I collect Valid IDs like I am Thanos collecting gem stones.

I collect different bank cards for different purposes.

So what? That's normal.

I was born into this world—to make enemies, and not friends.

I tried so hard to be kind, but they end up taking advantage of me.

I tried so hard to be humble, but out of respect, they forgot their own place—but feels too entitled.

I tried to be respectful, but they traded it for disrespect.

To all of the Pontius Pilate and Judas Iscariot of my life, shame on you!

To the 30 silver coins I wish I received,  but I received none.

I tried to stay silent, talked less of my opinions, you still have some beef about me, made irrelevant issues and nonsensical point of views

If I sat with you on the table during gatherings, you talk **** of others behind their backs

If I know, I'd say it right away, "If respect is no longer served, stand up and bring your plates and leave."

Because when a person who brings their plates to the table personally, they are not afraid to stand up, once the discussion is said and done.

You will never find trust and respect in the same person twice.

Maybe I look like a ******* devil. Maybe that’s exactly what you see when you look at me—smirk on my lips, mischief in my eyes. And maybe that’s exactly why I love it. I love it when I get under your skin, when I see your patience snap like a brittle thread. I love it when you lose your cool just because I exist in your space, because I refuse to bow to your silent demands.

I get on your nerves. I know it. You know it. And it excites me, watching you unravel, second by second, as if my very presence is a jolt of chaos in your carefully constructed world. You get mad so easily, don’t you? Like a storm triggered by a spark you cannot comprehend. And I watch. I enjoy. It is delicious to see someone so fragile try to contain what they cannot.

Like what the hell did I ever do to you, man? Or what the hell did I ever say to you, man? The answer is nothing. Nothing but exist. Nothing but breathe in your air and shift your reality. That’s all it takes. My being is enough to make you flinch, to make you question, to make your heart thrum with unexplainable irritation.

Oh, of course, I am a trickster. I have no shame in admitting it. I revel in the chaos I create, in the disturbance of your peace. I am a mirror, reflecting the parts of yourself you cannot face. The parts you wish were hidden. The dark edges of your patience that crumble faster than you think.

I could sit here all day, watching the subtle changes in your expression. The twitch in your jaw, the flicker in your eye, the way your hands clench into fists you try to hide. It is hypnotic, intoxicating. I could watch your mind bend, twist, unravel, and rebuild itself around me.

Your mood shifts from good to bad in an instant. It fascinates me—the ease with which your composure collapses. Like your life, like instant noodles. Boil, soak, done. Quick, hollow, flavorless. And I wonder if you even notice it yourself, how delicate your control really is. Because I do. I notice everything.

Because, after all, you are what you eat. Your anger, your fragility, your constant tension—they are the ingredients of your being, digested and served back for me to observe. And I am the chef, the diner, the observer. I do not need to touch you to taste you. I already have.

Some days, I wonder what it would take to break you completely. Not to harm, not to destroy—at least not physically—but to see your mind stumble in the shadow of your own expectations. To see the carefully constructed mask slip just enough for me to peek beneath.

I love the way fear flickers across your features. Not terror, not panic—just the subtle recognition that you are not in control. And you never will be when I am around. The little bursts of anger, the micro-explosions of frustration—they feed me, energize me, give my existence a delicious, sharp edge.

I could whisper the simplest thing, touch the smallest nerve, and watch your reality distort. And the beauty of it? You don’t even realize. You think it’s random. You think it’s your own mind betraying you. But it’s me. It’s always been me.

Sometimes, I wonder if you dream about me. If your subconscious remembers the way I smirk, the way I lingered just enough to unsettle you. Or if it haunts you in small ways—the feeling that something is off, a presence you cannot name, a subtle disturbance that scratches at the edges of your calm.

I am the shadow in your corner. I am the itch beneath your skin. I am the flicker of unease when you think you are safe. And I am everywhere you are not looking. Because I do not need permission to exist in your periphery. I only need patience.

