it lives and dies with this
06 June, 2014
insomnia
eyes sunken so deep
they devour oceans
catch the night on their lashes
pull it waking into blindness
04 June, 2014
It's Not Even The Weekend Yet
This is the part of the night when I try to get home without accidentally walking off a bridge or tripping into someone's knife.
The station's nearly closing - it's 10 - and still there's a gathering of people on the platform. Some have damp crescents on the necks of their over-washed white shirts. Some of them proudly sport the scent of women and cigarettes. Some of them have the rolled up sleeves of mediocre desk jobs, the wrinkled dress shirts of a little over minimum wage. Still not enough to buy a car though. A part of me wonders if they'd catch me if my knees buckled and I fell onto the tracks; after all, accidents happen all the time. I wonder if the blood would come right off, if they'd even try to clean it or if they'd just let it stain until time eventually wears it away. How many people kill themselves by jumping in front of trains? Honestly. They probably don't report every incident. This country doesn't concern itself so much with suicides; everything is either an accident or a murder.
Someone smells like alcohol. That's probably me, I don't know. I spill when I've had too much. Tonight was too much. Where is everyone. Where is. Where. I've got a phone in hand. Call someone. Call everyone. "Hi, I'm on my way home." Did they leave me here. Jeez.
There's a five under the pebbles by the rails. I could reach for it and fall in and no one would know that I wanted to die. They'll say I was too drunk to notice, that I made bad decisions but that it wasn't my fault. I might get the platform security fired. They might even blame my friends for not keeping an eye on me. "Hey, um. I just wanted to say hi." These people on my phone keep hanging up. "Yeah, I can probably call when I get home instead. I don't know... I might just fall asleep." Would anyone scream if I jumped. The train's pretty close. The station is vibrating a little. "It's okay, I understand. You're busy; I'm sorry."
Loneliness is underrated. I'm soaked through with alcohol. How does a person not self-destruct at twenty-one? I always thought I had options: so many ways to force a shut down. I could hang myself from the curtain rod, choke and break it, have my family walk in with my sister crying. I could run across a highway in busy traffic. They'd like a petty murder. It's someone to blame. I could aggravate a junkie and have him stick a needle in my throat. A better crime. Intent. Or I could jump in the way of an oncoming train drunk on a Thursday night, spent from school and necessary social waltzes, dreading the idea of a repeat performance. Well.
It's almost here.
The station's nearly closing - it's 10 - and still there's a gathering of people on the platform. Some have damp crescents on the necks of their over-washed white shirts. Some of them proudly sport the scent of women and cigarettes. Some of them have the rolled up sleeves of mediocre desk jobs, the wrinkled dress shirts of a little over minimum wage. Still not enough to buy a car though. A part of me wonders if they'd catch me if my knees buckled and I fell onto the tracks; after all, accidents happen all the time. I wonder if the blood would come right off, if they'd even try to clean it or if they'd just let it stain until time eventually wears it away. How many people kill themselves by jumping in front of trains? Honestly. They probably don't report every incident. This country doesn't concern itself so much with suicides; everything is either an accident or a murder.
Someone smells like alcohol. That's probably me, I don't know. I spill when I've had too much. Tonight was too much. Where is everyone. Where is. Where. I've got a phone in hand. Call someone. Call everyone. "Hi, I'm on my way home." Did they leave me here. Jeez.
There's a five under the pebbles by the rails. I could reach for it and fall in and no one would know that I wanted to die. They'll say I was too drunk to notice, that I made bad decisions but that it wasn't my fault. I might get the platform security fired. They might even blame my friends for not keeping an eye on me. "Hey, um. I just wanted to say hi." These people on my phone keep hanging up. "Yeah, I can probably call when I get home instead. I don't know... I might just fall asleep." Would anyone scream if I jumped. The train's pretty close. The station is vibrating a little. "It's okay, I understand. You're busy; I'm sorry."
