Espresso.

I could never sleep with you on my mind, because my nightmares always showed me what was meant to happen, and my dreams always told me what never would.

You were always just that inexplicable shade of bitter, forcing yourself down my throat and burning my achy-breaky-insides with your fierce words and cold glances.

But I had to keep going, I had to keep up, because you would never just leave me, preferring instead to drag me behind you until I could un-stumble enough to get up and walk again.

Maybe I don't want to drink you down anymore, love.

Cosmopolitan

Burning cherries
over weak flames
reminds me
of every waxen smile I would fake
after our fights
and all the arguments we spent up
like countless
blackened
wicks.

Ripping out the heated, dripping insides
takes me back
to when you would do
the same to me,
with your reckless words;
never holding back,
and yet
now I realize
why you always did so
with relish;
triumph tastes so sweet
when it's taken
ferociously.

But the blackened,
e m p t y
shell left
leaves me a cruel reminder
of what I am
without you,
as the bitter aftertaste fights
to remove all sweetness
from my mind--

And tying the stems
into pretzel-heart knots
with my tongue
only makes me miss your kisses

more.

juxtaposed collisions.

Gravity says
we can't be in love
Because
like begets like, and
We only attract
so long as we're
together.

Maybe one day I'll be your other
focal point
and you can wobblespin around me,
pirouetting ellipses in my celestial
dysfunction;

Maybe one day
when your aphelion reminds you
that you're cold without my
tilted, toxic axis against you;

Maybe one day we'll
collide
and blaze our footprints in
the scattered stardust;

But for now, we're not
burning brightly enough to leave
a trail of glamour
across the sky's cheek

But maybe someday, darling
when our juxtaposed collisions become

w e i g h t l e s s

retaliation.

You decided to fight my fire with your own;

So let me take your hand, love,
and together, we'll watch the world

burn.

practice.

stray feathers,
humid weather,

loudly smashing rackets,
smile glued to my brackets;

fingers frozen in position
but not regretting my decision:

playing has a price, as all things do
but it's worth it if it means
I'll be good enough for you.

I'll Be Fine

2 am, and the champagne on my lips
says that I am ready for this;
The most daring moment of my life--
You're dripping out of focus, but that's alright.

'Cause tonight, I've worked up the courage
just to tell you what I have to say;
I know I won't remember a thing, but
I can't do it any other way;
and I just want to let you know
that I, I think I want to let you go.

It's been an hour, and you haven't said a thing
Honey, really, you couldn't take a hint?
I know everything that's been going on,
so don't you bother telling me I'm wrong.

'Cause tonight, I've worked up the courage
just to tell you what I have to say;
I know I won't remember a thing, but
don't you think it's so much better this way?
And I just want to let you know
that I, I think I have to let you go.

Honey, I'm drunk,
but that doesn't mean that I've been blind.
You can walk yourself out the door,
don't worry, I'll be fine.

ricochet.

my Sig Sauer heart
is loaded with
[butterfly venom
and meteorite tears];

your lemongrass lies
and peppermint promises;
[riddle my heart
with high-voltage hurricanes, and you]

and each subsequent
cinnamon-kiss
[will only add
to my reckless recoil],

will shoot me down
and shatter me senseless;
[but your bittersweet breathlessness
corrodes my Kevlar core, darling]

and your ricochet rips at me more fearlessly than
any of your bandersnatch bullets
ever could.

A shot of adrenaline.

I want to be
your autumn sunset
burning bright in your bleeding sky--

You can be
my autumn evening,
stardancing through my mooncalf mind.

We'll be an autumn nightmare, darling
because autumn dreams
don't come true;

We'll leak loneliness away through
anandamide kisses--

A shot of adrenaline,
me and you.

a la jigsaw.

Do you know what it is to be a lover?
To be half of a whole?

Well, I was in pieces,
and you were holding the glue gun
but my electrified
edges
never quite matched--

And you said, it's okay,
baby, you look better that way
but my uneven
creases
aren't so forgiving--

It didn't matter that I was
missing some pieces;
You ripped yourself up and
gave me battle-scars
and patchwork dimples--

But I never asked for you to
fall apart;

Darling, I never wanted you to fix me.

you tried

sticks and
stones
and
bricks and
bones
but
only your
words
could ever break me.

