Cool Girl

Tales and Renaissance

I bit my tongue, I thought: zen. I stepped on a gum, I thought: zen. I spilled my drink on my white cashmere cardigan, I thought: zen. I think about it every now and then: zen. He wouldn’t tolerate my brows furrow. My lips, I should seal it, so no air—or perhaps fire—could escape from it. My eyes should shape like those negative parabolas; and my lips, must disguise as the bottom half of the circle I drew in first grade. Where once the so-called set of all points is complete, there hovers in circle the male gaze. Applause and adoration. I always should fit the mold of that gaze. My roots and my seeds, are unwelcome. And when my petals hold something from the pollination of bees that sprawled over —with tolerance— I shall walk on the carpet of warmth. He progresses with society, an opposition of traditional feudalism…

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Love and Lies (ver. 4)

“Mahal kita” ang sabi mo
Pero parang ikaw ay nangloloko
Hindi ka nagtiwala sa akin
Habang sa iba ay naka-tingin

You said that you love me
But why am I crying painfully?
You don’t hurt a person you love?
Lie, lies, LIES, there’s only God above

Pinapatawad na kita
Wala na kong ibang magagawa
Ayaw mo? Eh di huwag
‘Wag ka sa akin tumawag

I’m so done and tired of you
I’m filled with bruises, black and blue
Don’t blame me for your frivolity
After all, this is just serendipity

Trauma

Words cannot describe sufficiently what one experiences deeply.

Sometimes, it starts out as something simple: a word, a look, a touch. It repeats through out time. Days. Months. Years. It happens again and again until it is deeply buried in the dark recess of the soul. Sometimes it is sudden: a scream into the silence, a betrayal from the person least expected, a gun shot that rings in the night.

Regardless of how it happens, it always stays. It is there until it is asked to go away. It stays despite of it being unwelcome. It clings to every song, every place, every picture. It is an unwanted obssession that refuses to be ignored.

It is looking into a shattered mirror, wondering what it was to be whole, and knowing nothing will ever be the same. Nothing ever does. It is moving like a puppet, and the strings are unseen.

Such is not easily seen but felt. It is like the wind which sways the trees but instead it moves the person. There are signs. It is the slight tapping of the fingers on the table. It is the pause in every sentence, the hesitance in every movement. It is the labored breathing as if drowning in air, the awkward laughter for the unwarranted comments. It is the blank stare for every question, the gaze avoided in every conversation. It is the rejection for every offer despite wanting to accept it.

Every person carries it differently. Some wear it like an armor, a protection from the pain. Others wear it like a locket, hidden from the world but close to the heart. Some do not wear it at all and leaves it behind, yet if follows like a ghost. It haunts and it stays, so they pretend it’s not there.

It is a scab which entices others to scratch and reopen.