Archive for March 2017

Collection of Recollection, Part VIII: Inebriated 2.0

Monday, March 27, 2017 Comments Off

these pieces were written in order for me to be able to completely flush you out of my system.
it worked.

the first time you kissed me, it was a hurried kiss--as if you were afraid if you didn't consume the moment, everything that we had done up to that point would disappear and we had to start all over again.
the time after that, it was all soft and forgiving. you allowed yourself to be vulnerable in front of me. the best kindness that you had given me that day. 
my expectation for the third kiss was that it would be like me riding a bike for the first time, with training wheels attached. a learning moment for me, but perhaps for you it wouldn't necessarily be, and you would require more patience and understanding than what you have generously given me before.
while the kisses after that wouldn't be able to be counted since, by default, the excitement would recede and sexual intimacy would increase. these kisses would be different, and from each one I'd learn new things.
and there would be a type of kiss that we both would hate. the type that would end it all, whatever it is.
but your kisses—your mercy—only worked for one night
and now, all I could ever hope to receive from you is understanding, giving up our sense of intimacy and kindly retaining your distance.
one merciful night, nothing more

even with my mind,
all lust-clouded
intoxicated;
I always knew,
just like you,
that bottle of wine
was never mine
(un)possessing

you do not want brutal things—
like falling in love,
clinging your soul to mine,
or maybe needing me,
yet you are giving me
the most ruthless
of them all:
a glimpse of something great
that could only exist in
both of our wanting eyes
and our needing minds
collecting your empty promises

maybe this is how
it feels like to have
your soul caressed,
your mind rested, and
your figure taken care of.
maybe this is what
it feels like to have
someone at my disposal
heeding all of
my wants and needs.
this is how it feels
to have this
temporary thing,
something that
life has deprived me of
our non-date

stealing you for a night,
wishing you were mine to hold tight,
drowning out noises in my head,
collecting enough of your stories to be read,
wanting to be drown in it,
knowing that you wouldn't submit to colliding our orbit,
being unapologetic for asking what I wanted,
accepting the fact I'd always be haunted.
— disassembling

by blurring the lines
between nothing
and something,
you've taught me
something entirely new;
something I hadn't thought
I'd get from you:
loneliness borne
out of learning that
both of us has
the ability to connect
without necessarily
establishing the connection
almost

thanks to you,
I'm inspired to write more:
more heartbreaks,
more almosts,
more unfinished tales,
more what ifs,
though they're nothing new
 history

well... almost.

Collection of Recollection, Part VII

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At the beginning of the year, my dear mother gave me a succulent.
It came in an intricate plaited pot, something that's not customary on other pot.
My mother told me that she would teach me how to grow it—how to see it bloom to its full potential.
It has been three months, and my plant is shriveling. Its leaves are rotting; what were once sturdy, flourishing with life and naively hopeful are now depleted of lush. All that I am left with is pale stem, currently withering from the lack of proper care.
I have tried to find ways to watch it blossom, not only as a decorative purpose, but as a living being. Yet, this trembling hands could never hold anything without breaking.

At the beginning of my life, my dear mother gave me a heart.
It came in an intricate figure, something that's not customary on other people.
My mother told me that she would teach me how to grow it—how to see it bloom to its full potential.
It has been twenty three years, and my heart is shriveling. Its faith is rotting; what was once sturdy, flourishing with life and naively hopeful are now depleted of lush. All that I am left with is pale hope, currently withering from the lack of proper care.
I have tried to find ways to watch it blossom, not only as a decorative purpose, but as a living being. Yet, this trembling hands could never hold anything without breaking.

succulent

Admitting

Friday, March 24, 2017 Comments Off

Pre-Admission
Believe me when I say that I have prepared to draw back, or at least, I am preparing to do so. Drawing back from a battle that I know I'd lose even without having to necessary let it play out in front of my eyes. It has come to my attention that I should admit defeat and move on. By admitting defeat, I would let myself free from the burden of waiting impatiently.
I have collected enough of your empty promises to know that you could only provide a sense of intimacy while retaining your distance. But I promised myself to be true, moving on by acknowledging the truth. Moving on by being honest, setting the truth free to the world, all the while asking your kindness by supporting me to move on.

Admission
I deserve a certain degree of respect for being able to admitting the truth, for asking a kind of help that people do not usually ask. But you won't give me any of that. You prefer seeing me confused and helpless, all the while not letting me either apart from or close to you.


Post Admission: Day I
Insanity. You won't let me draw the line. You carried out, expertly I might add, a performance which I fooled myself into thinking this is real. But the only thing that's real, out of the whole act and performance, was your solid presence; neither your words nor your acts were real.

Post Admission: Week III
I envy my three-weeks-ago self. She was happy for having your solid presence in her life, even if it was only for less than twelve hours. But in retrospect, I won't let you play me like you would with your games. You cannot win when I am not playing at all, sweetie.

[Mabella Rehastri]

Flaming Star

Wednesday, March 8, 2017 Comments Off

or, as it has been requested by someone, Paradox in Love

my restless mind is asking for
kindness, and
silence.
but all I ever got from you are
speeding heart, and fire,
and flame, and flame, and flame.

I'm tired of this impossibility;
being in the edge of
romance and
nothing,
with the knowledge that we can,
but we aren't,
with the fact that we could be,
but we'll never be.

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