Love is like an open wound--

pain is
inevitable, but
endorphins will tell you otherwise;
and alcohol
will only make it
worse.

Lonely Puppeteer

Are you sad, pretty girl?

All your puppets have gone:
burnt away their strings
and run off--

They've found they can do better
than needing
your fleeting
smile to save and damn them.

And one by one, they have
ripped away the traces of
your glamour,
and learnt
that they are real boys;
ones who can love
unlike you do,
truly and sweetly and
for more than themselves.

Pretty girl, have you noticed?

Every twisted lie
turns you a little bit
more wooden:
you'll be a puppet, too.

But nobody will want
to play on your strings, love:
they've learned to live
committed;
away from you,
they've learned to live.

I won't miss you.

It's a dawn that breaks
into your mind's
adamantly cold exterior.

And maybe it's just
a naive maybe
but you can't help
looking for an excuse
to run, hide, escape
from your reality
of always hurting,
that follows her everywhere.

This lie can't break through
your crumbling glamour,
but maybe sparks will burn
through the ice
that's choking her heart
Until she can catch
the stowaway train
that'll finally
take her from you.

Alley-cat eyes

~

Weak ankles dancing
to the sirens, on your pavement stage--

A stowaway smile
and no regrets to your name;

Bloodshot loneliness clinging
to your 80-proof breath--

But your eyes, my dear alley-cat,
put the streetlights to shame.

Friction

Let me shatter your stony fortress, darling;
climb up your minute imperfections and rip off
the poison ivy that twisted
honeyed lies around your tongue and
bile-coated truths onto your fingers—

Let me hurt you where you don't want to feel, dearest;
oppose your every inhibition with my
lip-biting adrenaline dripping into your veins,
an IV of emotion and ink-drenched sunbursts
that you won't be able to retch out, this time—

Let me choke away your starlight, sweetheart;
hold you down with my toxic gravity
and cloud your polluted doe-eyes
with wrist-written promises
of sailing off into a vertical horizon—

Let me drown out your whispered screams, love;
steal your moonbreath as you sleep and wear out
each and every one
of your infallible excuses on my
sandpaper-plastered heartstrings—

Let me sweep you off your feet, angel;
burn away the asphyxiated ribbons of our past
and untie new aglet- and hesitation-less laces,
so maybe we can trip over some paper butterflies
and learn to fall in love once again—

--Trust

a star dancing
in your
laughing, lovely sky-eyes--

always out of reach,
not flying, but
falling
in style--

and never,
never,
never to be caught;
always a feather-heavy
wistful sigh away--

but the sky can't limit
us breath-bating dreamers;

and so
every
frozen fingertip thread-through
is just another grasp
at that alluring, unreachable
star...

~

All that glitters

isn't gold;
well then, you'll say
we're a d i a m o n d--
well,

a diamond is only just
a lump of coal
that made good
under p r e s s u r e--
but, darling,

it's all too
heavy
for me,
and I think
we're starting
to c r u m b l e.

A sky to love

~

You're
moody
and
unpredictable
and
sometimes
wild--
But without you,
my world would
crumble, dearest--

Paint on too much
glamour
and I'll
see
right through you,
because
you're most
breathtaking

when you bleed.

Control

6.

I remember when it was you and me against the world. We'd been friends since forever, and it was going to stay that way: Just us, a quiet redhead and a messy blonde, a reader and a runner, a dancer and a player. Nothing would tear us apart.

11.

Middle school, and all the girls were talking about all the boys (or the cute ones, anyway.) I played on my cello and you danced to the music with the sky in your eyes and a thimble on your smile.

14.

High school was a blur of firsts for us: Our first test-kiss, our first boy-kisses, my first hangover, your first high. My mom left, and your dad died, but it was still us against the world, and always would be.

18.

We moved on to college, and I changed my mind as easily as I could change my nail color, but you'd found a boy, and you said you were going to marry him.


21.

We grew up [or so we liked to say] but we never grew apart, not us. I could control myself now, and you'd almost completely stopped needing to buy your own happiness off the streets.

22.

I knew what your boy was doing, and I was determined to stop it. At least, that's what I said to myself that night; but you spent my birthday fighting with him and slamming all the doors you could find, so I ripped a page off your book and let him be my happiness.

