Why do people sometimes mistook kindness and friendliness to flirting?
People already assume I like them or if I have romantic feelings towards them. But no.
Do not give people the wrong idea just because you are kind to them, make it clear, "I do not like you as someone romantically."

It’s hard when you’re not close with your parents.
Because when they’re angry at you, there’s no one you can turn to.
I’ve mastered the art of crying silently — no voice to be heard, only the tears falling.
And with the blackout, no one can see me in the dark.
You can’t even hear me breathing, because I hold it back.
I’m used to it now.
What hurts even more is when you’re praying, and the tears fall before you can even speak the prayer.

No one has to know. No matter what other people have to say against you, their opinions never matter. At the end of the day, no matter what you do in life, you always have a home in me, my arms will welcome and embrace you. Keep moving forward my love, mistakes happen. We are all imperfect, still, what was important was you were never invisible in my eyes.

We survive not to please other, but to prove to ourselves that we can do it. That we deserve to live a life independently. We survived long enough to satisfy ourselves. Opinions of others are not required to be heard, God's voice does.

How come— he who bends me never broke me But rather, his pleasure is what I desire
I thought it was pain, but when it lasted, I long for the feeling.

I thought it would hurt. I thought the ache would make me turn away. But when it lasts, when it lingers, I find I crave it. I long for it. I feel feverish every time it’s in—every inch, every movement igniting me, setting my blood alight. My body remembers before my mind does, and I am lost in the rhythm, in the weight of him against me.

I cry. I moan softly—barely a whisper—but amidst the push and the pull, the give and take, I laugh. Playfully. Recklessly. As if the world outside no longer exists, as if only this closeness, this surrender, matters.

He bends me, yes—but he never breaks me. In that intimacy, raw and unguarded, I am laid bare, yet whole. Vulnerable, yet unafraid. Desire and trust coil together until I am fully his, and yet, wholly myself.

I am mine. And in his presence, feverish, moaning, laughing, I am unmade, remade, and understood in ways no one else could ever reach.

I was weak.
That’s the truth I’m trying to swallow.
Not proud—never proud.
Just... hollow.
It wasn’t love.
It wasn’t joy.
It was me, trying to outrun the man I failed to become for you.

Her perfume didn’t enchant me—it distracted me.
Her laugh didn’t move me—it made me forget the silence I created between us.
You were there every night—polishing shoes, folding shirts, But I looked at comfort and called it routine.
I mistook loyalty for obligation.
And when I felt small, I found a way to feel wanted again—cheaply, recklessly.

Yes, it was weakness.
Not temptation.
There were no fireworks.
Just a flicker in the dark and the sound of me closing the door behind your back.
I regret it—every mark she left And every trace I brought home to unravel you.
You didn’t deserve to feel second to anyone. Ever.

But here I stand, not asking for forgiveness— Just owning the wreckage and calling it mine.

we danced for danger,
I thought things for drastic measures
lost my way into the woods
glad I met someone like you—
get ready for it

sang a chorus of songs like a plea for help,
stray me my sanity
but still, I love him
though the forest never promised safety
I stayed

his silhouette flickered between trees
a lullaby and a warning yet I followed

I absorb words as if I was a sponge—
soft, yielding until the flood finds me
and I no longer float, but sink singing

how troubled my mind is? I painted a figure
a silhouette in black
with a tight rope wrapped on its neck while screams for help
her lipstick was smudged
Her limbs were cut, bones were broken and chopped
Into the bag, she went

Talked to a goblet and a bottle of wine before going to sleep

I wish I could read between the lines
Match the types, connect the dots
Draw my pain, sing my sorrow
Danced to the rhythm
Sometimes, the saddest person gives good advice
because they wish they hear those words they wanna hear

you know what's fun?
roast people using poetry
no pun intended, no revenge included
just pure wordplay
I like how they boil their blood at me
you deserve it,
I could only care less.
I could do so much more
It was like my mind was an abyss of words that cannot stop overflowing like a waterfall
and my ideas keep on coming nonstop.
I love to roast the people I hate, especially my enemy,

And you cannot stop me

(Written in diabolical red ink)

One thing that reckons me was— a force that cannot be avoided.
Like a secret— a smoke as I described it
Cannot be kept on one's hand
For it reveals itself on its own.
Tricky, perhaps, any scientist or philosopher would dare question
Not even a dummy can spin a roulette
Not even a hero can toss a coin to the ferryman to cross the bridge when we got there
I know my rights, my rules as a woman
And one of the words you claim of me, is not counted.
Hence, the releasing of secrets began like one's fate is sealed and revealed at the same time
Life made me question my abilities
My identity made me question my worth
Who was I, right?
That even the scapegoat was crucified for us to be saved from our sins.