I know your patterns. I see your weaknesses. I see the cracks you hide from everyone else. And I sit with them, quietly, observing. Not with intent to destroy—though that is a temptation—but with a hunger that is almost sacred. To understand. To watch. To exist in the disturbance I leave behind.

Your frustration, your irritability, your quiet, simmering anger—they are symphonies to me. Each note precise, each crescendo timed by your own reflexes. I orchestrate nothing and everything. The chaos is natural. The manipulation is organic. You are already playing my game without knowing it.

Sometimes I imagine the worst in vivid detail. The way you might crumble if pushed just a fraction more. The way your mind could fracture under the weight of your own reaction to me. And I do nothing. I let it linger. I let it grow. I let it bloom.

You call me devil, trickster, nuisance—but it is deeper than that. I am the shadow in the light. The itch beneath the perfect skin. The whisper in the silence. I am what you cannot see but cannot ignore. I am the reminder that your calm is fragile, that your patience is temporary, that your control is an illusion.

And yet, I am careful. I do not destroy carelessly. I am precise, surgical, aware. I do not touch what cannot bear my presence. I merely nudge, merely provoke, merely exist in ways that unravel and rebuild simultaneously.

The thrill is in watching you discover yourself through me. Watching your mind stretch, twist, unravel, and reconcile the chaos I bring. Watching your anger rise, and then watching you rationalize it, contain it, and rebuild yourself again—always changed.

So yes, maybe I look like a devil. Maybe that is exactly what I am in your story. But I am not evil. I am reflection. I am disturbance. I am the chaos that forces recognition of the cracks you refuse to acknowledge.

And I will stay, smirking, watching, lingering. Because some reactions are worth every second of observation. Some minds are worth every whisper of disruption. And some people… are just too easy to watch unravel.

YOU.

You do what you do best, don’t you? Classic. The way you manipulate the air around you, the way you twist words into weapons, the way you make me feel like I’m both the hunter and the hunted. I watch, always, and I know you’re aware.

Say what you want to say. Say it loud. Say it quietly. Say it to me. But know this—I hear it all. Even the things you never say out loud. Even the glances, the shifts in your shoulders, the little tremors in your voice. I notice everything.

I hope you never kiss and tell, oh honey, please. The secrets you carry, the truths you hide—they are the things that make you dangerous. And I like dangerous. I like it because it forces me awake, forces me aware, keeps me alive in ways nothing else can.

You never walk that talk. Pretentious actions, crocodile-teary-eyed plastic friend—every gesture a performance. Every word dripping with insincerity. And yet, I watch. I absorb it. I catalog it. Because when the mask slips, it always does, I’ll be ready.

Is there anything else on your mind? Anything you dare not say aloud? We were never wired to guess it, right? But don’t worry—I can guess. I always can. I’ve been tracing your thoughts long before you even realized they existed.

Please, pray tell. Tell me. I’m growing impatient now. The waiting is exquisite torture. And you—you thrive on it, don’t you? The tension. The silent game. The invisible thread that connects us in ways neither of us can explain.

Pretty little lady, playing safe now, are we? The little walls you build, the careful steps, the measured glances—they won’t protect you. Not from me. Not from what I see beneath your skin.

Hold on to your hope. I’ll catch you, whether you’re dead or alive. I’ll find you in shadows, in corners, in places you think are safe. The monsters under your bed are nothing compared to me.

Pretty little lady, won’t you come here and save me? The plea is real. The desperation is real. But so is the danger. So is the madness lurking just beneath the surface, just waiting for the moment to pounce.

Holding on to dear life, I ran. I ran from the monsters under my bed. But they followed. Demons etched ink into my skin, crawling, escaping, leaving marks no one else could see. And still—I keep running.

They shout your name. Your name echoes through the halls of my mind. Shadows left unturned, corners unexamined, memories too sharp to forget. And I am still here. Still running. Still waiting.

Come with me, they held out my hand. Their grip is cold, relentless, unyielding. But you? Will you reach for me? Will you dare to touch what you cannot understand? Or will you watch from the edges of your safe little world?

