She was art.
You wanted art.
Too bad I was just an artist.

If I was a volcano
Erupting melancholy
Would you stay
'til I calm down?

"What is your greatest fear?" a teacher asked me.

"Darkness," I answered, and almost everyone in the classroom laughed.

"Why are you even afraid of the dark? You're not a kid anymore," one girl said aloud and the teacher told everyone to keep quiet.

I sit as my greatest fear is slowly trying to eat me.

It's not the kind of darkness they think it is. It isn't the darkness that consumes the light that I'm afraid of; it's the one that's in my mind. And they wouldn't know.

I'm afraid whenever that pitch black of nothingness is trying to get in my being. That darkness that makes everything go upside down.

And why should I be afraid?

I'm scared that slowly, by time, I'm getting comfortable with it. I'm afraid that one day, seeing light wouldn't be an option anymore. I'm afraid that one day, darkness will completely consume me.

But it doesn't matter anyway. You already gave your laugh.

---Thalia Bautista; darkness

When the words just spilled
When the ink just turned into letters
That's when you know a part of you
Has just been put onto paper

When the pen comes to life
When your hands fall out of control
That's when you know your feelings
Are being put onto paper

When your emotions need release
When no one's there for you
That's when you know your sorrows
Are being put onto paper

And what comes from those lines
Are the things you've been hiding inside
And those papers, they take hold
Of the stories you hide

---Thalia Joy Bautista; Papers

As a child, I was told that anything I touch breaks. They speak of it as if it was a curse held onto me, something I cannot escape. But again, as a child, I made myself believe that it was a lie. Maybe I was just clumpsy, and that they kep saying that to scare me; to scare me so I would stop touching things. So I would stop breaking them.

But once when I was nine, my mom brought home a new vase. She plastered it into place on a corner, where it could be properly displayed. I touched it, admiring the design and how it glistens to the light. "Be careful," she said. "You wouldn't want to break that again."

For a few days, I was starting to believe that I don't break everything I touch. Not until I accidentally slipped, my feet swiped on the corner, and the art made of marble fell into pieces. And once again, I was marked. And ever since then, I believed what I was told.

Maybe that's why I'm afraid to touch you. I'm afraid to feel your warmth. I'm anxious to feel you for I might tear you apart. I can be your destruction while you are my light. I wouldn't want you to dim because of me. You deserve so much better, and so much more than the girl who broke that new vase.

You don't deserve someone whose touch can break.