Her mouth speaks volume— ways to turn a vermin down the notch
A disconnection notice, an unpredictable, unscheduled power interruption
A warning from the tides, eye of the cyclones
Swept away everything at once
I was told, that even the nonsensical things thrive on its own
I bring chaos as she brings war along
Words like bullets, tongues no bones but bleeds through your heart
Unweary of things brought me trauma
For, I was once alone in darkness
Now, I am one with the silence

why did I bother coming home
when my home was not considered
a house to live in anymore
It was like a ticket all the way to hell
Why don't you hold her hand and not mine
I was drowned at sea, I should have died instead.
Why am I still here?
Wrapped in cords of machines and popping pills
Just to keep me alive.

To Whom It Concerns—and it concerns you all,

They call me the villain.

Not because I wear a crown of thorns or command thunder,
but because I stopped apologizing for existing in my own skin.
You turned your gaze toward me,
and where you didn’t understand,
you colored me dark,
drew fangs where there were lips.

I once clapped for you.
Laughed with you.
Stood at the edge of my own dreams to make room for yours.
And when I fell silent,
when I curled inward to heal,
you called it distance.
Then defiance.
Then danger.

I watched your words spin— villain, selfish, dramatic, cruel.
Your chorus found rhythm in my silence.
You rehearsed your lines with such conviction, that I forgot the script I once wrote for myself.

Well, allow me to write it again.

I am not the poison.
I am the girl who tasted it and lived.
Not fire-breather, not monster.
But if I must breathe flames to survive,
then so be it.

Yes, my wings are broken— but they didn’t fall off, they were ripped.
And I stitched them back with thread made of my own poetry.
So if I fly crooked, don’t marvel—just know I am still in the sky.

I am the villain in your story because I dared to become the hero in mine.
And I refuse to apologize for it.

If I frighten you, it’s only because my voice has grown louder than the silence you hoped would keep me tame.

With unrepentant breath and scarlet ink,
—Me

you want game? I will place you in one.
beware. no one makes it out alive.
how does it feel?
to be played in your own game?
be tricked in your own set of rules
Is it fun to be played? No right?
so why play when you do not wanna play fair?
you do not know the mechanics of this game.
but you seem to act as if knowing the rules by rote memorization makes you win
know the rules by heart and you win.
honey, you are not suitable for my liking.
and so is the game you play.

We started off as something solid, something rare, a friendship carefully knitted with trust and loyalty. It was supposed to last, supposed to be unshakable, and yet, it was ruined by someone unworthy—someone who didn’t understand the value of what they had. They couldn’t see it, or maybe they didn’t care, and because of that, what we built together crumbled. We ended up blocking each other on social media, severing ties we once held sacred. If necessary, we will bury every memory, every trace of what was lost, deep in oblivion, so that nothing remains to haunt us.

Are you not tired? Tired of yapping about nonsense, of repeating the same empty words over and over again? Sometimes, maybe, try to think before you speak. Learn to use your brain, not just your mouth. Words without proof, words without substance, are just noise. Tin cans clattering in an empty room, hollow, meaningless. And yet, you continue, oblivious.

I watched you think that your words had power over us, that your chatter could undo what we had. But it didn’t. It never did. It only revealed your own emptiness. I thought so from the very beginning. I knew that those who talk the most often have the least to show for it.

What was lost from us, what slipped through your fingers, will find its way back to us. Nothing that is meant to remain can truly disappear, no matter how hard you try. And when you lost us, when it became clear that we would not bend to your nonsense, you need to prepare yourself. The consequences are coming, whether you expect them or not.

The worst is yet to come, and I don’t mean it lightly. I mean a storm you cannot avoid, a recipe for disaster carefully calculated, inevitable, and utterly final. You will not see it coming, because you are too consumed with your own self-importance to notice. But it is waiting. And we? We will not return to rescue you from it.

We are done revisiting ruins, done playing into games we never signed up for. You will find no second chance here, no invitation to mend what you broke. The bridges you burned are ashes now, and we have walked far beyond them. The past is yours to carry, and we are no longer a part of it.

