An open letter to all the children;

Please don't grow up.

Because growing up isn't rainbows and butterflies, nor ice creams and candies. Growing up isn't stars and galaxies nor silent nights and starry nights. Child, growing up is storms in your head and responsibility in your hands. It's going to be full of nightmares instead of lullabies to send you to sleep. It's full of choices, pain, regret.

And it pains me that there's nothing I can do but to wish that you all stay that little.

You can stay protected and loved. You can cry all you want but there's always going to be someone to cheer you up, because child, when you grow up, no one will wipe those tears but yourself. Everytime you fell when you tried to walk, there was always someone to help you back up. But child, growing up means learning to pick yourself up on your own.

You have to get used to being alone.

Everything's simpler when you stay like that, and I wished I could've stayed like that, because growing up is that rollercoaster you've always dreaded to ride.

So child, even though it's inevitable, please don't you ever grow up.

(inspired by taylor swift's never grow up)

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

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.

"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

Maybe it was
your smile,
or your eyes
or the way you spoke
that made my heart
race
—a bit

Maybe it was
your hair
soaking wet,
or your body
peeking through
your dripping shirt
or your arms
which I thought
would be perfect
around me
that made me not
take my eyes
off of you
—for a short time

Maybe it was
your artistic hand
and how you speak
through your
paintbrushes,
or how you can
create a world
of your own
with your craft
that made me
admire you
—for quite
some time

But this,
I know for sure;
It was the way
you smiled at me,
and how
your eyes shrank
when you did;
It was the way
you spoke to me
with the
right words
that night
when I needed it
the most
that is making
my heart race
—until now

It was the way
you touched my
soaking tangled hair,
your body
close to mine;
when you put
your arms
around me
and told me
I was worth it
when I cried
that made me not
take my eyes
off of you
—everytime
I had
the chance

It was the way
your art
drew itself
into my heart;
how you
knocked down
my walls
from the tips
of your
paintbrushes
without you
knowing;
and
how you
created
a new world
for me
with your craft
of making
people happy
that made me
admire you
—for a long time

But I hope
you would
never
feel the same
for me
—even though
I badly
want you to
because
I'm a mess,
and I don't want
to be
the one
who will
destroy
all the things
I adored
about you

I hope you
would never
feel the same
because I
don't know
if I could
love you right.
I hope you
would never
feel the same
because
I don't
really know
how to love
—at all

—You're just too good for me

Here's to the writers—

You have the power to paint words
Into beautiful art—
To be able to touch a soul—
To touch one's heart

You can make the stormy sky blue—
Stop the waves from crashing to the shore
You can make all the withered flowers bloom—
Turn winter into summer, a glimpse of gold

You can make someone's dark day colorful—
Gather hope to put in between your words
Make them feel that they are understood—
That they aren't alone in this cruel world

You can mend someone's broken heart—
Put love in between your lines
Let them know that they are enough—
That being hurt is just a part of life

Yes—
We can make a whole new perspective—
We can create a world of our own
And no, we don't speak only for ourselves—
But also for all the lost souls

—Thalia Bautista; Just keep writing

If I were to love again,
there will be no more
sugarcoated words
only plain
and straight-to-the-point
conversations.
If I were to love again,
there will be no more
texting you every minute.
Instead,
I'll just hit you up
whenever I feel like it.
If I were to love again,
there will be no more
begging for your time
because I'll make sure
that this time
you're gonna
beg for mine.
If I were to love again,
there will be no more
cute dates
instead,
I'd leave your invite
on read
and for nothing,
I'd let you wait.
If I were to love again,
there will be no more
selfless thoughts
I won't care about you
if you don't care enough.
If I were to love again,
there will be no more
late night talks
I'd sleep just right before
you could even try to start.
If I was to love again
I won't make it
identical as how
I have loved before
because
If I were to love again —  
Oh,
I don't think I ever will.

Not
   like
      this.

—Thalia Bautista; I don't want to love like this

I like to beautify things. When I write my notes, I'd always put colors in them. I'd always trace the letters to make them look like calligraphy.

I like to beautify things. When I see unorganized thoughts on my notebook, I'd weave them together and sprinkle some new ideas and turn them into poetry.

I like to beautify things. If someone feels bad about something, I'd tell them the things that are beautiful about them. I'd tell them that they are enough. I'd make them smile, until they laugh, because that is beautiful.

I like to beautify things. Even though he makes me sad at night, I'd still look at his pictures and somehow, they make me feel okay. I like to beautify sadness. I find ways to distract the demons. I grasp his photograph and stare at it until I fall asleep.

I like to beautify things — things, people, feelings, emotions. I don't like seeing anyone feel less beautiful. I don't want seeing something less beautiful. Maybe it's because I lack beauty, and seeing others being beautiful somehow fills the gap.

