I MUST. When I get there.
All those stories of friends of their mothers will not be in vain. I’d want to be a mom my daughters and sons would talk proudly of, as a mother, as a friend, as someone to look up to.
I count the empty cigarette pouches by the side of my bed and the number of days I haven’t seen you. And no, I refuse to say I miss you; so I light up a cigarette and stop entertaining the idea of wanting you at this moment.
(Source: queeniewillforeverbehere)
To some certain point, you get lost in the translation of what is happening already. The time wherein you’re still grasping yourself, trying to make sense out of your very own storyline. When in fact, how can you, when the hands and minds that will tell the tale are more than one. The heart drops and you send pleas of mercy. Have mercy, the heart can deal with only so much. You try to be the strongest and toughest but your hearts as meek as a lamb, simply yearning to be held and understood. Your weakness now out for the taking, for yearning for something beautiful instead of something that would be shameful to remember. You send prayers to all that is good in this world to guide you; hoping and wishing that all the good that you believe yourself to be is enough for something better to happen. Something that can sprout out of a fairytale. Something that the world barely witnesses, that brings hope that there are wonderful magical endings to what can otherwise seem as a turn for a bleaker darker dead-end. Sometimes being a good little girl now becomes a vulnerability that leaves you out, cold and endangered by the ravenous hunt of the lions and wolves. The minute that you turn away from believing in what is good - suddenly all the lights start to dim. The warmest and brightest patch of sunshine, ecstatic in its potential to bring into light the most lovely and endearing of stories transforms into one that is cold, bitter, relentless in the omens formed by the bleariest and densest of clouds you have ever seen. Though how much you meant for goodness, how much you longed for loveliness to manifest itself in the most unsuspecting of persons, or maybe they who call themselves gentlemen; fear and doubt is inexorable. Their claims of being bearers of character, proud to be good and respectful, gets lost in the scavenger hunt they leave you with, the scramble for the tiniest of signs that they speak the truth. Now left breathing stale air from the freshest of beginnings.
For investing so much in a thought, and believing so much in its potential to blossom; what if it just doesn’t? The saddest song that chooses the moment would go on and on, and you wish it wouldn’t change because you just need to feel, find, and hear what seems to be cracking. You read a simple line that bears an idea of breaking; and your very porcelain face shatters into tears that are left unwitnessed.
In the blindingly yellow room, on the verge of tears the minute that you turned away for you realize that you can write no more.
What we are. Perfection this is not. & never will anything ever be… All I can ever believe in is the goodness and beauty of things. The most horrible of happenings always mean there’ll be something better coming ‘round the bend. Something fresh again, as if we just started once more. Like how it feels like stepping into a river. You never step on the same river twice. I’ll be a river; I’ll be anything and everything at the same time. Learning and learning and learning, being beaten to the pulp, by the rush of the water, enduring. Until every rock becomes smooth enough for you to walk on to safety. Until I become gentle enough to hold. There is no end to this loving. Never forcing, and only letting flow - one more beginning ‘round the river bend, until I see you once again.
As if we could start over, forgiving for giving even more.
I missed you, that night, like I miss you every night that you’re away. Everything looked so infinite as I lay out on the sand. Everything looked so infinite, and I felt so small. Around the table, everyone talked of the near future, and thankfully the night sky covered the anxiety on my face.
The few shots I had taken were swimming around in my system as my eyes strained to spot falling stars and constellations along with everyone else. I wouldn’t have known what to wish for, had you been there. Perhaps I would have felt just a little bit as infinite as the waves slowly washing up onto the shore. I feel that way, sometimes.
When you hold my hand or pull me close to you, there is a slow and steady shuffling of land and sea, in my little universe -in our little universe. You pull me close, and my thoughts lie still. They lie out on the shore, with us. They count the stars that trickle down to the sun’s home when it sets. We hear the waves’ low roar into the ocean, and feel them lap at our feet.
I missed you that night, like I miss you every night. I would have held you so tightly under the stars, and beside you my soul would have been still.
(Source: emvmendoza)
I can fall in love with art, over and over again. As if time had never parted our ways, nor had all the abstract things that could have taken up the space in between my love for it. It’s in my everyday, and I honestly think it’s one of the things that keep me going no matter what happens, no matter what feelings come, no matter what troubles, pains or desires. It’s what anchors and reminds me of how I started out to be. Perhaps that’s how we ought to view our very own love, something ever present. Though never ours, it is in the freedom of viewing, appreciating, being and sharing with a life full of troubles that makes it ever part of our lives.
Looking out at the sky, seeing how the sun glows softly between the leaves, and somehow amidst what I consider beauty I feel that I am guided. I feel that I am loved.