Pretty little lady, are you still mad at me? The question hangs in the air like smoke. You think your anger shields you. You think it protects you. But anger is a candle in the dark—it only illuminates how close I already am.

Letting myself put the bounty on your head—what a thought. What a delicious, terrible idea. To chase, to hunt, to feel the thrill of the unknown dance just out of reach. The fear in your eyes is nothing compared to the thrill in my own.

A killer on the loose, a madman running. That is me, isn’t it? Chasing someone who is both prey and sanctuary, torment and salvation. And yet—I cannot stop. Not now. Not ever.

The world outside is irrelevant. The night, the dark, the corners of alleys, the shadows on the walls—they all belong to us now. A game without rules, a dance without music, a chase without end.

You think you are safe. You think the walls, the doors, the locks will protect you. But I have already stepped inside your mind. I have already been there. And nothing can stop what has begun.

The monsters under the bed were just practice. The demons etched into my skin, the shadows that scream—they were rehearsal for this moment, this pursuit, this obsession that neither time nor distance can erase.

I see you in every reflection, every glimmer of light. I feel you in every silence, every pause, every breath I take. And you—you do not know how close you are.

This is the space between us. This is the tension, the push, the pull, the unbearable closeness that neither of us can fully grasp. And yet—it is beautiful. Terrifying. Delicious.

Pretty little lady, the night waits. The shadows wait. And I wait. For you. Always for you. Because no matter where you run, no matter how far, no matter how safe you think you are—you will never escape the echo of me.

They call me __
They call me bobo—dumb
Tanga—stupid
But that is not my name
That is not who I am

They call me lazy
Kawatan, butbuton, liar
But that is not my name
Do you hear me?
That is not my name

They call me *****
****
Home-wrecker
*****
But that is not my name

They call me beautiful
They whistle when they call me
Hoping I’d turn my head
Hoping I’d notice
Hoping I’d respond

They call me hers
They call me as if I were property
As if I belonged
As if I could be owned
Stop it

Stop labeling me
Stop shrinking me
Stop trying to define me
Stop trying to cage me
I am not yours

My name is Ayna Denisse
I go by Neng
My boyfriend calls me Love
I go by my pen names
yndn, eynden, Eindeinne Moon

So call me that
Call me that, because that is my name
Call me that, because that is my truth
Call me that, because that is who I am
Call me that, because I decide

I am not your insult
I am not your judgment
I am not your amusement
I am not your property
I am not your story

Call me what I am
Call me who I am
Call me by my name
Answer to me
Or step aside

Because my name
My voice
My truth
My power
Cannot be erased

I am Ayna Denisse
I am Neng
I am Love
I am yndn
I am Eindeinne Moon

Say it with me
Say it loud
Say it proud
Because that is my name
And it is mine alone

when confidence & hope slowly turns into doubts and fears—

You're not alone.

You are free to run away. Express your worries, your problems. Never be silent.

when emotions rise like waves—
Remember to keep the calm before the storm;
let it all in and breathe, then out you go

Roman numeral III, bae, drop it like it's hot
Life is meaningless without you right by my side,
You are that little kick of darkness in my bright and sunny life.
If this world was mine, I'd choose to be with you
Hold your hand, pull you out from the crowded room
Make you smile and laugh or giggle a little every time you are feeling blue
You are my baby panda, my clingy and needy lover
What would I do without you? What would my life be without you?

The only factual information I know is,
God will never let someone else take your place;
He will never ever let someone else come in between us, to separate us.

Because I chose this life, to be your permanent love in this life.

What we really want is not necessarily what we need— Sometimes, we easily get distracted by the things we want just to heal our inner child. Since it feeds and heals our soul,

Don’t get me wrong, we attain physical satisfaction, But is it really what our spirituality seeks to desire? Did we live a good life outside of comfort? Or did we fight a good life in the midst of survival?

We chose to choose life—by all means, to live comfortably, not fashionably.