I like to beautify everything — everything but myself.

—Thalia Bautista; Why am I not beautiful?

There are days when I mourn for her, before she got too comfortable with her sadness, — before she became me.

Mirror mirror on the wall
When will I be as fair as them all?
When will these eyes glimmer like stars?
When will this skin be as smooth?
When will this lips be as cherry-like?
When will this hair not be electrified?
When will these hands be worth holding?
When will this touch feel like the breeze in the morning?
When will I be, mirror on the wall?
When will I be as fair as them all?
When will this face I see
Reflecting in the mirror back at me
Be who she really desires—
To be a girl with a face pleasing to the eyes;
Someone who's irreplaceable, and one of a kind
When will she not get left behind?

So all I ask, mirror on the wall
When will she be as fair as them all?

Will you make me as fair as them all?

Words by Thalia Bautista

"Why do we keep on waiting for things that we know are not going to happen?"

"Because we're helpless. We tend to hope, regardless of all the contradictions. We wait because we want it so bad—so bad that we are willing to jump into nothingness than to believe it's non-existent. We choose to take an endless ride than to believe it's all over. We choose to walk on a tight rope not knowing how to balance, than to walk on plain ground but not taking risks.

We keep on waiting for them to love us—when their love for us does not even exist."

—Thalia Bautista

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

"The last time I broke someone's heart"

It was stupid;
It was staring at the night sky
Covered with rainclouds and lightning
Patiently waiting for a falling star
Despite the chaos we were in

It was reckless;
It was breaking the traffic rules
Heedlessly beating the red light
It was choosing to drive forward
Even when I knew it wasn't right

It was foolish;
It was picking up fragments of glass
Trying to mend what couldn't last
It was getting my hands scarred by trying to grasp
What I know I couldn't have

But in the end, it was selfish;
It was choosing happiness over pain
Because the last time I broke my heart
Was when I chose to never let anyone break me again

"Hey, can I tell you a story?" I asked him, intertwining his fingers with mine.

"About what?" he asked and made that  expression which I always thought was cute.

"About you," I smiled as I laid my head on his shoulders, feeling the warmth of his hand.

"Once upon a time, I rode a bus without knowing where it was going. I was head over heels for this guy that I rode the first bus that came just to see him."

"Why didn't you ask him what bus to take?" he interrupted.

"It's because he didn't tell me to go. He didn't give me any address. It was like, a spur of the moment thing. Moving on, did you know that it felt like forever in there? I didn't like it. Forever felt like a long time and heading to someone without a destination wasn't what I had in mind to spend it on. So I decided to go."

"Where did you go?" he asked, holding my hand much tighter.

"I don't know. I was just walking in the middle of nowhere, trying to find something that I don't even know. Maybe I was trying to find something— or maybe I just wanted to be found. But it felt better,— being lost, getting sick, starving and even dying while trying to find direction than riding that bus you know?"

"Hey, this is all metaphorical isn't it? And how is this about me?" he questioned.

"You're cute when you're curious," I laughed, giving him a peck on his cheek. "Just listen to me."

"After quite a long time, when I felt like all hope was gone, when I was about to give up, I saw someone. I walked up to him and asked where I was. He smiled. He said only a few people who got lost get this far because some give up on their way. I asked him how to go home, and he said to just wait. He said that the right bus will come when I'm ready. I then heard several buses passing by and when I was about to ask him more questions, he disappeared. I swear it felt like he was a deity or something. But I did what he said. I waited for the right bus, even though I didn't know what it would look like. But there were changes. Before, when I was still lost, I've grown weaker each day, but this time, it was as if I was healing. And then it dawned to me—I was slowly being healed by time. When I felt like I was ready, he was right. A bus stopped by which was heading home. I hurriedly rode it and it felt right. I was finally going home," tears were slowly running down my cheeks as I stared right into his eyes.

"And do you know where the bus took me?" I asked him and he smiled as if he knew the answer.

"Well, I have a feeling," his eyes grew smaller with the smile he has put on.

"To you. It turned out that home—home was you."

—The night before our wedding

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

I think it's beautiful
the way you curve your lips
when you speak about
the things you admire
and the phenomena
you believe in,

how sunsets show
that endings could be
of oranges and yellows
and not all grey,

how the waves
wander the sea
but still return
to the shore,

how a flock of birds,
no matter how long
will always wait
for them
to be complete.

I think it's beautiful
how you call me
at the end of the day
to tell me how it went,

how you take me
to unfamiliar places
that only us know,

how you wait for me
when there are days
that i want to be
with myself;

I think it's beautiful
how you're always there.

And so they say,
that beauty
lies in the face,
but then I look at you,
all of those voices
suddenly become mute,

because when I look
at you,
behind your
curved smile,
behind those
brown eyes,
I see more
than just beautiful.

I see
you.