Distorted Fairytale

You talked about suicide; about jumping, falling,  and bashing your head in on the pavement. You tell it as if it’s a page from a fairytale— bright, happy, and with birds circling over your corpse.

You talked about walking into the ocean; pockets full of rocks, and lungs full of saltwater. You told me about it, in a tone that makes it like you’re visiting mermaids at the bottom of the ocean, indefinitely.

When I found you on your bed, still as Aurora, cold as the Ice Queen, with poisoned apples on your bedside table, I thought about kissing you. That is how things are supposed to work right? True love solving everything, bringing light into the darkness, and making birds sing with abandon.

Apparently not. 

So I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I was so blinded by our fairytale that I failed to see your darkness. 



“You know when you write for too long the side of your fingers chafe, it will be red,  slightly tender, and warm. Your skin will repair itself eventually, but then you would write for too long again, your skin would chafe, your skin would heal. Overtime you would have calluses, and your skin wouldn’t chafe anymore. Calluses are tough, rough, and they decrease the eventual pain.”

“What is your point?”

“Don’t give me hope. Enough hope that I may decide to do something about the calluses. Don’t make me forget all my scars, especially if you’re going to leave me with new wounds. I can deal with my old pain but I don’t think I can take new ones, much more so if it’s you who inflicted it.”

“I can’t promise you. I can’t promise you anything, actually. I can’t promise that you won’t get hurt, I can’t promise to not give you hope when there’s none, I can’t. But I will try, I will try to do my best not to hurt you, us. Pain is inevitable my dear, but I will try to soften it. Even if it means I will be hurting more. You’re not the only one with scars, with calluses, but I will be willing to take more wounds for you.”

Seven minutes in heaven

You kissed him, but it felt wrong. You think maybe it’s just the technique; the depth, the tongue, the position of your lips. You try to deepen the kiss, try a different approach. Pull him nearer, grab his hair, let his hands roam your body. It still feels wrong.  Instead of feeling heady, you are more aware of how slimy his saliva is and how clammy his hands are. You can feel the heat radiating from his body, burning your skin in an unpleasant way.  You feel a heavy lead settle in your stomach,  and it’s not the pleasant one that you know, the one that you feel when you explore beneath your blankets at night.

You control your breathing. Hitched breaths between slow ones. You will yourself to like it, to feel at least a smidgen of heat. You should be ecstatic, you think, you like him after all and all your friends know it. That is why you will be in this closet for the next seven minutes.

When the seven minutes are up, he lets go of you then gave you one of his lopsided smile that you love so much. You smile back politely, go out of the closet before him, still feeling nothing.

Black Hole

I stared at the sky trying to count the stars that dotted it. One, two,  three, four. One,  two,  three, four. I always lost count at four. Are you looking at the sky too? Counting celestial bodies then losing count? I know they say that we probably share the same sky, which is not farfetched seeing that we lived in the same town. 

Say,  do you remember that time when we’re just lying down the grass, tracing patterns in the sky and making up our own constellations? You even said that our children will be named after them (the existing constellations).

It’s funny how we already built our future together. We drew our plans on the sky, using stars as guides. We smiled back then, because our future seems as bright as the stars,  our stars.

Funnier thing is,  we failed to realize that the stars we plotted on are probably dead.  It’s probably scientifically proven and we’re just not aware of it.  But yes, they maybe are dead.  Maybe that is why our plans fell through.

Four years. For four years we planned and dreamed. For four years we traced on dead stars. Then it was all ruined in four seconds.

I hope you had fun with her.


She counted the cracks on the ceiling 10 times already, traced 9 imaginary figures and had named 8 of them. She laid her outstretched hand on her side, then let out a deep sigh. She closed her eyes shut and counted from one to ten, backwards. She let out small breaths, as if that would quell the burning in her throat. She clenched her fist, ignoring the pain when her nails dug into her skin. She bit her lip in frustration; the tears refused to stay inside.

