you to just leave me the **** alone?

when my demons come out to play, will you help me fight them off? when i can't get out of bed, will you come with me underneath the covers and let me find comfort in your chest? when i am convinced the universe is against me, will you prove me otherwise?

are you absolutely sure you can love a messed up girl like me?

she weaves through crowds with little effort. she will occupy everything there is to be stayed in; your body, your mind, your heart; she will take any space she can get. do not think you can hold on to her. she will always slip through your fingers.

she walks like she is dancing, like she is floating. she is both in your lungs and on your lips; sometimes, it will feel like she is not in either. you will tread this thin line between love and necessity. do not call her your everything. once she leaves, you will be left for dead.

she speaks with a fever that reminds you of your own. she is the girl your mother warned you not to get too close to, but there is something enticing about the way she can warm you up from the inside. don't be stupid. a flame is always a flame, and flames burn.

she has been abused for far too long and yet she remains firm, and constant. she will remind you of the flowers in your soul and the callouses on your hands, tell you that they are equally beautiful. don't be fooled. her heart is heavy, and you must be atlas to carry it.

if i sit on the fourth step of our staircase, i can look through the window and watch the street outside. this waiting game has always frustrated me; my knees buckle underneath me every time someone walks past our rust-encrusted gate. i can feel the anticipation weighing heavy on my chest with every glimpse of a shoe or a shirt only to have my nerves unravel once i realize they look absolutely nothing like you;

every stranger that walks by is just another soul that wasn't yours.

i use numbers as my ultimatums. this is the third person who has walked by that isn't you; two more, and i swear, i'll go back to my room and write and chat with other people and watch youtube videos and try not to think of you even though my fingers are itching to pull at my door **** (just one more look). i count ten vehicles that pass before stalking back in to my room, only to peek out of my door to check the streets again minutes later;

every jeepney that doesn't stop is just another car that you weren't in.

i welcome distractions that send me moving around the house. to wash the dishes, get my dad snacks, fake going to the bathroom, check on my brother, nibble on some leftovers in the refrigerator. as long as i have my little disturbances i feel like time's moving faster, but then i find myself pausing by my front door and wondering when you might come knocking or if you'll even come knocking at all;

every minute that you're not here is just another sixty seconds to spend thinking of you.

i am four. i don't want to be a princess. i tell my mother i want to be an astronaut. as young as i am, i am already wanting to be with the constellations. i am eight. at this point, i have wanted to be many things. the weirdest: a bee keeper, after a field trip to some zoo. i stick, however, to consider being a teacher; to children, i hoped. specifically kindergarten. or maybe a football player?

i am ten. i have it all planned out. i'll be taking up Mass Communication in college and i'll work as an author, or a journalist. i consider being a newscaster. or a National Geographic photographer. i am fourteen. i do not want to be anything but dead. six feet under with my feet pointing the way the tulips grow.

and now... i guess i just miss how simple it all was. how i was so convinced i had my **** together. how there weren't entrance exams to worry about, or wrongly-chosen tracks and courses and electives to regret. because it gets harder to hold it together, gets harder to hope for the better, gets harder to love and live when there are galaxies upon galaxies calling out your name;

i want to be wide-eyed and four years old again; arms outstretched to the sky, the stars at the tips of my fingers. i want to be that little girl again. that little girl who was excited to get up in the morning and face what the universe had in store. that little girl who wasn't cynical for tomorrows she was not promised. that little girl who smiled bright in pictures, and actually meant it.

once upon a time, you were every story in my head. you were fantasies woven during day and prose written at 3AM. i saw so much poetry in you, in everything you did. that was a sure sign that i felt something for you, that my love ran deeper than plain infatuation and crushing.

i wrote about how your smile could light up the darkest of days; my sunshine, my flashlight. i wrote about how beautiful i thought the callouses on your hands were, i wrote about how your flaws were never imperfections to me. i wrote about the lyrics you remind me of. i wrote your name in cursive on the back of my hand along with words of promise and endearment. i scribbled you through the margins of my notebook with poetry and song.

but oh, it wasn’t all just fairy dust and wanderlust.

my pen bled ugly words, rage and heartbreak and jealousy. prose after prose of how you’d leave me in the rain, how you always made me feel like i was either too much or not enough. they were angry taps to the keyboard. pens tearing in to paper. the horrors of them made e.e cummings turn in his grave, the curses of young love would have made shakespeare proud.

you knew about that. you knew about how i meticulously wove words together for you, words that would have made other people fall in love. and not once did you appreciate them; you threw aside my gifts of poetry and prose like they weren’t about you. like they didn’t mean a thing.

if you read them, you would’ve seen how much i adored you. if you read them, you would’ve recognized a love so unprecedented, unrivaled, untouchable. but you didn’t. you never got past the first stanza, the first paragraph, the first three words before giving me a half-hearted thanks and changing the topic.

and so i started to write about you less. my words began to lose it’s substance, my phrases got shorter, my metaphors making less sense. and you didn’t notice. you never noticed how you slowly faded from the thing the one thing that mattered more to me than anything in the whole world.

you faded, then you were gone completely.

i no longer write about you. wait, no, that’s a lie: i no longer want to write about you. i hope this is the last time i do, the last set of words i’d dare to pull together for you. you don’t deserve to know how i feel about you, you don’t deserve my poems or my words anymore. god knows my words are all i have, and i can’t love you if you don’t learn to love them. i’m sorry; call it selfish, or unfair. but these words, these words, my words. how can i write about you if you don’t– if you never– valued the best gift i had to offer?

you’re now just some left-over papers that i keep under my bed, one day to open and read with tinges of nostalgia, but never to re-write again.

rachel rostad said that "when a mother names her daughter, it's a prayer for everything she wants her to be."

my first name translates to beautiful in italian; and my second is the female version for saint michael the archangel, so we can assume that she quite literally named me beautiful angel.

i'm sorry, mom, if i turned out to be neither.

i am a man of science—
something like that.

i was never one to put things up to faith or religion; no, i am a firm believer of all things formulated out of reason;

until you came along,

with galaxies in your eyes and star dust in your hair; (when i kiss you, i swear i see supernovas)

and who do you think you are, anyway?

to come barging in to my perfectly explained universe and re-arranging all my theorems,

to come waltzing into rooms, acutely unaware of how you send every ***** of mine in to overdrive;

dilated pupils, and an increased heartbeat, and a spike in some hormones, and a light going off somewhere in my brain— (diagnosis: love)

i despise the effect you have on me,

the churn in my stomach to have you smile at me, the thrill to hold your hand, the constant train of thoughts about you that has muddled the part of my head that can explain all this in a more scholar-ly way.

but no. all that i knew could not explain what i felt for you;

no, you had me denying newton's laws of motion— with every action there is an equal and opposite reaction— (you had me hoping my love would recieve, instead, an equal and similar reaction)

no, you were not just a lump of atoms born in to this world for the mere purpose of recreation and, inevitably, death— (to me, you are much more than a scientific construct)

no, all the chemicals boiled down in to nothingness and all the formulas were void of their values and all the terms were mere jargons that could not help me fully comprehend

why you are warmer than sunshine;
why you could take away the oxygen in my lungs faster than anything else;
why the planets seem to align in order to keep you here;
why gravity does not exist in the spaces you occupy;
why distance is my enemy;
and why i am in a love-hate relationship with the rotation of our earth (it depends on when i can see you again);

it was suddenly not just physics, or astronomy, or biology, or chemistry

when you came along.