23.

We agreed you didn't have to know about it, and I made him promise to stop. We stopped, too. I stopped needing you to kiss my forehead when my bottles got the best of me, and you stopped telling me when I had to hold you down.

24.

You found out. You found out about a dozen other girls, but I was theloaf who got away. You knew I wouldn't do that; this was the boy you said you'd marry. I held you that night, and we kissed [properly, now] for the first time in a while, and you let me be your happiness again.

25.

You decided I was better than he could ever be, and I agreed. But all that time we weren't us was taking its toll, and I played only on our feelings now, but you still danced with the sky in your eyes even though you'd lost your thimble somewhere along the way.

26.

I don't know how you found out, but you did. And instead of trying to convince you it wasn't true, I let you make up your own mind. I went over and painted his cheek pink with my angry palm, but he had angel-eyes and a silver tongue, and it was over between us anyway, sweetie, so we don't need to be sorry.

--

You drove over that night, while we were breathing too hard to regret you [but you were never a mistake, darling, remember that.]
But something went wrong; maybe your sky-eyes were too clouded with tear-puddles, but I never got to see them again. They were closed in the coffin, and nobody understood when I screamed at you to let me see the skies one last time.

--

It was you and me against the world, darling. But you lied when you said it would stay that way.

You did this.

They weren't perfect, and the cracks were beginning to show.
And when she finally asked him to end it, he knew he couldn't say no; not this time.

~

"Do you still love me?" She asked at length.

"No," He knew he had to say it, but it still hurt.

"Promise?" Why does she have to make sure? Why does she make me lie to her like this? And though it killed him to say it, he had no choice.

"...Yes."

"Thank you," she exhaled deeply, and put her arms around him. He let her hold him for the last time as he tried to swallow down the painful lump burning in his throat.

"I'll miss you," she whispered to him, and his fingers turned numb as her voice crept about his skin.

He tried to kiss her, but she pulled away, and the plaintive look in her eyes told him not to force it.

"Don't," she told him. "Please just don't." So he buried his face in her hair and smelled her familiar scent one last time, and he heard her breathing turning shaky.

"Goodbye," he said, and she smiled weakly.

"Goodbye."

~

He could have pulled her back then, and told her she was making a mistake. But he was the mistake, and he couldn't lie to her anymore.

Dropped

I want
nothing more than to know
that I ripped off your wings
while they were trying to cage me

because I wanted
us
to fly.

Stream of Consciousness

~

Concept paper, concept paper
Oh, god, how do I cite this?
And how the hell do I write
this background in a way that's
less vague
when it's as straight to the point
as the needle I want to drive in her skull?

Chocolate cake, chocolate cake
Holy shit, where'd all the caramel go?
The chocolate "icing" isn't even buttery enough
to really be called icing, and
it's trying to pass off as dark chocolate
when I know for a fact [and from ResHW]
that it tastes like crap.

He better print my paper--
GOD, why is nobody ALIVE?!
I hate
hate
hate
watered-down Coke.

And why the hell is the fan turned up so high?

There's no more time;
thirteen more hurried minutes til
7 o'clock comes around again
Stupid curfew.
Fuck.

I hope I finish this. Holy crap.

AUGH.

WHAT THE HELL.

Screw it.

Un-Barbie

~

She's got perfect grades
and perfect teeth
and every lock of hair is always
immaculately curled--

But she stays up 'til one
just studying
and even after the most
uneventful nights
wakes up in tangles;

She parties all night
and never seems drunk
'cause the student body president
must be prudent and
responsible--

But when she gets home in the morning
she collapses over the toilet, too
and she hides the headaches beneath
that gorgeous, re-electable smile;

She's got the boys' hearts
and won't give hers away (just yet)
and those big blue eyes
could only put the sky to shame--

But really, it's only because
she's too scared that she's not
good enough
and when she remembers this,
the red starts to streak through;

She's slim but not skinny,
and her tiny little feet
could pirouette kilometers
in her rhinestone-studded ankle-breakers--

But her fingers are all too used
to the sting of bile
and she hides the blisters beneath
socks
and her father's old boots~

Phobophobia

~

As long as you don't care,
you're okay
'cause it's too terrifying
to be afraid.

