Sticks and stones won’t break my brittle bones, but your incessant lies leave bottomless gaps on cement skin. There was a time my pubescent mind believed we’ve exposed the skeletons buried beneath piles of untouched clothing in our closets, but who knew you (the one who bears the cross on your chest) have reserved your darkest deceits in the heart that was supposed to be free of the devil’s impurities. But you’re no better than the rest. I’ve seen those dreary eyes twinkle with utmost admiration at the mere thought of the ghost of your girlfriend’s past. And even though my mediocre mind may miscalculate every single damn arithmetic problem I’ve ever stumbled upon during the span of my life, it is infrequent that my vigilant soul has miscalculated the faults your hallow heart harbors. You’ve left me to savor the aftertaste of the bitter thought of you and your previous lover. The one whom you said you were in love with for a year and nine months, yet you still perceive it to be a short relationship in spite of having sex over and over again, a sacred deed that is meant to be done with your forever. And one month later after the precious “mommy and daddy” divorced, you tell me you’ve had your eyes on me for a year. May I ask you this: How does one move on from a relationship of almost two years in one month?
Boy, you’re fucked up not only in the mind, but in the soul. How dare you crawl to me and whisper in my little ear that you’ve liked me for the duration of a year when the momentary bliss of hearing your voice before I fell into a serene slumber breed months of agony when you contemplated on beginning a relationship with another girl and kept your slender fingers crossed to rekindle the spark of a failed “marriage” with the previous girl, the girl who eagerly swallowed your cum and nearly carried your first child. May I ask you this: Who does your heart burn for? Because even though I am a woman of no faith, I have full-faith that your chapped lips cannot stutter a response. Because the thought that it is not me is beginning to bloom into a flourishing flower for me to wish on its dissipated petals. You’re one fucked up boy, yet you deem yourself as a man. Well, you can fucking think you’re a fucking man if that eases the pain of watching me gulp down your lies and deceit because you’ll never be a gentleman. All you’ve done was sever my hopeless heart into halves and you don’t intend to give it back.
When I was six, I had a friend who was born with a special mind. She could manipulate numbers and she could not speak right. But through music, she could dip in shallow waters of solace.
With music, she could breathe the notes in like a whole and a half were the only kind of oxygen her lungs…
A sense of dread rises from my larynx at the thought of consuming another bite of sustenance and the accumulating amount of calories that will increase my current double digit weight to an unsatisfying triple digit number on the scale. I have grown lethargic of my inability to diminish the quantity of unwanted adipose seeking sanctuary in my thighs and stomach, as well as my failure to alter my aesthetics to one that is more visually appealing, not appalling; one that will suffice for a first glance infatuation. Alas, my soul has sought refuge in this monstrosity that others label as a body. But this is not a body. I have a heart that has been maimed into a bloody pulp from incessant poundings of stressed syllables others would cluck from their pink tongue. A hallow heart that resides inside a heavy chest. A heart shrouded in crystals from the depravity of compassion and a mother’s tender kiss. My body is composed of sticks and stones from the souls who have swallowed soil while you stomped on top of their unmarked graves, and their retribution takes the form of corporal punishment upon my helpless being. To be nothing more than the living dead, yet harboring the weight of the wretched world underneath my skin. This is my castigation for basking in the radiating warmth of sunlight, for silencing death’s hymn adorned on my bones with scarlet ink upon the whitest flesh, and for believing someone with polar penchants from mine would save me from myself. This desperate desire to become thin has converted to a relentless requisite to slim the anguish in my bones and vanish into oblivion.
This is my call for aid.
No one dares to answer, as expected.
manondewal asked: i hope that one day my writing will be as good as yours is! damn, you're really talented x
I assure you that your writing is absolutely wonderful. Thank you for the sincere compliment. Keep on writing! I would love to read your pieces. xoxo
As a hand ticks pass each tally mark scrawled onto the white plastic, I find myself reassembling the broken glass sprawled across the filthy floorboards from the aftermath of last night’s bitter clash. The edges of glass effortlessly glide down my skin as if it were incising a garment of silk from a single touch, and it is translucent enough to glance at my reflection mirrored on its transparent surface. I am horrified. The monstrosity that lurks beneath virgin flesh is a sight to recoil in repulse at. Sage green scales where my hair follicles should reside, emerald eyes composed of harbored jealously, dagger teeth to chew through the adipose hanging onto human organs by ivory thread. Unworthy of inhaling halleluiah into my dwindling lungs, undeserving of a mother’s loving kiss, unlovable to even a soul whose heart is tainted into the darkest palette of black. These are the thoughts that soar through the cloudless skies of my vacant mind. I am not human at all.