Go home. Go back to the Philippines. Face your son, if you can, without spinning lies or excuses. He deserves better than the chaos you bring. Focus on him. Focus on yourself. Stop wasting energy trying to manipulate or haunt what no longer belongs to you.

Notice this: while you are still thinking, still plotting, still wondering what to say, we are already one step ahead. Always. Every move, every plan you make, is already anticipated. We are not your prey. We are not your audience. We are beyond your reach.

I hope you understand that obsession with control is the only thing you truly have left, and even that is fragile. You cling to it because you cannot face the truth. You cannot face the emptiness that you have created for yourself. And that is your punishment.

I don’t need to shout. I don’t need to justify my anger. My calm is sharper than your noise, my silence heavier than your words. Every empty argument you make lands on a wall that is already impenetrable. Every attempt you have to rattle me only reminds me how far I have come from you.

We are done. Completely. Irrevocably. There is no going back, no second chance, no reconciliation. The chapter is closed, the ink dry. You can stare at it all you want, but you cannot change it. And we will not be here to explain it again.

I am not angry anymore. I am clear. I am precise. Every move I make, every thought I hold, is free from you. Free from your influence, your lies, your chaos. And that freedom feels like victory, even in the shadow of what was lost.

Do not mistake this for weakness. Do not mistake this calm for submission. It is power. It is control. It is the knowledge that you cannot touch us anymore, that we are already gone from your reach.

Ciao. Adios. Sayonara. I am done, fully, finally, and without regret. Keep your nonsense. Keep your empty words. They have no home here anymore.

We are moving forward. And as we do, remember this: we were always a step ahead, always stronger, always beyond the chaos you create. And we will stay that way. Always.

I like this excerpt from the song "YK" by Cean Jr.:

"You're my remedy for all the pain that's hurting me."

I used to believe that.
That his presence was the medicine—
the one thing that made the pain bearable.

But I’ve come to realize something deeper, something heavier:
He is both the cause and the cure of my pain.
He broke me, and yet, he’s the only one I longed for to feel whole again.

When he came close, the ache would fade.
But it was only because he was the one who left it there in the first place.
I mistook the comfort of his return for healing.
I thought relief meant repair.

But healing isn’t silence.
And comfort isn’t closure.
No one can truly fix what they were the first to destroy.
And maybe that’s the tragedy—
that the only person who can truly take the pain away
is the same person who gave it to me.

I play pokers with snakes,
I play hide and seek with monsters under my bed
I play truth or dare with backstabbers
Well, it is called truth for a reason

I mirror unparallel versions of you, mimicked into one
The deception of the trickster was acted upon by the *****
For them, money is god. For God, you are pulverized— like ***** and Gomorrah.

Forming words like scrabbles is like forming words of questioning abilities
Be it a word or a phrase— make up your mind and lay the tiles on the scrabble board
Like a domino effect, I stack you up and you fall

Pick up sticks, fell down and picked up
But sticks and stones will surely break your bones.
The games of the general or checkers, move for the red or the black one
Bull's eye like darts or archery, you could swing by in a baseball bat.

Knowing a mastermind's mind games is wicked
But knowing your move is like playing chess with the enemy.

Not knowing when he will bite or blow,
Fed by fear and latin prayers
behind the latin prayers written in the red handkerchief

I was wise enough to tell when I let it burn
Out with the agony, with the truth one person tells through smoke
Like this poem, my mind is in scribbles too.

the only thing for my mind to keep quiet was...
to write what I feel and let my thoughts fly
like me, almost like a flightless bird
more likely Medusa, sometimes a fictional character but most of the time, me. Misunderstood and betrayed.

But he was the best.
no wonder I miss my home,
His house was a far less travelled by
I miss that home, where I could call him to come by
And hug him all the time
My home was never a building, a big structure
But he was a tall man with a dark brown round eyes like me, curly hair and dark skinned.
He has a humor that makes me laugh all the time without being tickled,
He makes me feel loved and cared for
He loves pandas, cuddles, hugs and kisses
He loves me of course above all.

He was my calm and peace amidst the noise going on inside my mind
He was my sanity. He brings out the best in me

one thing I was trained for
was to not be scared of the devil.
it mimics. it scares. it feeds from your fear.
be it a demon or a person.

one thing I will always be scared of,
GOD.
He is the Sovereign One. The Triune God.
I am a God-fearing servant of God.