Ketamine hugs??

~

It was a
knife in the back,
not a
bullet through the head,
but don't you think
I deserve
a little morphine instead?

Up and Apart.

i.

I was four and you were two. My Ma says she remembers me saying how it was such a bother when we had a playdate because you'd take my animal crackers and mash them between your fingers and your mouth but you'd never eat any of them.

ii.

I was seven and you were five, and my Ma told me to find a rose to give to you so she could take a picture with her new camera. I couldn't find any, so I went to Old Alfred's field and picked a wildflower instead. But it had a bee, and you had allergies, and you stuffed the petals in my mouth after your Pa fixed you up with the Epipen.

iii.

I was twelve and you were ten. You went to a Catholic girls' school and you said if I kissed you on the mouth, you wouldn't tell my Pa about the magazines and the cigarettes you helped me steal; but you didn't tell me you would kiss back.

iv.

I was fifteen and you were thirteen, and even though we were tired from racing home on our bikes, you let me sneak you out into Old Alfred's field and pick you a wildflower (sans bee). You stuffed a kiss in my mouth under Jupiter and you told me you liked me liked me, but I knew better than to let you shove my hand down your shirt.

v.

I was eighteen and you were sixteen. I was still trying to call you even if I was getting ready to move across the country, but your Ma always said you were at some other party, and I was starting to wonder what you were asking in return for secret-keeping and if you knew better than to let boys who said they liked you liked you stuff their kisses and in your mouth and their hands down your shirt.

vi.

I'm twenty-one and you're nineteen, but I've got a girl who loves me, and she lets me kiss her under Jupiter without requesting for a high; she found me a thornless rose, sans bee, but the memory of you stings well enough for both.

Everything

~

She's a self-proclaimed mess
and a you-complained screwup
and the only things that ever flecked her brown eyes
were wish-wasted lashes and
you-wasted tears.

She can never fall asleep on her back
(maybe all the knife-wounds haven't healed yet)
and the only way you'll get her to say
it hurts
is if you convince her well enough.

The only time she's
photogenic
is when she suffer-smiles,
(and she looks pretty damn gorgeous, too)
and she only thinks best in abstract, tilted logic
and disconnected adjectives.

Her life is music and writing and
you,
but she can never say it
in words embellish-less and
metaphor-proof enough
to explain.

She's a reader, a writer, a dreamer,
a fool;
but the false-brave need
to be needed, too.

And perhaps
someday
she'll find what she doesn't know
she's looking for,
and maybe she'll learn to
feel
again.

All's Left to Hoping

~

All those thoughts running through her mind
and she needs to get lost somehow, too
-one ticket to anywhere but here, please-
But like a good girl, she stays
and tells no one about all the
band aids and bubble wrap she wasted
trying to keep her stupidly fragile heart in place
-this side up, please take care of me-
but the frustrated brattinella in her
threw it down and stepped all over it
thinking maybe if her feet bleed, too,
her words would waltz into your thoughts
and then she could stay there for once.

Stuck

~

Well, she's never had the time
for any of the nice boys
needing only the one
who could wound her heart to pieces
and kisskisskiss it back together--
And her feet will only take her
as far from him as she can stand
without looking back for his approval--
'that was a nice try, baby; maybe
we'll try again tomorrow.'
So she'll let him coax her needs
into a dizzy suffocation
'til she finds another excuse
to start runrunrunning away
again.

Miss Mismatched Mess

~

She is cinnamon-speckled skin
that gets awkward tan lines at all the wrong times
and goosebumps only when it's cold.
She is dirty socks and tiny feet,
electriclumsy ankles
and legs made only to curl up to her chest.
She is an arched back and slouched shoulderblades,
bitten, bleeding lips, and fingertips
that only turn pages that smell as good
as their words taste on her
breath.

Curfew

~

it's ironic how seven rhymes with heaven
but really, for her it's hell--
a hell she tries to slow down
but she can never stop it, because
it's always going a little too fast--
and maybe she's only riding
on the wings of her own rushed inertia, but
breathless goodbye kisses aren't good enough
or even good
because there's nothing really good
about goodbye--

Finally

You're crying again, begging me to stay, saying you need me; but I'm used to it now.