Lights dimmed but you were, in your best efforts, trying to scan every detail of her. Attractive, you thought. Very attractive. So attractive you knew she could be almost as fragile as a thin sheet of glass. But you held her anyway, trying to grab that chance that maybe she will respond in the way you wished her too. She did, and gladly you placed your lips upon the coldness of glazed glass that she was, turning her into fire, into a heated form of flowing chances. Chance. Though fragile and vulnerable, she gave you that one crucial thing one can selflessly give. So you held her hand, she held yours— because you knew only the each of you can fill the spaces in each other’s lives.
(Source: queeniewillforeverbehere)
You don’t need to be close to people to learn from them. You can learn so much from the remotest of strangers you have the chance of meeting in the unlikeliest places. The experience strikes you, and you know a part of who you are, will become so just because of a few exchanges, whether silent or not. How potent then can impressions and experience be. What more can be expected of intimate relationships? What if we are to find ourselves one who can be a perfect stranger no matter how much time you’ve spent with them - and no matter the familiarity, you discover new things over and over again. The relationship then doesn’t become a trap, but an adventure. What an adventure to be in.
Dear Mister, So there was a turnover in our lives. From seeing each other day after day to almost strangers whose names are not known to each other. To be honest, Mister, I was devastated by the ending of the story we unconsciously wrote with our mistakes, indifference and naive choices. I fell like I had broken bones all over because I held on to chances with you. You made everything look so real, and I was too happy to even notice that I was being blinded by the sparks that was caused by the friction of us. Oh, Mister, was I too glad to even see that I was in the brink of death every time you made me feel so alive. You were so many things I needed then. You were the answer to the silence of my nights and the constancy of my days. You were the fire that caused a million fireworks and one. And I was too glad of you to complain, even when the beauty of it all caused much of the kept subtle pains. I speak honestly, Mister, that I was amazed by the glory you made of yourself, the image you inculcated in my brain. You preached a religion of treachery, and I was too awestruck to even comprehend past the lies of it all. Your kisses were savored and your touch meant the world. So much so that I gave up a thousand other worlds for the possibility of you. None of it was worth it. And so when you decided that I was not worth the you I wished for every time you turn your back after a rendevouz, you left me wanting more. It was an agreement, as how everything about us was, to take the exit once and for all. You were a million shots of alcohol for me. I was left hungover, should you forgive the analogy. Although it was then that I felt, no, Mister, you were dead long before I ever died. No use reviving what was never alive in my hands. So, Mister, hear this. I bet I have fed once again your ego with the paragraphs prior to this. Maybe now you’re thinking, “Ah, she’s so in love with me.” And so you get drunk with my words, irrationally thinking that you are the galaxy of my love. Mister, puke the idea all out. I give you my sober answer. No, Mister, I do not die of love for you. I do not die of anything for you. Mister, the muse to sway my heart to write is not you. The love to make me write about a thousand others more is not you, never you. Because you were all cowardice. You were never the strength that caused landslides of poetry or art. You were never inspiring. I was the only one who turned you into something extravagant. My words are the hyperbole of you, an utter exaggeration of who you are. Even of who you never were. Oh, Mister, I have never crowned myself in honor of having you for half a dozen. If there is someone to be crowned, it’s you, Mister. I made you immortal, beautifully. You should be honored of a privilege I can only give. A courtesan cannot dance to your immortality. The royalty of me, kindly, brilliantly and stupidly enough, brought you a thousand miles higher. So you see, Mister, I am not head over heels for you. Never was I. In fact, after hearing what you uttered, I think you’re the one head over heels, overwhelmed by what I could have given. ——- This scar is a fleck on my porcelain skin … There’s one thing I want to say, so I’ll be brave (Excerpts from Stars’ Your Ex-Lover Is Dead) Yours truly, Your Ex-(Un)Lover
Tried to reach deep but you couldn’t get in
Now you’re outside me
You see all the beauty
Repent all your sin
You were what I wanted
I gave what I gave
I’m not sorry I met you
I’m not sorry it’s over
I’m not sorry there’s nothing to save
(Source: queeniewillforeverbehere)
I was the hidden lady of your nights,
the hushed steps sneaking into the bedroom,
the only ray of light that knew of your scars.
Silently paraded as the girl playing circus with your hands,
I was the heart that did acrobatics with the movement of friction
at night when the skin danced upon skin,
merely knowing of sweat and breath that expired by morning.
I was the gossip of the night and the hint of air at midday,
existed in the non-existence of us if it ever was real.
I was kept, locked in memory upon memory,
held hostage in secrecy.
I was the danger.
If I and my love were unveiled to the world,
it would have caused fireworks
and humanity would have killed you of envy.