Remember when you used to croon your favorite lullabies
into the seashells of my ears. The soundless melody rang
so deep into the chambers of my heart, rattling the rusty,
iron shackles strapped across each part. My soul
awakened from your delicate touch, each stroke of life
upon the canvas of ashes from what was too much for
a hopeless heart to handle, each cloud of vapor you left
to linger on my virgin flesh after chapped lips spoke of
a scandal. Remember when bliss was etched onto the two
crescents attached at the end of my lips. I drew our
names inside a million hearts at the beginning of our second
start (as friends) to match a million stars scattered across
the velvet sky I have wished for you to be mine, but you
told me you could never love someone who did not believe
water could turn into wine. Remember when you told me
you would never say goodbye even if our stars were not
aligned, even if our scarlet heartstrings would never
intertwine, even if there was not a single sign of the dying
spark from a star-crossed love to shine. Remember when
there was a time the words you whispered in my ears were
not lies. Remember when I told you I wish I had a love that
could stop traffic while your marble brown eyes were
gazing at graphic images of unclothed girls, a sight that
would make your dead mother hurl. But, my love, remember
what used to be. When my existence was not composed
of debris and you have not yanked the key you inserted into
my heart and you have not left an abundant amount of scars
to showcase the love you have effortlessly torn apart.
Remember when our two heartbeats palpitated as one pulse.
Because my heart only recalls the memory of the time you
recoiled from the castle of my arms in repulse.
There is a deafening silence in the clinical room.
A soundless broom brushing dried tears
from yesterday’s unwanted news and silent static
seeking to banish the gloom of a harsh winter
afternoon. We are no exception as time resumes;
It ticks to our inevitable doom. My stomach
harbors a lethal fume inside my womb, the fragrance
of life’s perfume, the scent of your child’s tomb.
We smile at each other, but it never reaches
our eyes. Our future is placed on standby to
a sperm that was supposed to die. Now, we are
waving dollar bills in hope to buy a route out
from the waterfalls bursting from our eyes. Now,
we are stitching our lips with ivory thread
to conceal our dirty lie. Now, your warm breath
exhaling love on my thighs has now become the reason
why I wish to say goodbye. To you, to us, to the love
I thought we made but turned out to be pure lust.
Because, in the end, you chose blood over water.
You decided to reassemble the broken glass
with a girl from your past, wanting a second start
in the silence of my breaking heart. Because you
could never be a good father, even if your child’s
fetus was not slaughtered, even if my existence
was not water and my vagina was not a walk-in closet
for you to shove your insecurities inside me,
for you to stuff your undesirables in me.
My body is your hamper shrouded in darkness,
but I know you can detect my location in heartbeat, my dear.
I am lost in the deafening silence in the clinical room,
gone astray in sheer vertigo as I bleed your child’s tears,
the stained dreams of yearning to hear his own cry and to bloom.
“There’s nothing wrong.”
I lied. These days, either your blistered fingertip is pointing at me with a scrutinizing eye or my existence is placed on standby while you are having a good time. You tell me you love me, but I am beginning to understand why it is taking me longer to reply. To regurgitate those three words rather than to deny the inevitable truth dawning upon us within a blink of an eye. No words can fathom my disappointment in you. After all the things we have been through, I am always the one to swallow the hurt you have chewed into my mouth, imploring your God to see this wretched world from my field of view as I gulp the tears that are long overdue.
You told me you would never hurt me. But can you not see what you are doing to me? Abandoning me as the fruit from the toxic tree in exchange for the key to another girl’s heart, the girl you have previously loved before me. The girl you have had sex with over and over and over again with, and the girl you still would leave me for even though we are together. To get her. Because that is all we are. To get her. Because that was your intention from the start, but you are in dire need of an intervention if you think you do not have to pay for the damage inflicted upon my battered heart.
You told me you are good boyfriend. Does a good boyfriend mention recollections of their ex while he is on his first date with his new girlfriend? Does a good boyfriend whisper in his girlfriend’s ear that he has not done this in a long time after their first kiss, after her first kiss? Does a good boyfriend still talk about his ex while he is with someone new, thinking that if he masks that explicit name it will conceal who he truly misses? My mother once told me that you are good guy, but she cannot see the scars scattered upon my severed heart every time you decide to bring up your past and relive it in your retina. Because even though I am girlfriend number five and you are my first, you have yet to discover why your relationships never survive while I am desperately trying to keep ours alive.
You told me you loved me at the beginning of our second start.
In the end, I have nothing left to say except you are breaking my heart.