It's okay. I can't say I expected to be able to hold a proper conversation. No one has the time or the patience to talk to me. They never do. Everyone's either working or playing or sleeping and look, some girls are coming down the steps. They can't be a day over twenty. Their skirts fringed an inch or two below their panties, shirts tight enough to leave very little to the imagination. One of them smiles at me. Almost completely sure it was me. Am I staring? I'm staring. Stop staring. There was this girl at the bar tonight who played beer pong with me. Afterwards, she grabbed me by the wrist and lead me out the door. She tasted like redemption, like eighteen years of recklessness, like long stretches of crowded roads and youthful impatience to find me. But I'm in a train station standing alone and she's probably having sex with her boyfriend in a parked car somewhere without streetlights. Would she mind if I slipped and broke my skull on something steely and rusted. Would she cry for some guy some night, almost too intoxicated to undo buttons. Christ, I smell like gin.
Loneliness is underrated. I'm soaked through with alcohol. How does a person not self-destruct at twenty-one? I always thought I had options: so many ways to force a shut down. I could hang myself from the curtain rod, choke and break it, have my family walk in with my sister crying. I could run across a highway in busy traffic. They'd like a petty murder. It's someone to blame. I could aggravate a junkie and have him stick a needle in my throat. A better crime. Intent. Or I could jump in the way of an oncoming train drunk on a Thursday night, spent from school and necessary social waltzes, dreading the idea of a repeat performance. Well.
It's almost here.
19 May, 2014
Adolescent; just girls.
She came home today.
I hadn't seen her in weeks; I don't know what I was expecting- she looked exactly the same. Her hair shorn with house scissors, jeans worn, shirt short. Even her skin was ill-fitting. We moved to Cavite recently, she reminded me, I can't wait til' I turn eighteen so I can get a haircut from someone other than my mom. She spoke in straight english but her words were clumsy, constant yet fumbling.
We stood outside for the first fifteen minutes of the church service as I listened to her talk about her life, which was leaps and bounds more eventful than mine. She smiled a lot as she confessed her crimes, sins casually thrown into the furnace. I only go to house parties in the day; sometimes she sits on the bed and watches me smoke so when she drinks, I let her. There's nothing I could have said to faze her- already a soldier at seventeen- so I told her about my friends. Satisfaction when the shock registered. I can't believe you guys share things that personal. I told her about the perks of befriending writers.
As we sat down in church, our conversation continued on touch screens. She handed me her Samsung, read this. Her girlfriend texted her seven times when she said good morning: an homage to the words 'I love you', a redundancy of the promise 'I'll always be there', and a violation of every 'I just need some space' ever said. She'd gone through so much more than me and yet is convinced that my advice is worth something, because for some reason I'm supposed to be good at this.
Her girlfriend is six years older and is holding down a job, travels approximately two hours to see her in secret, and only on the weekends. Her girlfriend is not nearly as rough, not nearly as repressed as she is. She's convinced she's found herself a saint; that she, violent, lacks the tenderness it means to be good. I just can't control myself. There is an animal in everyone.
We've known each other since we were in grade school; I remember scaling balconies with her. We'd run from the authorities and rub ourselves gray with dust, running and hiding and snickering about getting away. Now she smokes, we all have our vices - it's no excuse but I didn't say anything. Now she runs from bigger things, from the restrictions of living in her matriarchal household, being unable to rise against. Passive aggressive drinking, smoking, and sex and sex and sex. I didn't choose to be like this, she says about her sexuality. I just am. Usufruct to self-destruction as seen fit, or unconsciously ignored.
I can come out to the world, everyone except my mom. Caught once and beaten blue. She says I'll go to hell.
In the middle of church, she left to pee for fifteen minutes. My girlfriend called. Just checking up. She is looking for more than a seventeen year old can give of herself, confidante confused for something lasting. She declared love and concern so openly; reading a conversation was walking in on intimacy, as if a dark room at dawn. They were clearly in different places. I don't know if I can, she's not going to want to hear it. It's not the age disparity; they just seemed to want different things. I told her that she should address that, but that it was her decision, not mine.
We exited after the closing prayer. She said something as we descended the stairwell in cheery disposition. My dad slept at our house last night. He hasn't done that in two years. My brother doesn't talk to me; I try but he just stares or nods or shakes his head. I want to tell her she's brave just for caring enough to try, but I don't. She goes on.