I was never a type of person...
to share thoughts and open my mind,
my wounds for everyone to see or feel
but I was a type of person to hold a pen,
write my emotions, describe thoughts I could not draw

I was never an achiever at drawing
but I was an awardee at writing, speaking...

I was a type of person
who hid behind her notebook,
flips through empty, unwritten new pages
of a newly bought notebook

I was never the type of person
to start a conversation,
I was not much of a smooth talker
only a few knew me,
beyond what they see in the mask I hide
beyond the lies I tell
the stories I unravel

I was always the type of person being bullied,
abused, naive for a fact that everyone understands me
or that everyone is my friend
or that everyone will not spill my secret
As Ginny says, secrets hold power
I want that power gone, so is the secret I tell

I was the type of person,
sensitive and loving
clingy to my friends, supportive to my siblings
I was always the advice seeker
but where were you when I needed you most?
I thought we had each other's backs
but I guess, when I was the talk of the town, you joined the fun.

maybe, because gossiping sure was fun.
I was once the life of the party
but now it feels like my life is a party
a funeral for everyone to see,
hypocrites lined up waiting to see me

I think I like my new name, new form better
Everyone calls me a liar, a thief, a what now?
A devil.
I look, talk and walk like an angel, just like in a song
that I got wise, now I am the devil.
but he never grins or smirks,
I will never forget what you all called me
But I like my name, I think it suits me

I
killed so
many versions
of myself...

Just to make you happy
Just to change myself for you to love
and accept me,
Hence, I was wrong.

How do I get away of ******? by not killing so many versions of myself just to feel loved and accepted.
But I was wrong again

we **** our old self, bury the hatchet, oblivious, they say
to love and be loved, is what I longed for
but never to force a reckoning connection,
never spark a dull moment in your life that you would ever think twice
not knowing when that love will come or it shall pass
life's uncertainties are things we cannot control of,
for so long, I was never a love fan
but I am not desperate for a love that was never mine,
then, certainly will, **** like a bubble, they are gone.

so again, how not to get away with ******? is never to start a ******.

Dearest Maria Ligaya,

I do not know where to start. Perhaps because we began close, yet ended like strangers. I am not one to judge—though they do. I am not biased—yet I chose to walk away, not to fight, not to quarrel, but to avoid hurting each other further.

When I sensed a quarrel was coming, I blocked you—not out of hatred, but to protect you. And yet, I realized the more I tried to protect you, the less you did the same for me. It felt like we were rowing a boat together, but in opposite directions. The wind could not be controlled, but the sail could—and you never adjusted yours. You were focused on the wind, not the sail.

At first, I avoided testing the waters. But then I saw the alligator swimming. I learned to test the waters, survive the tides, rise and fall with the waves. Calm moments came, then storms. Like the waves rushing to meet the shore, we never met halfway. And yet, I am grateful—for the buoyancy, for the warnings, for staying afloat even when I almost drowned.

Perhaps you felt like a hero, speaking unfiltered words to me and even toward my family. I will never forgive you for that. But I chose to forgive—not because I am weak, or because I accept defeat, but because I wanted to act with honesty and maturity.

I wanted to speak, to confront, but I chose to protect your feelings. I did not want to hurt you. I know myself—I can be tactless, impulsive. Even if we were at war, I still chose restraint.

You hurt my feelings. You hurt my family. You never paused to assess, to gather information, to verify the facts. You judged without proof. You believed your son over us, unquestioningly. Of course, he is your son, your flesh and blood. And who are we? Just your servants? No. We are your family, yet you treated us as lesser. Spoiled us with your padala, your reject clothes, buy-one-take-one items—but in return, you deceived us.

With your ambition to go abroad, who helped you? My mother. Who sent you there? My father. Did you show gratitude? None. Nada. You did not owe us repayment. We sent you to the airport because we loved you, not because of obligation.

Let me take you down memory lane: she was my aunt. My cousin, her son. And her gold-digging girlfriend entered the picture, claiming power and status. My cousin and I were like siblings, knitted close from birth, but that connection fractured because of her.

When her girlfriend arrived, I felt a bad aura. I asked questions—not to interrogate, but to understand. And yet, I was painted as controlling. Yes, the house belonged to my uncle legally, but my aunt paid for it. All my mother’s life, she stayed behind to care for family while my aunt went abroad and my uncle worked in the provinces. My mother carried burdens silently.

