I have always wondered that when I speak up with whatever I feel right now, they seem too close-minded and never listen to what I say
They tend to make alibis or create reasons, criticize me badly.

But when I am silent, my silence speak for itself. They could easily understand my ****** reaction, my body language and how I am silent when they ask me.

Our debts have been paid by Jesus, and our sins are forgiven.

So, who are we to withhold forgiveness from those who have wronged us? As Jesus taught, we should forgive not just seven times, but seventy-seven times—a testament to the boundless nature of grace and mercy.

We forgive even if forgiveness is never sought. We don’t forgive for redemption—we forgive because we, too, are sinners, imperfect human beings. Forgiveness is not something we do because it’s commanded of us; we forgive out of our own will, for our peace of mind.

Time doesn’t truly heal wounds—they remain, just as memories do, including the painful ones. Time doesn’t let us forget, but forgiveness allows us to find peace within ourselves. If others cannot forgive us, let it be. What matters is that, within our capacity and without expecting anything in return, we chose to forgive.

During Holy Week, fasting goes beyond physical discipline; it's a time to nourish the soul. Feed your spirit with calm and peace, with uplifting thoughts and moments of relaxation. Abstain from distractions, and devote yourself to prayer, seeking God’s guidance and protection.

By doing so, you strengthen your heart against the devil’s trickery and deception, ensuring you remain steadfast in faith and truth. It’s not just a period of sacrifice, but a meaningful journey of spiritual growth and renewal.

"Lightning doesn’t strike the same place twice," just like "You won't find the same person twice."

If life gives you a second chance, grab it. Don’t let it slip away, because the same opportunity might not come again. Use that chance to set things right, learn from the past, and give it your best shot.

You are my comfort.  
In everything—  
In chaos and calm, in the mess and the peace—  
You are my safe place.

2. You’ve never failed to make me feel loved and appreciated.
Not even once.  
Not even on the days I didn’t feel worthy of it.

3. With you, I never feel alone.
Never ignored.  
Your presence makes me feel seen, heard, and understood.  
You’ve never made me feel invisible—you always made sure I was okay.

4. You always understand my pain.
You feel it before I even say a word.  
Whether I’m sad, happy, scared, excited, or anything in between—  
You match my emotions with your presence.  
Even on the worst and best days, you were there.  
Always.

5. You make everything feel special.  
Even the simplest things—  
Street food dates, thrift store strolls, window shopping at the mall,  
or just sitting together on a park bench—  
with you, it all feels magical.

6. You always listen.
You never make my rants feel like a burden.  
You make me feel heard—  
like what I say matters to you.  
You listen not just with your ears, but with your heart.

7. You make me feel safe.
Always.  
You make sure I get home safe.  
Even during the smallest errands, you’re right there beside me,  
never letting me feel alone or vulnerable.

8. You respect me.  
You never force me to do anything I’m uncomfortable with.  
You always ask, always check in,  
making sure that whatever we do—it’s always with consent and care.

9. You make time.
Rain or shine.  
No ifs, no buts, no excuses.  
If you say you’ll see me, you show up—always.

10. And finally, we are compatible.
You’re like my mirror.  
My twin soul. My better half.  
Being with you feels like meeting the male version of myself.  
It feels right.  
It feels like destiny—  
That someday, it’ll be you I’ll walk toward,  
at the end of the aisle.

I'm sorry if I failed as your daughter.
If I never lived up to your expectations.

At the very least, I graduated.
At least, I pushed through—I never dropped out, never skipped classes.
At least the recognition came before any award.
At least I didn’t get pregnant along the way.

But even then, I received no appreciation.

Were you proud that I made it this far?
Were you proud that, at the very least, I graduated?
You don’t have to worry about me anymore. I’m used to it—I trained myself not to react anymore.

But still, behind closed doors, I kept asking myself:
Were my efforts ever enough?
Did I ever make you feel satisfied or proud of what I did while I was still studying?

Did I make it—as your daughter?
Or just as a student of my alma mater?

I'm sorry if I failed as a sibling—
As your Ate.
I just got tired.
I'm only resting.

But that doesn't mean I'm weak.
I’m strong—because I know that all of this hardship, someday, will lead somewhere meaningful.

As your sister, you may have seen or heard me cry.
Just don’t mind me.
I’m just trying to let it all out—
Like a cloud, heavy with all the weight it’s been carrying.
I just need to feel the pain…
Until it finally numbs me.

You may have seen me in my most vulnerable moments.
But that’s okay.

It’s okay to cry.
It’s okay to be seen in pain.
Because I am brave—
Brave enough to let others see my tears,
Brave enough to show the wounds I usually hide.

Everytime you walk into the room
It got me feeling crazy...

But there is more to see, that made me fall for you...

You are the cause & cure of my longing towards you.

You are my best friend, my better half
My twin, my soulmate,
My partner, my lover
My crime in pleasure and pain
And most importantly, you are my panda
My clingy, needy and attention-seeker panda 😘
My one and only bae

Heat wave— soft launch to hell, is it?
Free trial, so my sister says.
Bring the ice cream out— because we are bound to take things colder.

I go bullet for bullet, blow by blow
But it doesn't have to end that way—
I want katana to katana, arrow to arrow
But never mind.

Let's be civil about it.
I intend to be more composed than react about it.
Waste my strength for a nonsense person over a nonsense, petty matter.
I never know. We never did.

Did you see me ******* stutter? or joke around?
Nah, I don't think so.

Don't taunt me—
Or less, I might wrap you up, tie you up in your neck
Until you change color from skin tone to purple. 😏

Or burn you up until you turn into a memory or a butterfly
Or else, an urn of ashes, to scatter you into this world

Or not, I will tell the whole world about you,
Expose your ***** linens, conceal your truest of true colors
Is it in the rainbow?
Or what, could be your intentions?
Are they genuine or of pure greed alone?

Guess, which is which. Good guess, I never tell a single soul about it
But I itch to tell them, they are dying to know.

Sweet smile, crooked teeth
Ragged white skin tone, **** skims, filthy schemes
He only likes you for your money, no more, no less
If you have nothing to offer, he'll leave you behind
Left you with nothing on your life

So sad, your future mother-in-law is a witch,
Grooming you to be like her
The apple does not fall from the pear tree, honey
It fall on its own kind

I pity you! You know nothing about what cards they play
You gave it your all, why ask when it is still never enough
No matter what you do, it is never enough.

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