Broken, I said
Broken, I said
I was sewing letters on the soft, white feathers I held tenderly in my hand. A man visited me and asked me, "Angel, what has happened to your wings?" This is my answer. I can only be fixed by my words and stories. One day I will fly again. may have come to give love Read the Printed Word! Follow thisisawesam on Twitter

On The Tip Of My Tongue

I. They say it feels like flames licking the salt

of your skin, the fire selfish and unforgiving in its

voyage to the curves and lines of your body, devouring

the buoys that keep you afloat and the fishes that

roamed your waters until you are the

nothing that your sister said you were.

.

They say it feels like you’re breathing in water instead of air,

and all you see are the dark blots and shadows of the corals and 

the flurry of bubbles that escape your mouth as the salt

water becomes you.

Then darkness because

here you are.

Here you are: a part of the sea.

.

Here they are: on the tip of my tongue, the words

that’d say it is not destruction, it is not the killer of self.

It is not the guide to being lost, not the notches on your

wrist that reminded you you were in pain and it’s too

much, too much. I want to say it’s not too much. It’s

never too much.

.

I want to say:

 It feels like toes digging into white sand,

the soft caress of the gentle breeze, the gentle kisses

on the cheek that’d remind you of kids running

wildly in open fields.

It feels like falling with

wings that’d let you fly but still falling ceaselessly into

an abyss of light.

You’ll want to be in that state of

weightlessness forever.

.

lt sounds like the lulling of the

waves to your soul, the light tinkle of wind chimes

at your grandmother’s house and the quiet whispering of,

"I like you. I like you. I like you," at 2 am, when you feel like

turning back and going back to be enslaved

by the sadness that has consumed you all your life.

.

And sometimes, all I see is white.

Not the blaring red

that forces you to look at it, that screams, “I am

the color of passion. I am the color of love. Now,

look at me.”

All I see is the innocence of white, 

the white flag of surrender

as the captain says, “I can no longer do this alone. Come

and be with me.”

.

Sometimes, all I want to say is that.

Darling, come and be with me.

.

It doesn’t feel like hurricanes and cyclones

ravaging within you, all the things hidden and

tucked away just to be safe, as everything

tumbles down and gets swept away by the rushing of the tide.

It is never the nothing that overcomes you when you are numb.

.

On the tip of my tongue: don’t listen to

anyone that alludes love to destruction.

Listen to me: love is the wings that would let

you fly.

So, learn. Learn to accept that he would lift

you up to safety. Learn to fly. Or learn to just

let yourself fall.

.

II. On the tip of my tongue: he feels like campfire.

I am cold and alone in a dying forest but he is the 

campfire that keeps me warm always as my stories

fill the air. I imagine words making tendrils

of smoke in the air as I learn how to become a campfire myself.

I am no longer the wounded being that I have been for years.

.

He makes me believe that I could be everything.

Yet I am eternally cursed by my own thoughts, and when

I think I’m nothing, he is the sculptor that molds me

into a human being.

.

He is the fisherman with the light as I drown

in my own waters. He is the echo in caves

that makes me feel like I could be heard.

.

He is so many of the things I am not, and I want to

say: you are my guide. I’ll follow you

wherever you go. Lead me to safety. Lead me to you.

.

He tastes like resolve and, “I’ll be with you

forever,” on the tip of my tongue. He tastes

like summer air on my skin, when

euphoria and living is all that I am. He

tastes like cliff-diving and tasting the

salt water. He tastes like

cotton candy when I was 8 years

old and unknowing. He’s like the budding

of flowers in spring. He tastes

like future and open doors. And

these aren’t things you taste but my

mind dips in them anyway, and I 

see them. I live in them, and

I say I’ve tasted them.

.

I want to say: you are the alcohol that makes

me forget my past and makes me live in the now,

you are the flowers wilting in my closet (because

you are hope, you are memory), you are

the sea that beckons me (because I believe I

was a mermaid in my past life, and I still

long for the my tail), you are safety and comfort

and coffee that keeps me awake, that reminds

me I have to live.

I want to say: you are you, and that is enough.

.

III. On the tip of my tongue: three words.

Yet, I fill the void with more silence.

Because not now. Not now

when I am mending. Not now

when I remember the slowness of time.

