Word Vomit, Bird Comet.

Originally written and posted on Facebook  23 November 2014, with subtitle “bad romantic crap with no structure no edit no proper ending and lots of feelins, bcuz i’m a faggit”

Somewhere along the tangent of my lifeline, past the point where I looked at you and you looked at me (a point in time that will never happen again; say “tangent”), I lost my taste for whimsical things. The moon became a flat yellow button on a sparkly cloth of darkness, neither comforting nor enraging. It used to be so full and low, like pregnant fruit, like ripe words whispered into the dark woods where we sat at the outskirts and peered into nothingness while we talked about the future and skirted around the unmentioned “us”. After that point I disavowed the flowers in your hair that only I could see, the halo of the things I saw in you that made me want to grip your hand and fly you to Vega by any means necessary. Stars and clouds and the smell of you floating all around me, the interstellar dust of your thoughts and breaths flooding mysteries into my lungs—all that has been reduced to ordinary, standard-issue city dirt. I refuse to romanticize things that has anything to do with you, now. The point in which our lives touched has long since gone by; I am running in circles around my small world, and you are the freight train of silence travelling in a ramrod-straight line that sped past my face and caressed my cheek so lightly, ever so lightly, and will never do it again. One could argue that as a continually-moving tangent (say, a train) then the line will forever have a point of contact with the circle, for as long as it runs and never ends. But the problem is, you are not endless. You will keep running, and someday, our point of contactthe amount of skin that I can feel, the very presence of youwill run out. That is an immutable truth. So, the moment I abandoned my fervent relationship with moonlight and oceans and stardust and forests, I grew up and braced myself for the day you would leave. I pulled out all my good teeth and replaced them with iron nails, I traded in my spine for a backboard of tin sheeting. I refuse to be moved by you anymore. My world will continue to turn without you and your romance. Whimsy is no longer a thing I need, and is indeed something I could do without, if I want to survive losing you. If I keep turning random flowers into poems then I might turn my wounds into stories, and if I do that I’ll forget that wounds get infected and stories aren’t always read by anyone.

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“All of a sudden two decades have passed and you still have not kissed anyone with tongue, or kissed anyone at all for that matter, or had a 3 AM conversation with someone who would rather look into your eyes for ten minutes straight than talk. You have never worn a lover’s sweater or “forgotten” it at home in your bedroom just so you would have an excuse to see them again. You have never even stood face-to-face with someone who makes your hands shake so hard it feels like they’re both having a separate anxiety attack.

This causes you much guilt and self-blame and sadness but above all, an overwhelming curiosity. Are you really that ugly, that unwanted, that uninteresting, that boring, that no one, absolutely no one, has ever looked at you like the only thing on earth?

The answer is no. The better answer is that someone out there, somewhere in the world, is “wondering what it’s like to meet someone like you,” and they have two decades worth of love stored in their veins like a shoot-‘em-up drug, and they’re just about ready to inject it into someone else’s bloodstream. All you have to do is roll up your sleeves and wait for it to happen.

At times you felt so lonely you could stand at the edge of a cliff with nothing beneath you but air and grass and a long, long way down, and you’d still feel emptier than that canyon itself. Maybe you even danced with yourself alone in your room a few times, arms outstretched around a ghost, pretending someone else’s hands were on your waist, someone else’s eyes boring into yours.

Or maybe you fell temporarily in love with strangers on public transportation, fell in love with anybody who so much as accidentally brushed your hand on the way past. For you, falling in love with dozens of people a day was a coping mechanism for not having anyone to love you in return. But people are not eggs and falling in love with a dozen of them does not mean your shell will remain uncracked. One day you’re going to hit the point where you’re so desperate for human contact that you’re going to snap in half and all your love will bleed out like egg yolk.

But someone out there is eating a bowl of Ramen noodles right now, or putting on slippers, or settling into bed. They are doing all the normal things that you’ve done in your own life. They are just like you. They have cellulite and extra fat in all the wrong places and goals and fears and doubts and bad handwriting.

The truth is that they are just like you, and being just like you, they’re looking for a lover too. They’re what you might call a soulmate.
They think they’re all alone in feeling the way they do, but you’re really both two halves of a whole.

And one day you’ll meet them, bump into them on the street, and your two halves will be put together, and you’ll make one.”

— Writings For Winter, “For Twenty Year-Olds who have never been loved” by Meggie C. Royer

Morality

On the bus to Cubao earlier this afternoon, I was worried about two men who were talking about how easy it was to pick pockets in buses–they were even making loose demonstrations among themselves. I was terrified; my insides turned cold, like a shroud of ice settled over my guts. I was sure that at a certain point in the trip they’d stand up with guns held out and by the end of the ride I’d be stranded in Cubao without even a bag that would at least make me look like I hadn’t just been robbed.

Now that I look back on it, though, after scrutinizing their clothing, I’m starting to think they were the exact opposite of what I thought they were: instead of robbers, they were probably cops.

Although, in hindsight, nowadays you’d be hard-pushed to tell the difference between the two.

54. Come, Sleep

Come, sleep
and drown me
in your embrace of temporary
death; your sea is what I long
to feel against my chest,
& not these roiling waves
of suffocating sheets
that offer heat
but not warmth—
I’d rather freeze—,
& not these pillows
around my head
like buzzing flies,
imitating my heartbeat,
another liar I do not need.

Come, sleep,
engulf me;
& never let me back up.

47. Of Flower Girls & Suicide

a ribbon & a blade
in the same pocket
of intent.

intent screams
out through
your back pocket,
but dare you
sit on it? dare you
ignore the cries
of the silk white ribbon
& the rusty blade,
wailing to be tied
around your wrist &
break skin?
soak the thread
& eat the blade?

55. I Cut Myself

(I was bored I
couldn’t feel things I
started to cut myself last night)

Red razor blade streaks criss-cross
on the terrain of my wrist;
like the grooves in my skin,
magnified and coloured.

Drops of blood formed
in the paper-thin slits
not like geysers, or rivers,
but mountains of bright crimson.

(The sight is interesting the
pain is exhilarating the
fear is mind-numbing)

This morning,
the bleeding lips
sealed themselves.

(And tonight, I will do it again.)