You'll always say that, but do you ever honestly mean it? What the hell do you need me for, anyway? You're the one who won't let me hold you, the one who won't tell me what's wrong 'til I start hurting you.

Am I suffocating you? Deal with it.

You're the one acting like you don't need me, like you really don't care. I gave you my trust, and what did you do? You shoved it in the dirt, stomped on it and kicked it back into my face.

What were you thinking? Were you thinking? This isn't even a relationship anymore. It's a nuisance.

I can't embellish everything like you can, I can't candy-coat my words to make them sound sweet. You've always known that, haven't you? You hate me for it, too. You're always saying how I'm too logical, I'm too critical. You hypocrite. You needed me to change, even if you never admitted it.
And then you said you changed for me? All you did was get worse.

I'm sick of this crap, you know? I'm sick of having to be there when you obviously don't want me to be. I'm sick of having to fix everything only because you still don't know how.

Maybe I really don't love you anymore. I know I did, once. I did, with all my heart. I can at least promise you that. You've lied to me more times than I've ever broken promises to you, you know.

You were worth something to me once, a forever ago. You were worth everything to me; more than myself. I thought you'd be the one to fix everything, to make me alright. I guess I was wrong, wasn't I? We both know I'm not making that mistake again.

You were an amazing screwup; you were the best mistake of my life. But I don't want to hold you down anymore, and I'm tired of getting hurt.

You're crying again, but I'm sick of it now.

Moments

Eating noodles for the nth time this week
and watching the rain as it falls
harder by the minute--

Trying to synchronize our blinking 'cause then
when we look at each other
we'll have our eyes open--

And you wouldn't believe it but
right now I love you more than I do
when I say it
because I don't need to.

No More

~

It's been forever, and maybe I
forgot how to drown in your
hazel eyes

Because angry tongues can't be contained
and endorphins will dull the pain
for only as long as I can bleed
and soon enough, you will regret this
need
to keep me docile and at your side
though you will never respect my stubborn pride

You'll grow bored, and my hate will ferment
and together, we will begin to resent
the beating of one another's heart
till we only pull together
to watch each other

fall apart

Tryhard II

~

she pirouettes clumsily,
trying to find grace
but
chipped nail polish
and
faded blue highlights
can only take your jetê so far.

~

Tryhard I

~

she tippy-tippy-tiptoes
on her unlaced combat boots
so her gum-gluey heels
don't fray the edges of
her mud-flecked cargo pants.

~

Darling,

I miss who you used to be

and I know you miss

who you thought I was;
And I know

we both know
things will never be as
amazing
as they once were;
Though you will try
to fix it up with your
rough words and
decisive eyes
and I will lay down a blanket of
gossamer metaphors
to keep our glamour alive.
Our affection has died

it's been polluted, love
and our fingers have forgotten
how it feels to be locked
in the spaces of each other
moving more quickly to find
those soft, vulnerable corners of flesh
that so easily
burst into pain--
Our sweet nothings
are nothing
but a casualty, a mere
tradition
so we can say Goodnight with as clear a conscience
as we can manage--
And I can empty my loneliness
onto my sheets
as you taunt the stars once more
with your
unholy smirk and defiant gaze;
But one day,
my metaphors will dry up
and your logic,
twisted around so smoothly,

so sinuous, oh so sinuously
to encompass the impossibility of us
will grip us tighter, ever tighter,
suffocating the remains of what we were;
One day, our playful banter
and wrist-bumping
and needless, pathetic apologies
will not be enough
and then maybe we will

finally
find the strength to admit
what we knew so very long ago,

what we have known, darling

since the very beginning;

it's over.

Indigestion

~

All those butterf l i e s

you fed to me

well, darling, they've started a

mutiny.

~

Minus the Maybe

~

It's getting harder to convince you
but only
because I lost the will to convince
myself.

And throughout all the bittersweet collisions of
us,
at the back of my mind I'm still
wishing
hoping
needing
for the bitter to overpower the sweet

because then maybe it would make it easier
to leave.

To say, "I don't need you anymore,"

To give back to you a cardboard box
holding all the remains of what we used to be
[Although shredded butterfly wings and empty
chocolate cases
are poor glory-holders.]

