Monster

There is a special kind of monster that lurks in the hearts of those left behind.

This one doesn’t keep me up until 3 in the morning because I’m already used to that, the odd sense of peace when the world is quiet.

But it paralyzes me in the most ordinary situations. Somehow I will find myself in bed at noon and feel invisible roots digging through my heart, making their way to all corners of my room, and I will realize I won’t be able to move for days and can’t explain exactly why.

When I stare at my ceiling, my mind will automatically flash a montage of where I could have gone wrong, which move I miscalculated. Did I seem too eager? Was it too much for him? Did I not give him enough space? But I argue, “I was ready to give him the entire universe, so how could he have had too little space?”

I never like talking about this particular brand of hurt. It seems unnecessary to dwell in it. It’s a maze of emotions I’ve gone through before. No matter how many ways I ask why he didn’t choose me, it will always lead to the same answer. There is not a diplomatic way of unloving someone.

But I have to get up from my bed at some point, try to wrestle through the roots, learn how to say it’s not my fault over and over until it doesn’t feel heavy anymore.

I will have to paint over the unanswered questions I see on my ceiling, maybe draw a few flowers instead so I can look at something pretty when I question myself.

I can pretend this monster doesn’t scare me. I can storm off from everything with all the willpower I can muster, but it still won’t matter then. I had only myself all this time. It had been only my heart.

And you. They will never know who you are. You will just be another pronoun in a poem I tried my hardest to brave through writing.

Because here’s the funny thing about this kind of heartbreak. Nothing technically ended. Because you were never there to begin with.

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Netflix and Chill

I never want to have sex. This means that I never want anyone’s dick anywhere near me. This means that I will never be fascinated with your dick, so send that photo to someone else. This means that all attempts at flirting and getting me in the mood will be pointless. This means that “Netflix and chill” to me actually means “Netflix and chill…ing at the sofa binge watching The IT Crowd.” 

This means that pickup lines will be met with a resounding, “WHAAAAT?” This means that, “fuck me” will always be just an expression. This means that asking me to talk dirty to you means telling you the story of that one time at a bar, I drank a blue cocktail and the next day my pee was the same color. This means that if you really want me to talk dirty to you, I will tell you that one of my favorite bands is Garbage. I mean, how dirty is that, right??? 

Garbage???

I never want to have sex and I never talk about the boys I like in sexual terms. This means that I don’t care if Leslie Odom Jr. is topless or wearing a bespoke suit—he will always be beautiful to me. This means that yes I like this one boy very much but no, I don’t want to fuck him just to prove it. This means that I really just enjoy talking to him and listening to him talk about his music. This means that sexual innuendos will never come from me.

But this doesn’t mean that I don’t laugh at green jokes. This doesn’t mean I am less interested in making connections. This doesn’t mean I find beauty less appealing. This doesn’t mean I think sex is dirty. This doesn’t make me a prude, a tease, or a bore. This doesn’t make me a fucking challenge.

I don’t want to have sex. But this doesn’t mean that you can look down on my lack of experience or that I will let you “teach” me. This doesn’t mean that maybe I just need alcohol to loosen up. This doesn’t make me ignorant or incomplete or a freak.

I don’t want sex. But this doesn’t mean that I don’t want love. The holding hands, the butterfly kisses, and late-night drives. This doesn’t mean that I don’t fall in love sometimes with the slightest hint of someone’s kindness. This doesn’t make me a sexually repressed, un-feeling robot.

It just means that I never want to have sex. This doesn’t mean I don’t have anything else to offer.

Wonder

image

So you go to parties and gigs with your friends. You welcome the crowded spaces you pretend don’t remind you of the walls in your world that are closing in.

You look at your friends warmly by way of saying that they are more than enough. They will always be more than enough—but you won’t ever be, at least not to yourself, and that is the danger in the first place.

You struggle to tell a friend you want to disappear again and it feels as uncomfortable as small talk with strangers. Every word you hold back is a pebble that you try to swallow.

And you wonder how that started.

And slowly, you edge away from the crowd, from the conversation, from the ones you love.

You drink the cheap beer handed to you, or the overpriced cocktail you bought to indulge yourself. It doesn’t really make a difference, as long as you feel numb for the next few hours. Slouched in the dark corners of the bar. Making yourself smaller, a fake smile plastered on your face, pretending all of it makes you happy.

You hum along with the band. They sing your truths, and sometimes that’s all it takes not to fall apart. How your insides stay intact, even with the cracks on your skin glowing in the harsh red lights.

And you wonder how you could still feel hollowed out.

The close proximity of strangers to you makes you think you are not alone, but you always go home by yourself anyway. At 3am. And the bus ride home always reminds you of the speed with which your life is spiraling down.

And you wonder what all that rushing is even about.

And in the morning, you feel empty.  You don’t remember any of the conversations you had last night, because none of them mattered. None of them scratched the surface and all you ever said were variations of,

“Yeah, totally.”
“Good to see you, too!”
“I’ll talk to you later. I’m just gonna say hi to someone.”

You keep staring at the ceiling past midday, recalling what you’d done wrong. Maybe you didn’t sing loud enough. Or you laughed too hard at that one joke the tears that came out were not of joy.

And you wonder why you went in the first place. And you keep on wondering.