But I forget to remember, and there it is:

on the tip of my tongue.

Change and All That It Brings

I’ve forgotten how to mold images with words. I don’t know if I could still string words, spaces and punctuation marks together like beads on white wires. I don’t know if they end up beautiful or if they make you feel alive enough to curl up on the floor and let the tears surge in your chest like the waves that chase land. But I do know this: I’m starting to forget why I have always had ink-stained fingers. When I cut myself open, words don’t come pouring out, it’s all alcohol and hurt and none of the words that could lead me to recovery. Look, I have turned to human biology. I bleed blood. I have transitioned to being human, no more the ethereal being of a writer. Dust gathers on my journal covers while I take things in and bring nothing out. My hands are clean. My hands are clean. My hands are clean.

But enough about my inability to make pretty sentences and realistic worlds or how it’s been a month since I last picked up a pen to write. I want to talk about change. I want to talk about passion and all the things that would make me remember how it feels to live and be crazy about something instead of the monotonous cycle of facts and logic and the numbers that could only add up to one answer. Let me tell you how I’ve learned to accept leaving. Let me tell you this: I am no longer willing to study the complexities and basics of engineering.

I go to my majors late, my minors on time. My majors plummet while my minors rise. I can no longer find it in me to care about my course. Consequently, it is only now that I’m nervous about how my grades would turn out. I’m almost completely sure I’d fail all my majors, as I have never tried to open a book to study for my quizzes or have passed my assignments on time. I’ve become a failure of a student, a disgrace to my family, yet this is all me. This life of mine is hidden from my family. I go home and I am quiet. When they ask me about school, about grades, I say, “I still try,” but I know I’m not. I’m not trying at all.

I shy away from the thought of shifting courses. I constantly try to look into the world of communications. My hand turns the knob but I am afraid to open the door. I turn the idea again and again in my mind like the tumbling of dryers. I think of taking up Development Communication. Then I think of my father, who has always adored the idea of me studying Industrial Engineering, who knows I would have a safe job to fall into when I graduate. And somehow I think of unsafe jobs, of living a hard life but a fully-lived one all the same. The thought runs all throughout the second semester.

I tell my dad on my birthday (as I have always planned to do so, so as to soften my father’s opinion of me and to more easily get the approval I seek to shift courses), as he eats the last strip of chicken on his plate. I fiddle with my phone. I stare at my father’s plate. I am stone, I am paralyzed, I am cold. I consider not saying anything but goddamn it I need to leave engineering. I didn’t talk much in the restaurant, as my nervousness had reached its peak, where I felt faint and jittery at the same time. I say it. I say, quietly, tentatively, “Is it okay if I shift to DevCom?”

My sister reprimands me. My brother tells me it’s not easy, that a lot of people like Industrial Engineering. He reminds me of the abundant job opportunities that scatter the world if I continue with Industrial Engineering. Between all this negativity, my father asks me about myself. He asks me if I want it enough, if he has wasted his money on an education that I would not continue, if I am willing to work hard to get it.

I’ve had months to prepare my script and I present it as I have always presented it in my mind. I say the first year in college almost always consists of minors, just a sprinkling of majors here and there sometimes, so none of it was a waste. I say I’ve always wanted to take up Communication Arts and the only thing closest to it here in our city is Development Communication but I’ll take it. I’ll take it, so long as I become a communication major.

I am surprised by the sudden twists and turns of life and my idea of the predictability of the chaos that would ensue. I asked for change and I expected normalcy. I expected my father’s tries to persuade me to stay, as I lay a slave to his logic. But, no, life gets funny sometimes, and would not accept to be conformed to my perception of it. It begs to be different.

So, here I am. Change is at play, and for once I am happy for it because the girl with clean hands, with only faint traces of ink found under her fingernails, could finally study something she loves.

Look at me. Look at the future Development Communication student.

Let Me Tell You Something

I’m thinking of leaving

but I’m also thinking of staying.

The decision wavers from here to there,

my answer getting swept by the tide

of present day.

Let me tell you something:

I’m still thinking about it.

.

There’s no dramatic confrontation,

no screaming fights, no walk-outs,

just a choice to leave to somewhere

I would feel safe.

I don’t know

what I feel there anymore.