She's resilient in her domestic confinement, unyielding to her mother's demands. It would be wrong to be condescending; she was capable; she could manage. We stood against the railing overlooking the mall's first floor where a sea of heads had washed in from the outgoing service. With an arm on the rail, she leaned on one leg in her old sneakers, pants that had seen better days, and a shirt that predated our college years. Smile worn graciously.
I hugged her before I left.
Next week, okay?
I hadn't seen her in weeks; I don't know what I was expecting- she looked exactly the same. Her hair shorn with house scissors, jeans worn, shirt short. Even her skin was ill-fitting. We moved to Cavite recently, she reminded me, I can't wait til' I turn eighteen so I can get a haircut from someone other than my mom. She spoke in straight english but her words were clumsy, constant yet fumbling.
We stood outside for the first fifteen minutes of the church service as I listened to her talk about her life, which was leaps and bounds more eventful than mine. She smiled a lot as she confessed her crimes, sins casually thrown into the furnace. I only go to house parties in the day; sometimes she sits on the bed and watches me smoke so when she drinks, I let her. There's nothing I could have said to faze her- already a soldier at seventeen- so I told her about my friends. Satisfaction when the shock registered. I can't believe you guys share things that personal. I told her about the perks of befriending writers.
As we sat down in church, our conversation continued on touch screens. She handed me her Samsung, read this. Her girlfriend texted her seven times when she said good morning: an homage to the words 'I love you', a redundancy of the promise 'I'll always be there', and a violation of every 'I just need some space' ever said. She'd gone through so much more than me and yet is convinced that my advice is worth something, because for some reason I'm supposed to be good at this.
Her girlfriend is six years older and is holding down a job, travels approximately two hours to see her in secret, and only on the weekends. Her girlfriend is not nearly as rough, not nearly as repressed as she is. She's convinced she's found herself a saint; that she, violent, lacks the tenderness it means to be good. I just can't control myself. There is an animal in everyone.
We've known each other since we were in grade school; I remember scaling balconies with her. We'd run from the authorities and rub ourselves gray with dust, running and hiding and snickering about getting away. Now she smokes, we all have our vices - it's no excuse but I didn't say anything. Now she runs from bigger things, from the restrictions of living in her matriarchal household, being unable to rise against. Passive aggressive drinking, smoking, and sex and sex and sex. I didn't choose to be like this, she says about her sexuality. I just am. Usufruct to self-destruction as seen fit, or unconsciously ignored.
I can come out to the world, everyone except my mom. Caught once and beaten blue. She says I'll go to hell.
In the middle of church, she left to pee for fifteen minutes. My girlfriend called. Just checking up. She is looking for more than a seventeen year old can give of herself, confidante confused for something lasting. She declared love and concern so openly; reading a conversation was walking in on intimacy, as if a dark room at dawn. They were clearly in different places. I don't know if I can, she's not going to want to hear it. It's not the age disparity; they just seemed to want different things. I told her that she should address that, but that it was her decision, not mine.
We exited after the closing prayer. She said something as we descended the stairwell in cheery disposition. My dad slept at our house last night. He hasn't done that in two years. My brother doesn't talk to me; I try but he just stares or nods or shakes his head. I want to tell her she's brave just for caring enough to try, but I don't. She goes on.
She's resilient in her domestic confinement, unyielding to her mother's demands. It would be wrong to be condescending; she was capable; she could manage. We stood against the railing overlooking the mall's first floor where a sea of heads had washed in from the outgoing service. With an arm on the rail, she leaned on one leg in her old sneakers, pants that had seen better days, and a shirt that predated our college years. Smile worn graciously.
I hugged her before I left.
Next week, okay?
06 May, 2014
Incendiary
You're driving up a mountain road. He's at the wheel, a hand on your thigh, a cigarette held between his teeth. You're barefoot, legs propped up on the dashboard, window down to let the wind ravage your hair. He's wearing aviators. You push your glasses into your hair to draw back the bangs. Sunlight washes the windshield in glory; this is where you will always be. These front seats are a throne room, this highway a kingdom; you click your lighter as he shifts gears.