But you do it all again next weekend. The dance, the six bottles of light beer, the pretense. Because it might not feel enough, but sometimes–the lights, the music, and an endless Saturday night–it’s exactly the pull that you need. The one pill short of an overdose. The one cut away from bleeding to death. The mouthful of water that didn’t drown your lungs.

Saturday is that one step backward from the speeding truck on the highway.

Turning

Tonight, the only thing between us is this music. The slow beat, the low humming, our feet moving in sync. There is nothing else here, no inhibitions, no fear, no second-guessing. We’ve already decided this.

And with one look, an invitation. Your eyes blur the sea of faces all around us. It was never a question.

I have always been drawn to you.

Always been drawn to how you turn on every light in me, how we clutch at each other’s smiles with our eyes, and how my mind rapidly declines reason here in our little world inside the spotlight. I’ve never wanted you more until this instance. But for now, all we have is this dance.

Tonight, the music is our compass. And it steers us closer towards each other. See, we’ve been lost before, sent off course by past lovers’ noise, pulled from all directions by misguided hands which only ended up hurting us.

We’ve run back and forth trying to find the right path to choose, tripped over countless mistakes, been caught up in an endless game of pursuit that left us winded, our lungs gasping for something more than air to keep us breathing.

But in this moment, with your hands on my waist, as our souls’ orbits entwine, slowing time, slowing everything in sight, I finally figured it out. Every movement our bodies make unfolds another layer of understanding, of “I knew it would happen.” Every eye contact is heavy with meaning, sweeter and more sincere than any form of love letter.

And as we dance, I know I’m not lost anymore. And you can call even the shortest strands of my hair home, you don’t have to worry anymore. With all my wrong turns and dead ends, I’ve been moving in your direction, led by music only our hearts know the beat to.

And this song only we could hear, could play on forever, and the world can keep on turning. But I’ll never be off track again. Because I finally know what all that running was worth—finding you, finding my true north.

Alaala

Alaala

Naaalala mo ba? Yung unang beses na sinabi mong mahal mo ako, kinakabahan tayo pareho. Di mapakali sa pagkakaupo. Dun nagsimula ang ating kwento. Pero simula din ‘yon ng pareho nating pagkatalo.

Dahil dadating yung araw na hindi ko na malalaman ang pagkakaiba ng “mahal kita” sa “sino ka?”

Maguumpisa sa maliliit na bagay ang ating pagkasira. Yung hindi natin mamamalayan. Yung matatawa pa tayo dahil nakalimutan kong Lunes ngayon at akala ko Sabado. Yung mapapailing ka na lang sabay ngingiti kapag napagtanto mong imbes na asukal, asin ang nailagay ko sa kape mo.

Magtatawanan tayo, aakalaing ito yung tipo ng mga kwento na iniipon at ibabahagi balang araw sa ating magiging apo. Hindi mamamalayang unti-unti nang gumuguho ang mundong kay tagal natin binuo.

Bukas, hindi ko na maaalala yung huling limang paskong magkasama tayo. Sa makalawa, susunod na mawawala yung mga gabing wala tayong ginawa kundi tumawa at kumanta. Sa isang linggo, titingin ako sayo na walang bakas ng pagkilala kung anong pangalan mo.

Patawarin mo ako.

Sa iiwan kong kirot. Sa lahat ng gabing magkaaway tayo at hiwalay natulog. Yung papasok ka sa umagang walang imik dahil ayaw mong may masabing hindi maganda. Lahat ng pagbabanta natin ng hiwalayan. Mga nakaligtaan kong anibersaryo–nung sinabi mong wala akong pakialam o kaya siguro hindi lang kita ganun kamahal. Sa mga pagkakataong wala akong ibang dahilan kundi, “nakalimutan ko.”

Napakadaya ng kapalaran. Alam kong pinangako sa isa’t isa na magkasamang tatanda. Pero hindi yata kaya ng Panahong ipagkasya sa habambuhay ang pagmamahal ko sayo, kaya siguro hanggang dito na lang. Kaya baunin mo sana sa iyong pagtanda lahat ng beses na sinabi kong mahal kita.

Dahil dadating yung araw na hindi na mapipigil ng utak ko yung dapat nitong malimutan. Lahat ng taong mahal ko, magiging estranghero. At ikaw. Tayo. Magiging anino na lang ng lumilinaw na kawalan. Ng walang hanggang pagbalik sa simula.

Dadating yung panahon na para kang sinasampal tuwing tatanungin kita kung sino ka. Kung bakit mo ako tinitingnan nang ganyan. Bakit mo kailangan hawakan ang kamay ko? Sino ka ba sa buhay ko?

Dadating yung oras na hindi na kita maaalala. Lahat ng pinagsamahan natin unti-unting mawawala. Isa-isa. Mga litratong pinira-piraso ng pwersadong paglimot.

Kaya bago ko makalimutan kung sino tayo sa isa’t isa. Habang kaya ko pa, sasabihin ko paulit-ulit. Naaalala kita. Naaalala kita. Naaalala kita.

Naaalala mo ba yung unang beses na sinabi mong mahal mo ako? Nagbiro ka pang araw-araw mong ipapaalala ‘to at baka makalimutan ko.

Umaasa akong tutupad ka sa pangako. Kahit na araw-araw unang beses sa pandinig ko lahat ng sasabihin mo.