.

I’m piling story after story, dripping tears

and soul on crumpled papers. I take

them to my sister, expect her to be my

beacon.

Oh, the poems I’ve written for her, all

done out of recklessness and hurt, screaming

to the world the kindness I have

never had, wishing better, asking for more,

hoping for change.

.

She steals my secrets and throws them

at me in the dark.

.

She yanks them from her pocket and holds

them to my throat. She tears the skin, watches

the blood gush from my neck, and walks

away.

.

I am tired of being bare to the people

who will never care.

Let me tell you something:

I am tired of opening myself up. I am

tired of pretenses and masks. I am tired

of having to care about what the neighbors

think. How about what I think? Should

I always live a life following the perfect projection

of me?

.

My sister talks to me in that casual, menacing

tone of hers, “You’re weak. You’re

hardly a crowd-pleaser. You bring people

down. Leaving that place for all

the jokes they’ve done? Don’t you have

the guts to suck it up?”

.

I explain to her, over and over, but she’ll

never get it. She’ll never understand

that I was bullied in high school, and I’ll

never again let myself get less than I should.

Fuck what the neighbors think, I care about

what I think of myself, and I think of myself

highly. I think myself able to get out of

a situation that’s making me uncomfortable,

a situation that has the potential of being worse,

and, damn everyone, I’d never let anyone do

that to me.

.

She’s not saying it but I know it’s what she’s

thinking. She expects me to stay there and suck

it up, just for the sake of pleasing everyone, just

so I won’t be a kill joy.

.

Don’t you get it?

.

She’s telling me to allow myself to get bullied.

She’s telling me to fucking stay in a place

that’s making me feel horrible of who I am.

Let me tell you something:

I’m stubborn and I don’t care. I’m embarrassing

myself but I don’t care. I’m saying

things I shouldn’t say but

I

don’t

care.

.

Let me tell you something:

Don’t you ever do anything you don’t

like. Don’t you ever settle for anything

less than you should. Get away from

the people who put you down.

Stop doing anything that makes

you sad.

.

Darling, who cares what they think?

We have minds of our own, bodies we can

clothe in whatever (or none, if that’s your thing),

lives we can change.

If people hate what you do, listen to me,

it’s not their life, it’s yours, and you

better live it your way.

.

My sister is plagued by the thoughts

of her friends. She uses my own

secrets against me, ones I’ve said in confidence.

She tells me to stay in a place

that’s going to make me cry, that’s

going to make me write depressing poems

again, that’s going to make me doubt myself.

Perhaps, I am locked in my own opinion of the world

but I live it the way I have never been able to do so

in fifteen years. I’m sixteen years old

and it is only now I live by my own standards, by

my own choices.

I have laid myself bare to the people who could

never love. I have surrounded myself

in toxic environment. I have drowned

in my own tears and doubt. But

I rise from that acidic mess and live.

.

Let me tell you something:

You have wings. Everyone would tell you

you don’t but

fly anyway.

From Pessimism to Optimism

I don’t understand my overwhelming urge to dramatize every single aspect of my life in my blog. Long ago I’ve envisioned jotting down all the happy, even disappointing moments of my life, the memories blending together into something reminiscent of the light, hazy cloud, that is the inside of my head. But, really, I don’t dramatize, as in to change the details, change the whole thing, rather I make it bigger than it is. Cliche is what I am right now, but I’ve realized things do seem bigger when you’re in that moment, so un like how it is right now when I look—none too fondly (okay, maybe a little bit)—-back at all the things I’ve written, all the things I’ve done.

I haven’t been writing much. I’ve been trying to write that story that I’ve always wanted to write but I still think I’m too young to write it, much too inexperienced to handle it with care.

I’m fearful of the sadness that seems to emanate from me but I’m imagining it, I think I am. I’m sitting in a Monobloc chair, browsing my newsfeed because twitter was slow and my dashboard just white squares, when my friend turned to me and asked me, “Are you okay? You look sad. You look like you’re about to cry.” But, my God, I was just browsing my damn newsfeed that hardly showed anything of interest at all, why would I be sad? I tell you, it’s like it’s become a part of me, taking over me, showing in my eyes, in my book tastes, in my favorite songs.