To your right you see vertical cliffs, the greenery crawling up, roots intrusive. He rubs his cigarette out on an improvised ashtray and asks you to pass something in a bottle. You oblige and mention literature in passing. He responds in according proficiency, quoting someone who was famous twenty years ago. You nod. His music is drowned out by the sound of the wind whirring past. He doesn't turn the volume up.
You can feel the weight of your bags in the backseat -- your mother asking you if you've eaten, if you're happy. You say yes with soft peace; you hold his hand, take a deep breath. I'm happy, you say. She smiles, and this is all you get before she's gone and it's just things rustling in padded canvas. When she gets home she will find the letter and you hope she doesn't cry - it begins and ends with I love you.
You fidget; you worry but refuse to ask him again. You'd gone over it so many times. You're going up to Baguio for a small retreat. You said it wasn't necessary but he insisted: I want to do this for you, and then he kissed you and kissed you and kissed you and you had sex again for the second time that night. "I don't want to lose you like I have lost those before you." and it sounds almost promisory. He said he wanted to write, to be alone, to be with you. Isn't this what you wanted?
You imagine your life in three years -- a child cradled to your chest, head tucked under your chin, soft as water. You hold her with all tenderness and rock her to sleep. He comes in from the kitchen with your coffee in hand. He tells you he's tired, tells you about work, looks at the miracle you're holding and smiles. You hand him his daughter; her cheek resting on the tattoo on his shoulder. You want to sleep, you want to cry, you want to make them happy. You imagine him coming home late at night when he's half-drunk on something you can smell from the doorway. Is there someone else. Who were you with. What were you doing. We have a child. I left everything behind. He says, "You're too young to understand," and you throw a plate at him. He ducks and shouts profanities. The baby cries. You shout. Soon everyone's in tears. This happens for three months and you're almost sure you're going to lose your mind; but in the morning he makes you breakfast, and feeds your daughter, and says he loves you and it rings like church bells from underground steeples.
You look out the window again and place your glasses on your lap. You run your fingers through your hair with your right hand. You take a swig from a flask in the glove compartment from two nights ago; he laughs. You take another sip for the prosperity of romance, another for the promise of adventure. You put it back and flash a smile, hoping there was a flaw in the design, something you missed, something unaccounted for; and that this man in the driver's seat will spend your youth well; and that in ten years, there will be more to this than ashes.
You fidget; you worry but refuse to ask him again. You'd gone over it so many times. You're going up to Baguio for a small retreat. You said it wasn't necessary but he insisted: I want to do this for you, and then he kissed you and kissed you and kissed you and you had sex again for the second time that night. "I don't want to lose you like I have lost those before you." and it sounds almost promisory. He said he wanted to write, to be alone, to be with you. Isn't this what you wanted?
You imagine your life in three years -- a child cradled to your chest, head tucked under your chin, soft as water. You hold her with all tenderness and rock her to sleep. He comes in from the kitchen with your coffee in hand. He tells you he's tired, tells you about work, looks at the miracle you're holding and smiles. You hand him his daughter; her cheek resting on the tattoo on his shoulder. You want to sleep, you want to cry, you want to make them happy. You imagine him coming home late at night when he's half-drunk on something you can smell from the doorway. Is there someone else. Who were you with. What were you doing. We have a child. I left everything behind. He says, "You're too young to understand," and you throw a plate at him. He ducks and shouts profanities. The baby cries. You shout. Soon everyone's in tears. This happens for three months and you're almost sure you're going to lose your mind; but in the morning he makes you breakfast, and feeds your daughter, and says he loves you and it rings like church bells from underground steeples.
You look out the window again and place your glasses on your lap. You run your fingers through your hair with your right hand. You take a swig from a flask in the glove compartment from two nights ago; he laughs. You take another sip for the prosperity of romance, another for the promise of adventure. You put it back and flash a smile, hoping there was a flaw in the design, something you missed, something unaccounted for; and that this man in the driver's seat will spend your youth well; and that in ten years, there will be more to this than ashes.
01 May, 2014
"college tip #2"
don't be afraid of gaining weight; you're turning into a woman
it really doesn't feel that way
it really doesn't feel that way
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