And stories.
I'd like to think that we have an on and off relationship. Give and take. Take, take, take. I push and you pull. Or rather, I push and I pull since I am writing to no one in particular and anyone I'd like to.
I'd like to think that it's just me and you; person and paper; emotion and something that isn't capable of feeling. The only thing bringing us together is pen and ink, finger against key. And stories. Always stories.
TELL ME,
if my journal is full of love ballads, where is the love?
if I feel high when I'm with you, are you the drug?
if these sentiments are hopeless, should I sweep them under the rug?
if I let you know how I really feel, will that be enough?
how does one begin to describe
the jade marbles they call your eyes?
or how I managed to survive
three months without yours looking into mine?
or how no matter what words I write,
none will ever truly get them right?
why is it that I admire your quirks
or that I never get tired of your same blue shirt?
why all the other girls aren't afraid to flirt
but when I muster up the poise,
it never seems to work?
and the only way I can is through words
written on a page you'll never avert
your eyes to.
it makes me hurt.
because whenever we talk I always blurt
out things I don't mean
because the only thing I see
is you in front of me
and everything else is a blur.
that's for sure.
what do I want from you?
you can't even get a clue.
what do I do if these feelings are true
and I blurt them out out of the blue?
will you be at a loss for words I wrote
to you on a wrinkled, sanguine note?
kept hidden so long– my starry-eyed hope.
will you be the one to strip the sugar coat
off of my ardor kept secret, kept cloaked?
will you laugh as if it was all a joke,
oblivious to the heart you just broke?
are these desires enough to keep me afloat
or are my dreams just too far remote
from reality
from the impossibility of you and me
from the intentions of my heart, fragile as fine filigree.
YOUR ANYTHING, YOUR EVERYTHING
It's due time I introduce myself
Here I am someone
something
your anything
your everything
I am the girl...
who has seen the world a thousand times
Standing in line behind you
Losing herself in the magic of the madness
Bleeding poetry
Suffering
Dreaming
The girl hidden behind the words of this poem
Behind the screen of this computer
I am the boy...
whose only sanctum sanctorum is his mind
(Although the state of that is dubious)
Who you kissed in the rain
For whom the knell resonated
Writing
Evanescing
The boy hidden behind the words of this poem
Behind the screen of this computer
My selfhood is as a
m
e
n
a
b
l
e as you wish to sculpt it
Your imagination, my creator
Your wish, my command
Your idea, my identity
Maybe I'm you
Maybe I'm him who is her
Her who is him
Here I am your anything
your everything
nothing
THINGS BETTER LEFT UNSAID
Are you smitten
with her waning body,
eager to feel sore bone
and burning muscle?
Yearning the luxe of her lithe,
the ease of slipping into a size two,
the gap between her thighs,
between things better left unsaid
The fabric feels the same on her flesh,
as it does on yours
The air in her lungs
as full of life
The food in her stomach
as filling, as delectable
But perhaps the taste
isn't what she's craving
Because nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.
THREE GENERATIONS STRONG
Three generations strong: a woman struggling to live the American Dream, a daughter navigating the uncharted territory of life, and a young girl learning what it means to be her mother's daughter.
A Woman Struggling to Live the American Dream
As a single mother and Filipino immigrant, my time was rendered to frostbitten winters and humid summers of providing away from my kids. However, through the support of my family, I worked my way to happiness.
In my last days, I ceased to fear death. I chose my casket, flowers, and said farewell to those whom I loved. I was happy! That is all someone can ever ask for at the end of the day...or their life.
Strength is knowing when to say goodbye.
A Daughter Navigating the Uncharted Territory of Life
Saying goodbye to my mother was done with acceptance, since I know that no one would have passed as gracefully as she did. She indoctrinated me to be an independent woman, but never independent of her. She showed me love requires sacrifice, and that not even 3,000 miles could keep us apart.
Living with a chronic illness taught me that by asking for help, I could have the "somedays" longed for with my daughter. Today is "someday."
Strength is knowing when to ask for help.
A Young Girl Learning What It Means to be Her Mother's Daughter
I will never be as valiant as my mom, or my Lola. I am too privileged, too selfish. Sacrificing is an art; some master it effortlessly, with dignity. Others make a whole imbroglio of it. I am lucky in the way I have had to sacrifice, and I am happy.
Strength is seeing the serendipity in sacrifice.
We are three generations of sacrifice.
Three generations of "somedays."
Three generations strong.