We chose to live a good life because this is the kind of battle we chose to face. Henceforth, this was the kind of war we must fight, obstacles we must hurdle— Inner peace and personal satisfaction—not of material things,

But of good deeds, forgiveness, and abstinence.

Sin is temporary in life; we forgive, confess, and forget, Starting a new life as a forgiven person.

For it does not guarantee lifetime happiness, But rather, a temporary one.

Who am I to not forgive you, right?
I could forgive you. I can, if I wanted to.
But that doesn’t mean I can still accept you.
Acceptance is a different thing.
And the damage… the damage has already been done.

You made your choice.
And so did I.
I chose to stand my ground.
To protect myself.
To honor my own truth.

Don’t expect things to go back to the way they were.
Not after everything that happened.
Not after every word, every action, every betrayal.
Time cannot erase it.
Distance cannot fix it.

Don’t forget—it was you who started this.
The first move, the first doubt, the first false accusation.
It was you who set the stage for chaos.
It was you who broke the trust we once had.
And it all came crashing down because of that.

You chose to believe your son.
Without even listening to us.
Without pausing, without asking, without considering.
You took his word as gospel.
Even though we had proof.

I had proof. Solid, irrefutable, clear as daylight.
But he had nothing.
Nothing to prove that I did what he accused me of.
Yet your mind was made up.
Your heart decided already.

My trust is gone.
Gone in pieces.
Shattered like glass underfoot.
And no apology, no explanation, no promise, can put it back together.
Not after this.

You had your doubts.
I had mine.
But ours were never equal.
You acted on his word alone.
You acted without patience. Without reason.

I can forgive you.
Truly. I can.
Because holding onto anger is poison.
Because releasing it frees me.
Because I refuse to carry that weight forever.

But don’t think forgiveness means a second chance.
Don’t think it means I’m waiting for you.
Don’t think it means I will open my door again.
Because I won’t.
Not now. Not ever.

You crossed a line that cannot be uncrossed.
You let bias outweigh truth.
You let emotion blind you to reality.
And I cannot walk back into a world where that is possible.
Not with you.

I can forgive you, but I cannot forget.
I can forgive you, but I cannot trust.
I can forgive you, but I will not return to your orbit.
You may hope for reconciliation.
But hope is a luxury you no longer have with me.

I am done with explaining.
Done with defending.
Done with proving.
You chose your side.
And I chose mine.

We will not go back.
The bridge is burned.
The water beneath it is black.
And there is no crossing back.
Not for us.

So forgive me if I sound harsh.
Forgive me if my words sting.
But they are the truth.
And truth cannot be softened without losing its weight.

I can forgive you, yes.
But do not come back.
Do not think you can walk in as if nothing happened.
Do not imagine I will take you in.
Because I won’t.

I can forgive.
I have.
But acceptance? That is a door I will never reopen.
And trust? That is a treasure you destroyed.
I cannot, I will not, I do not.

The devil tried to harm me, but he couldn’t reach me. So instead, he went with Plan B—brainwashing my cousin’s empty, lifeless mind to ruin my reputation and fracture our relationship.  

Go on. Dare me. Challenge me. Are you sure about your decisions? Did you really think I would break the moment my bond with my cousins was shattered? Think again.  

I can live without them. In fact, that’s perfectly fine because at least I’m still whole. What matters most is myself, so why should I even worry, right?

You should be worrying about yourself, instead because,

Everyone already knows the kind of person you are, and they’re all on our side now. What you’re doing right now doesn’t define us—it defines you. Your actions speak for themselves, and they paint a clear picture of who you truly are.

You think, you can fool me
Wrap me around your little finger
May you bless me well, for you to be holy
But nah, you may know me well from the outside

But you don't because every time you look in the mirror,
You mirror convexity face to face with your kind

I never doubted for a second
I never think twice, no second choices for a split second
Just a split personality, bipolar disorder
Because I know when to be crazy and be serious at the same time

I might choke you, pin you down
Stab you, rope you
Maybe when I punch you, you might fly
Thin-skinned boy with no permanent dreams
Living for a temporary, one day millionaire life.