But, no, I refuse to be sad. I’m tired of making myself my own enemy. I guess this is my promise to myself, the new year’s resolution I failed to make. 

I want my poems to be happy, all of them are just depressing and almost seemingly suicidal. Oh God stop making my emotions polarities. Give me something mundane please. I don’t know why I get so concerned over my poems but I’ve had this urge to write about wanting to happy just to cheer my blog up. My poems have always been an extension of myself, the most expressive medium I can find for my thoughts and emotions.

I want so many things to happen in 2014. 2013 was an eh, s’alright year. This year I just want to live. I want to experience so many things. If I have to be courageous to do it, I’d be courageous or at least try to be.

Man, we all need at least a little happiness to get by. I don’t care an avalanche of Horrible Things come barging in. I just want there to be a glimmer of hope, a tiny break in the darkness for light.

I guess what I’m saying is I want to be an optimist.

Empty Rooms and Dark Closets

My mouth is full of unfinished sentences and

dangling promises. Flowers don’t grow on my lips

anymore, the leaves long ago falling to the ground,

brown and crisp on healthy grass.

.

Rain and thunder and wind; chaos and screams;

happiness and laughter in playgrounds; I stand in

the middle of it all like the broken treehouse that

no one seems to fix.

.

I am lost in the sea of my own destruction. I build myself

my own barriers and scrapes. I make my own wounds, knife

to skin, words to head.

I will never be first, never be the prettiest, never the

smartest, never the life of the party.

But, darling, you already know that,

don’t you?

I’m starting to become nothing.

.

The spark in my eyes dim to black-outs in

typhoon-savaged cities, my friends water in scorching

desserts, the life of me, the joy I hold, gone gone gone

like what? Like what?

I don’t know. (But I know, and I know you know.

Just like me. Gone like the sphere of light that

emanates from me, gone like the

colors that make me worthy.)

.

Everyone’s leaving and I’m used to it, I am.

But everyone’s forgetting me, everyone’s forgetting

the 5’4 girl that puts paperbacks in her bag, who’ll listen

to anyone who tells stories. Say hello to the girl

that’s sitting alone in the corner.

Why don’t you say hello to me?

.

I’m wind, here and then gone again. I’m losing

everything and nobody wants the nothing that I have and

I am sad and disappointed at all the things that I am and not

and no one is noticing anything and there’s only

me, there’s only me in my world.

I know only of silence. 

Everyone leaves. There’s nothing to love

in me and there’s nothing to save. There’s

nothing worthy of staying, of seeing in me.

I am empty rooms and dark closets. People

open doors and close them again, saying

'Nothing to see here, folks, there's nothing

here.’

.

I’m sorry I’m empty. But there are empty seats

beside me, all my friends have left.

Come and be with me. I’ll never forget you but you

could always forget me, right? Right?

You can just use me when you can, when you remember,

and I’d pretend it’s all okay and I’d take care of you because

that’s who I am, right?

I’m also wings. I could pull you up and make you stand.

But you can’t call me when you need me and forget

I ever existed.

.

What a beautiful life you have. All those friends you’ve always

wanted, the fame and gold that lavish your name, and for art,

always for art, you’ll say you’re sad,

then laugh the next minute.

Say you feel terrible. The

tortured, depressed artist.

I know the lies you speak for art and fame.

Go live with your paintings and words and music, I won’t

be your second choice.

I’m tired of you looking at me like I would fix

you.

Stitch those tears in your skin. We all need

to learn how to

save ourselves.

.

To you:

I will always try.

Darling, sit here with me.

“This sentence has five words. Here are five more words. Five-word sentences are fine. But several together become monotonous. Listen to what is happening. The writing is getting boring. The sound of it drones. It’s like a stuck record. The ear demands some variety. Now listen. I vary the sentence length, and I create music. Music. The writing sings. It has a pleasant rhythm, a lilt, a harmony. I use short sentences. And I use sentences of medium length. And sometimes, when I am certain the reader is rested, I will engage him with a sentence of considerable length, a sentence that burns with energy and builds with all the impetus of a crescendo, the roll of the drums, the crash of the cymbals—sounds that say listen to this, it is important.”
- Gary Provost, 100 Ways to Improve Your Writing (via meiringens)