She opened her eyes when she felt the tears running down her face. She stared at the ceiling, forcing herself to recount the cracks and to see if she missed some. She cannot see the cracks clearly as her tears were blurring her vision, she only counted up to 7 before a violent sob shook her body.

She placed her forearm across her eyes, as if it can act as a dam for her tears. Her face felt hot, and her cheeks were damp. She tried to control her breathing, but it still came out in short and ragged gasps.

She let out a long shuddering breath, removed her forearm from its place, opened her eyes then let the sobs rack her body.

Edge of reason

She never was one for idle thoughts. It was as if she’s compelled to brood about something important all the time, as if the fate of the world depends on it. She would always have this wrinkle on her forehead even if she’s not wrinkling her whole face in consternation. Her eyebrows would always be drawn together while she worry her lower lip to oblivion. She was a somber neurotic child.

Most of the time she is just drowning in her own queries and insecurities that she would just stare off into space. She would always have a sort of blankness in her eyes; a dull sort of darkness that you could drown into. Then suddenly, as if from a trance she would, in a flurry, gab about this and that while methodically attacking whatever task she has at hand. She would repeatedly vacillate between her bouts of inactivity and bursts of energy at random moments that one can never keep up with her.

It has, unfortunately, put a dent in her already abysmal social life. Not that she was a pariah or something akin to that. Some people just view her as eccentric, but for some, they already put her inside the loony bin.

When she is happy though, she is really happy, almost bordering on ecstatic. Nothing could go wrong, nobody is bad, everything is practically bathed in sunshine and rainbows. It was a sort of happiness that consumes you. The almost forced kind of happiness that you have when you’re desperately running away from something unpleasant.

It would wear her out, then the insecurities and fears that she desperately keeps at bay would start creeping in the crevices of her walls. Everything would be tinged in gray, everybody is worthy of paranoia and she would be the posterchild for ridicule.

She tries to keep her demons from consuming her, she tried fighting them, running away from them, and ignoring them, but alas, nothing can dissuade them from nipping at her heels. Then, as always, she succumbs to them. Everything would be dark, everyone is out to get her, and she would be helplessly curled up in her own fears.

So, I tried doing this sort of character description. This has been in my drafts for as long as I can remember and I just found the will to finish it. I don’t have bipolar disorder, but I did study about it and I knew people who had it, so if somebody with the said disorder finds this description wholly erroneous, I’m sorry and please tell me what I got wrong.

California dreaming

I watched the sunlight dance on the wing of the plane, soft yellow beams moving in and out as the cloud figures flitted beside them without a care. It was fascinating, it was a welcome reprieve from the boredom induced by my 12 hour flight.

I was sleep deprived. My body ached from sitting down for hours,and I reek. I hated traveling this long.

After three movies and countless games of tetris, I was bored out of my wits, yet all I can see outside was dark sea of clouds. Endless, flat, dark things. There were no stars in that part of the sky.

Hours later, the pilot annouced our descent. I was filled with both regret and relief. Relief because I can finally take a bath. Regret because, I can never see you again (at least physically, I can still stalk you in social media, but that is beside the point).

This. This trip was the death of us. It was a finality brought about by timezones and miles of differences. I wanted to move out of my comfort zone, grow and see places, but you wanted me to stay. You wanted me to grow old with you, I know it is a romantic thing, but you wanted us to grow old in the same place, doing the same things with the same people. You wanted us to stagnate.

I would’ve loved to grow old with you, test the realness of forever with you. But I also want us to explore things, to get out of town and meet and do things with other people.

Asking you to do that for me is like asking Peter Pan to grow up. It was hopeless. So I chose to grow up, chose to leave our Neverland, and I chose to leave you.

It was warm outside the airport, yet I felt cold. It was like I never left our little town. I hated it. I had to remind myself that I was miles and miles away from you. That I chose this, and you didn’t choose me. 

LA was beautiful. It was exciting. It was nothing like our town. It was nothing like you.

I will have this new life without you here; here outside our proverbial Neverland. I would miss you, I would wish that you were here with me but I will never regret leaving you.

Someday, if ever you find the need to grow up, I will be waiting for you here.