Because eventually my metaphors will not be enough for you
you and your determined, clouded toxicity
and I will be forced to grit my teeth and discipline
my unruly tear ducts
through the transparent lies and the forced-out truths,
to make sure I still have the strength to say
that eight-lettered piece of
b u l l s h i t .

And maybe, just maybe,
I don't.

~

Lashless

~

I was a broken screen, cracking

not-so-gracefully under pressure and leaking

my emotions all over

my see-through façade.

You were a lightning-struck lake, all too eager

to hurt and drown out my insatiable

curiosity.

I was the cyanide in your coffee

and you were the mercury in my veins,

(though I was the bitter insomniac

and you the more toxic, inflexible one.)

You told me I was spineless as you

strangled me in nerve endings, and I

wasted all my wishes asking for some metaphors

sickeningly sweet enough to make you

retch out some truth.

Maybe if I crack your glasses

hard enough, you’ll see me with better eyes,

but then again, I gave up on dandelions

a long time ago.

~

Fake

~

Skip me a staccato beat, pretty girl

skip me your heartbeat with those clicketyclack heels.

Parade down the pavement, flooding glitter in the gutter

'til the cement holds down your glamour and your lies fall out from under you;

Now, would you like to tell the class how that feels?

Hapdi

masakit

pero titiisin

kahit alam natin

wala nang magbabago

magkunwari

na lang tayo

kasi 'yan lang

ang alam natin

at

hindi na tayo marunong

magmahal

~

Glasses

~

Blurry lenses and thin wires

don't bruise as easily as

sunburnt skin and kiss-hungry cheekbones

but

I'm still sorry.

Her

~

I can't hate her for being
everything I always wasn't
because
you
were the one who kept telling me
I could be someone better
when all you ever wanted
was for me to turn into
her.

Please?

~

I was fourteen and you were nineteen and
my skin was the color of plaster chipped and fading
but you were caramel and coffee
and when you put your arms around me I felt like maybe
I could learn to be alright again.

You were charcoal eyes and a caustic laugh
and all I could ever do was try to sketch you out on the flyleaf's
of all the dog-eared books you'd lend me but I'd
forget to return.

And maybe sometimes I'd let myself get little papercuts
just so you could take my hand and scold me
be more careful!
And the endorphins from my fingertips would tell me to smile
but your kisses always
requested.

Coop.

*note: The coop is the place where we eat, at school. The only place.

It's an escape. As soon as you walk through the clanging double doors, a myriad of pungent smells and raised voices overwhelms you. This is the place where students come to relax, to eat, drink and be merry. Their laughter reverberates off the garishly painted walls as the students eat off sturdy plates with trusty utensils, rinsed briefly in the washing area. You can actually see their hunger being satiated, their stress and anguish being relieved. It's noisy and hot and leaves only moths in your purse, but we need it. It's where we can be human again, without the pressure of being perfect. After all, food doesn't judge us.

On Letter to Pedro~

How does the persona end the letter? Explain by example.

I wouldn't say he ends the letter/poem "happy" or "sad" specifically. He sounds more wistful than anything, actually. You see this in the last two stanzas, most especially in the lines

"Pete, old friend, every time we have a good reason to get drunk and be carried home in a wheelbarrow, we always remember you. Oh, we miss both Pete and Pedro."

This wistful mood is the life of the entire poem, underneath all the ramblings and the irony. To me, the poem is less an informative one than one written by someone not quite sure how to word his emotions. It deviates from [what seems to me] the main message of missing an old friend, and instead reminds him of familiar memories, trying to tell him without saying so, that the real reason their town has changed is because Pedro is no longer there.

Poison

a little too bitter,
not enough sweet.
sharp, but intoxicating;
electric

how curious

darling, would you like to be my
poison?

follow me

every moment a maelstrom
of painful, blissful
confusion

do cats eat bats? do bats eat cats?

take me high, higher;
darling, destroy me.

drink

a never-ending standstill
of disappearing
time

hurry, hurry, hurry, we'll be late

your inky black orbs
hide a mocking, fading laughter

a smile without a cat!

not enough are those wrists
crisscrossed with vivid
red

why not just paint them?

stare me down, love

off with her head!

blue fingertips grasping at evasive orange flames
while the rest of the world
rushes
away

all persons above a mile high...

impossibility was never your strong point, love

but it wasn't just a dream