Pretense of the rich-poor cycle
Blending in with the rich like a chameleon
Socializing with the poor since it is your kind
Don't confuse me with your ideal Marxism

You can't fool me. Not anymore.

you thought I never really forgotten it, I forgave you but I never really got the chance to forget it.

it never really left. It was just there. I  might remember it but the feelings and emotions were gone.

I like your confidence, it's overflowing, oozing
Stop rolling your eyes, or else I'll gouge them out
But I smell trouble, I sense threatened
Since they told me that I am a walking gasoline, a talking ticking time bomb
One lit of a match, I may start a fire
I'm like a gun loaded with bullets, a tank ready for go to blow

I plead for arson, a torch to hold dear
yet you are desperate for attention
Blink twice now, yes, are you either naughty or nice?
Either way, it doesn't matter
Because even your shadows betray you, turning its back on you.

The peace of not knowing everything is far better than the burden of knowing it all at once.

Or perhaps, this boredom I feel now is the peace I once longed for. Either way, I am grateful—I have learned how to be alone without being lonely.

But did you know? The best thing they ever did for me—those bred with perfection and sincerity—was to despise me in silence. Hated by many, yet confronted by none.

Perhaps it was the peace of mind I deserved—to not know at all. Or maybe, it was merely the weight of unanswered questions and the burden of overthinking.

A peace of mind, I plead. Mind me, will you?

There is nothing I can do about it now
Go on, give it your best shot
Hit me with your worst case scenarios
You thought so, I might cry, nope.

Why are you so assuming? So your arrogance can actually get you somewhere after all.
Instead of using your brain, why did you use your intimate area?
Maybe that itch is too hard to scratch after all

Oops, how about your future daughter-in-law
She was untouchable, I never even laid a finger on her
I never even talk to her if it is nothing important
I only converse to her when I am bored
Too sad, she is never important on my daily life

They all **** up my energy
They keep draining me

Paramore says in their song "Ain't It Fun":  

"Don't go crying to your mama, 'cause you're on your own in the real world."

After all, the world doesn’t revolve around you. Alone. Yes, alone.  

But why is it that when something bad happens, your mom suddenly gets angry AT US and we do not know what happened, then she attacks my mom; Yes, my mom, technically, is the sister of your mom—because you and your stories seem to get more and more exaggerated?

DO NOT EVER USE YOUR MOM ON YOUR ******* PERSONALITY, JUST TO LET HER DEFEND YOU OF YOUR ACCUSATIONS TO BREAK ME.

think again, foolish weakling! Before you broke me into pieces, there is nothing for you to break anymore. I have been broken long before you wished to.

You though breaking me makes me weak? (Baka ikaw, lampa na nga sira pa ang mata, tch.) Nah. It made me stronger, FYI.

No offense, accuse me because I go for blow. I insult you in return.
  
I'LL CLAP BACK FOR A RESOUNDING APPLAUSE YOU DESERVE, "ILABAS ANG GAWAD URIAN" FOR THE FILM YOU MADE FOR ME.

Cut it, rip it apart—
That is how I want to end you.
You and your "Dora" bangs are quite unpredictable to begin with.
Insult me, and I bite back;
I won't think twice before breaking your wings.

Go easy on me now, or else
You'll never blink twice when your fate ends here.

******, you say—
You're acting like it's happening just now.
Is your radar not working? Maybe you've lost all power to control me.

Look at yourself in the mirror—you see
I am no longer like you, dog.

Careful now, silver tongue. Hold that thought.
Our tongues have no bones—
But they break souls apart,
Like a thousand knives waiting to stab you.

Do you want that to happen to you?
I hope not, because I never even wished for it to happen anyway.

Let karma do its job, and I might clap back after.

I consider you the Helen of our family—
That face of yours launched a thousand ships,
Waiting to devour you.