When Grandma fell ill, my family’s absence left chaos in its wake. I took care of her, and my mother’s back deteriorated from the weight and strain. While we suffered, you were comfortably in your mortgaged apartment in North Carolina. Edi sana all.

What is your point, Maria Ligaya? To belittle us? At least my family is grounded in love and kindness, unlike yours, shaped by narcissism. Your son reflected that, becoming just like them.

I may forgive much, but I will never forgive you for hurting my mother. She cared for you, sacrificed for you, and you repaid her with cruelty. Let your son take care of you now—karma and God will handle the rest. God saw me at my lowest, helpless. I hope He forgives you for what you did to us. Inhumane, indeed.

We chose to walk away. To move forward without your ghost haunting us. We felt like shadows in your presence. You even fractured my bond with my cousin because of your entitlement. Be grateful—I do not seek revenge. God will do justice.

That is all.

—Me

Maybe you like to be my Adonis
But you have no face, to face the crowd
Expose your secrets like ***** linens hang outside the house, in the backyard
Or a dug secret, untold to everyone just like every skeleton in the closet
I highly doubted, many will miss you
I got a pistol and a shovel
Make no mistakes, soldier
One wrong move and you are out.
You may be the one in higher position, but I am still your commander.
Do not mess with me, if you wanna still be alive and breathing...

—Signed by your wife.
(No shovel involved)

imbecile, corrupted minds
who would have thought
my poems are filled with rage
others might thought I had a mood swing
no, actually.

I just love to roast the people I hate.
because when I directly tell them what I feel
they might not take it
feeble minded, I was flabbergasted
what an obnoxious foul smell mouth
Intoxicated mind from overthinking over nonsense things
perhaps not.

we transferred houses, I was a missing in action, for the eyesore sight of my enemies
but you, oh honey, is a no permanent address
plastic people, ready to be burned
their bodies walk forward, but their mindset thinks backwards
their souls moonwalk, now you only realize our worth
when we are gone, not out of sight, not out of touch anymore.

because you are like a tin can, empty
like your mind, brain dead
never fool, never idolize
your money may be much, but your time is running out.
not because you are rich, does not mean you can buy manners everywhere
sweetie, manners cannot be bought like expensive things
learn to know the difference.

I am that glimmer of hope
That sunshine in your cloudy days
That still voice in your head when you are quiet
That calm and peaceful happy place when you are messy and chaotic
I could pull you out from the crowd
Draw tattoos on your wounds to make it look beautiful
You have me.
I could walk with you through thick and thin
I am that pop of color— a rainbow in your life.
Because baby, you can be vulnerable with me
No matter how depressing or not it gets
You are my baby underneath that thirty-year-old man
You are my panda till the end.

A quiet magic,
an unexplainable euphoria—
a celebration without end.

It is choosing you,
again and again,
in every sunrise and every storm.
A thousand times over,
in every lifetime,
I choose you.

Through the highs and the hollows,
through every bend of this winding path,
I will hold your hand.

Love is the place I return to—
even when it aches,
even when it asks more than it gives.
Even through tears,
even through trials,
I will find you there.

You are my favorite decision.

And when the world grows loud and uncertain,
when chaos presses in,
I will find my silence in your arms.

Until the end—always—
I will be yours.

Your smile outshines the whole of the world.
It is my compass, my calm, my clarity.

They said love is not always a steady flame—
that it flickers, that it falters.
There will be doubts,
there will be silence,
and some days will feel worn and distant.

But even then—
especially then—
I will choose you.

Not just in the brilliance of love’s bloom,
but in the hush,
in the heavy,
in the ordinary.

Because love is more than a feeling—
it is a vow,
a respect,
a quiet promise that endures.

Even when the heart trembles,
even when the sky darkens—
I will choose you.
Always.

Trained to be insane—
or just desperate to be the same?
Either way, darling,
I don't spar with egos or chase small minds.

Never argue with a fool—
they’ll drag you down,
make your blood boil,
and call it a debate.

But oh, the peace—
when the toxic ones go silent.
Like the trash
took itself out.

Weak souls spread whispers.
Foolish ones believe them.
But your opinion?
That’s not my reality.

This is my life.
My rules.
My terms.
Not yours to rewrite.

I noticed everything.
Every shift, every slight.
But I stayed silent—
because the noise
after my quiet
said more than enough.