Déjà vu

There were screams and sounds of slapping, loud enough that you knew that the neighbors were watching, listening.

A man and a woman.

"Come on, hit me! Hit me - HIT ME."

Sharon was scared; the woman was being pushed to ground, manhandled. Memories flit by, I hear her screaming. 

"Shouldn't we do something?" she kept asking Father and he said, "She's been egging him on. Let them handle it themselves."

And Sharon protest and frets and Father says, "What is wrong with you? Do you want me to do something?"

I realize then that having power is useless; doing nothing with it is worse, and I realize Father may not protect me.

But I hear myself bore disapproving eyes, muttering why I didn't do anything because unlike that time, this time I had power, too.

Haluk Turgut Menguc

step by step

"Things are actually not falling apart"
Sirikul Pattachote

I cannot stay as this. I cannot remain; I must change because it is required of me.

Step by step.

Else I will be passed on.



Because I love you all too much.

silver hair

I have silver hair. It stands out against the darkness of my black-brown hair. Soon, my hair will be completely white.

I had hated it since I was 8 years old. A young girl with greying hair?
An anomaly.

A couple of years ago, I stopped using dyes because I realized that through it, my hair was dying. At the cost of hating what was mine, I was killing an actual part of me. Not worth it, a small voice said.

I haven't touched the color of my hair for 2 years now. Today, someone told me that they loved it. They wished it were theirs!

And I smiled and laughed because for once, I wasn't self-consciously touching it, wishing it away.

It is mine, and I love it. 

Enough for you

Sometimes, I wish I wasn't me.
But, I'll continue apologizing for being myself.
Even if I'm enough for me, when will I be enough for you?

Colin Self - Nude, 1970-71 - etching

kiss my ass

I am so done with you.

We weren't friends anyway.

lara?

It was PM for him and AM for me; we were Skyping, Lara and I, and he was being such a pussy.

I hate feeling vulnerable around you, around anyone, and I hate that I treat you the way I do. You know me so far deeply than anyone I've ever let in, and yet intimacy scares the crap out of me. I don't treat you right. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

I had whispered comforts and murmured "It's okay," but it's been 3 weeks and I cannot stop thinking about what he said. 

I had always assumed he didn't care. We don't talk regularly, not really, skipping around the texting and the Skyping, never physically present. But I always checked and I always reached out. I'm always the one reaching out. 

Walked him through his first long-term girlfriend, his rebounds, and now his present girlfriend. Walked with him through family issues and sister troubles. I was there but he wasn't, not like I was, and I was growing okay with that. I always end up being okay with that.

But this. 

This is not okay.

Why is this not okay?

all who wait

changing a url is a bit like changing a mobile number - it takes a bit of time because you want the best one that is easily remembered - but a url must not be too tacky.

reason for change

it's not as glamorous as avy's "mymotherfuckedmickjagger," but it'll do.

until next time.

breathe

a friend. found my blog. i think.








i have no idea how i feel about this. i feel a bit too vulnerable than i wish to be.







edit: i no longer think. i know. he's found it. i hyperventilate.

woody allen trips me up sometimes

Sometimes I walk around with a little fantasy in my head
Of the people I'll meet, the people I've said
Sometimes I'll get these deep urges to journal and to write
and I'll print pictures and pictures and pictures of the things I love
and the things
that mystify.

Midnight in Paris, 2011

But these urges are becoming few and far between
and I wonder if that means my last few relationships with creativity
is leaving me.

And I fear and I fear and I fear

And I fear and I fear

and I fear.

tapioca pearls

Everyone else clambered around, grabbing spots, gasping at the beauty. Whispering rustles and gentle bumps, too captivated to see where they were going.

Joel Meyerowitz

And soon I was the only one standing, and I was blind. Someone - Matthias? - grabs my hand, "Come down here" and I finally settle. But I'm still blind. I grope blindly for my glasses; why can't I see what everyone else sees?
"Can you see the stars?"
Yes, I lie, but all I can see is the heavy weight of the night and smell of dimmed sun. I can't see the brilliance of the stars.
So I give up,
close my eyes,
sleep. 

with you

It's amazing what a couple of years can do to perspective.

I used to think there was emotional abuse,
but now,
I'm not sure.

