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Maine Dela Cruz Mar 2018
Not odd nor bizarre
Not different, or god forbid, strange
Not quite unusual or irregular
Neither twisted nor morbid
Never disgusting but queer.

Bruised, but still, beautiful
Scarred but steadfast
Resolute and radiant
Maine Dela Cruz Mar 2018
morning light spills upwards from the horizon,
salt lingers in thin air
tangerine skies watch over as we take the road
filled with anticipation
we turn the stereo on
sing to our favorite song—
there is no other way to escape
but this—
you, me, the road and the wind
brushing against our skin.

we pack our bags,
wrap our soap bars
spray our favorite perfume,
laughing as we peek inside each other’s purses
like Pandora’s box
wondering what else to try—
yellow sunglasses, ball caps
an oddly familiar feeling
like rummaging a newly-cleaned closet.

wind-blown and sun-kissed,
we take the path to paradise
in bikinis pastel and printed
hair braided,
glare of sunshine touching our faces
building memories from scratch—
nothing but the sand and the shore
and the splash of the waves
against the grainy surface.

your head rests on my shoulders
as we watch the daylight fading—
hues of pink, orange, purple, and blue
painted on the sky by an invisible hand
thinking there is no goodbye as beautiful as this.
They were children tasting sugar
For the first time
Without all the artificial layers
The raw sweetness
Making them gasp and shiver
Anticipating for more
Turning them into wild animals
Ravaging its meal
Showing their true identities
Buried in these colors
Maine Dela Cruz Feb 2018
just one night
let me run away
to where I could feel
utmost freedom
to where I could be
a faceless stranger.

just one night
to feel the wind brushing
against my skin
to lay on the grass
and stare at the astral sky.

just one night
with a familiar face
fingers intertwined
dancing under the lamplight
flickering, catching a common rhythm
one tap after the other.

just one night
of never having to feel
the apathy wrestling
inside of me believing
it would never matter
so long as I am free.
Maine Dela Cruz Feb 2018
metaphors, they lie
we are made to believe there is meaning
beneath every symbol we try
to decipher—
the door is red, it expresses anger
I wore the red but I am empty
as I try to grasp the reality
I am alone and bathed in shame
flicking switches on and off
in the bathroom
soaking blood-stained sheets
blood is death
death is rather colorless—
a starless sky
a vacuum.
Maine Dela Cruz Jan 2018
below is a bed of asphalt, surveyed
by a creature covered
not in velvet, nor in silk flaunting
in muted strut
deafening silence
preparing for hunt or coming home
no one knows.

illuminated, the creature casts a shadow
against the grainy surface
bleak, distorted reflection
that mocks you with its
empty mercurial gaze
like a soul trapped in ebony cage
an empty space, a vacuum.

the absence of light is darkness
darkness is haunting
light in itself is haunting
the umbra, an illusion
of a phantom in the middle of the night
perplexed by reality and apparition intertwined
if curiosity kills, I bet the nine lives.
  Jan 2018 Maine Dela Cruz
l m
Your scars arent beautiful,
theres no beauty in hurting yourself
no beauty in blades
no beauty in throwing up your food
no beauty in mascara running from your eyes at 2 am
no beauty in eyes that are dead
nobody will kiss your scars
i'm sorry for that.
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