Maybe I need a couple more years.

Until then, I will stop saying,
"He abused me"
because

maybe I abused him, too.

{Ben Giovanni}

Easter Eve

Depending on where you live, tomorrow is Easter Sunday.

Easter is the day Jesus rose from the dead. The day death was defeated.
The day He won for me... for you.

I hope you are looking forward to worshiping who God is and what He's done for us.

If you aren't... or don't... God is reaching out to you right now.
Talk to Him.
He'll blow you away with everything.
You will find Him.

I will be praying for you.
God bless.

8 Years

8 years.
Cheated some, probably.

But still, 8 years.

For one girl.

8th anniversary: girl brings different boy.
Kisses boy.

"We're over," said girl.

You could hear the cracks.

A piece I won't get back

Sometimes I forget.
I forget that I'm necessary,
             that I'm loved,
             that I matter,
             that I am strong.

These days, I've forgotten these things more often than I'd like.
As if little by little, an eraser has quietly been rubbing away another piece of me.
A piece I won't get back.

I miss more people now.
I miss familiar touches.
I miss the sound of people's voices,
and I miss the physical presence of those
I love.

I don't want to forget, but I do.
What if I forget everything?
What then will I be.

Don't forget me.
Please.
Don't forget me.

so it's been a little difficult

so it's been a little difficult
not the best time not the worst
but not the best
not the most pleasant
definitely not easy.

Of January

I found the one I've been searching for. You know who I mean.
The one who will wipe your tears and crushingly hug you when you scream.
The one who laughs with you, who sees you, who is with you.
The one who takes off your masks and says, "Ah. Such beauty shouldn't be hidden from the world."

I've found Him.

When I first heard His voice, I melted.
I shuddered because such deliciousness cannot be described.
And as I spent more time with Him, He taught me how to love myself...
and also how to love others.
He taught me to trust.
He spoke my worth - I am priceless.

I know who I am now.

I am His.

It is very difficult now.

It has been difficult to write, even more so when writing poetry. It seems that I have lost the will to pick up a pen and paper and write about anything.
I don't understand why.

Even now as I type this out in the draft format of the blog's post, I am constantly berating myself for doing something that I do not care about or want to do. Should I not do it because I do not want to do it? Or should I keep typing away at this trying to figure out my muddled mind?

I think that it is my mind that is standing in my way. My confusion with who I am is making me a bit lost. It had been going through my head lately, but it got worse as I passed my eighteenth birthday in October.

Why do I feel like my soul is screaming because it is trapped inside this jail of a body? I want to cry with big crocodile tears, but I cannot. I want to scream like a banshee, but I cannot. I want to laugh like I truly mean it, and smile without a trace of the mask I wear, but I cannot. Sometimes I take the mask off and I look at it with curiosity because I cannot seem to remember why I have it, or why I wear it.

Surely there must have been a reason. A good reason.

I have lived in my head for quite a long time. I have not ever made a genuine connection with anyone. I do not have many friends, and those who call me theirs makes me question their motives. But who am I to complain? It was me who made it that way.

But I feel like it is time. Time to be willing to be open up? I don't know.

I am so scared, you see. It isn't the "scare" where someone pops out at you with a "Boo!" and you giggle it off. No, it is the sweat-trickling, eyes-widening, shuddering, chilling, and horrifying fear. For who will accept my crocodile tears? Who will hear my screams? Who will want to laugh with me and who will see me, take off my mask and tell me I don't need it anymore?

Maybe it's better off to be alone.
Who cares, right?

You promised

She shouldn't have, but she did.
She... wasn't supposed to.
But she did.

She lied.
She lies.
She will lie.

She promised she wouldn't.
She promised.

You promised.

We are here

They kept on saying that we are not here.
But as of late... we are here. 

Air Kiss

I like the sound of air kisses.
Your fingers feel every fold of your lips, the gentle curves of the entrance to the heart.
Hot air blows out with each breath, and it's just so personal that you have to take away the hand for a moment, only to feel the imprint of beauty lingering behind.

Lips press against the force of the fingers for a second, only to be released with the sound of morning glories opening to the sun. And when the kiss is released into the world, you can feel the warmth fleeting away.

And that's when you realized what passion and heat air kisses have. How personal it can be made.

Kiss