Saturday, November 30, 2013

stretching out scars

It's hard to move my hands around now because the skin of my forearms is tight. So many parallel lines, so many tangents, all made of this shiny new thick fabric my own body engineered. All of them are pulling my extremities closer to my core, making sure I don't stray, making me small. I've lost weight since I tried to kill myself and that makes me happier than anything else in the world.

Hello world, I say every morning on another day I took for myself to get better but in which I will do actually nothing but rot. I do not get a reply. Because the world is moving forwards and everyone is accelerating and I am here in the same spot where I decided to die but I'm not dead but I am rotting. I'm stagnant. I never unpaused. I don't know what to do but all I think about is coming to a better full stop. Something that takes away the comparisons.

Friday, November 22, 2013

notes on being depressed and being in love

Every night I sleep at around 9 pm. I sleep with all the ceiling lights off but with my laptop left on, screen set dim. It burns tiny holes with its exhaust fans into the wood of the chair it lives on, all while I slip out of my own life and sink into my own mind. It keeps me company when I want to be alone. As a result, I've developed a deep personal connection with actors I've never met and do not know what are like, and characters who have been written as exaggerations. I listen to scripted words as a lullaby and that is comforting as if there was some one there. Here is the reason why: I get sad.

I am sad when it is dark and I am allowed to cry. Sad like I'm not allowed to be sad in public. Sad like I'm not allowed to be when in class. Sad like I always am but never want to acknowledge.

Pause. Wait. How on Earth can I talk about being sad, being so very sad, being sad at night, being a ball of flesh that wants to turn into a depressed black hole, an absence of a being caused by sad sad sad self-loathing forces? How can I say these things and not sound self-indulgent? Self-indulgent is an ugly word. Self is an ugly thing. Here it is again: I'm an I and a myself and I hate it. I hate how I want to talk about how I feel and how I feel like shit and the only words I can use are sad and self-loathing. These are terms of the ugly self-indulgent, and that's why I use them. They are words that I have to use because a, I am too dumb to think of any other, b, they are perfect for the dumb feelings I have, and c, any other word would be wrong as well. 

How can someone talk about being depressed without sounding silly? How can someone verbalize that? Type it? Carve it into a tree? Use that silly cursive font they drilled into us in grade school? Is there any way to talk about it? I have tried and I have failed and now I've given up. Now I shall just spill like a knocked over pitcher. Fuck it, fuck it. Here goes.

Being depressed and in love is confusing because your heart is filled with handwritten notes signed with kisses, but your stomach is filled with doubt. Why why why do you like me? I want to ask, I want to know, I want the words to bleed from me until I get an answer I can hold. Dear. Stop complimenting me, I don't take those well. But please reassure me that you will hold my hand when I am sad and that you are okay with my being sad. This is all very confusing. I want to lie on my back and stare at the ceiling and do nothing but breathe and think about how I am and how I exist and I want you next to me but you will get bored of staring at the ceiling and you will want to be outside and doing fun things with a real happy fun shiny other girl. I worry. I worry that I will make you sad. Depression should be on the quarantine list of the Center for Infectious Diseases. Please don't let me ruin you. Please hold my hand.

How to think about being with someone when thinking about what dying feels like is a tight rope I have yet to learn to walk. Shut up I know the whole love yourself first before you can love someone else saying blah blah, it's a lie. I love you I love you but I hate me I hate me and on bad days I need you so much it's silly. But love is not a cure for depression, It's a soft blanket and an entirely different thing. Separate the church from the state, the colored clothes from the whites, your personal life and your work life, and the butterflies and kisses from the hate hate hate of your own skin. It's possible. It's weird and amazing and terrible but it's nice and that's the best way to articulate it.

Thursday, November 21, 2013

This sunday

On Sunday, November 18, I tried to kill myself. Things have been a bit weird since then. I drag my fingertips along walls and railing or whatever a lot more when I'm walking around.

My doctor said it's a good thing that I'm an Environmental Science major, and not a Biology student otherwise maybe I wouldn't be typing things out now. I only had to get one stitch and somehow that disappoints me. I played with the stretchy fibers of the inside of my right wrist and I saw pretty veins that I tried to cut but they were tough. Maybe they weren't veins. It didn't hurt.

I went to school on Tuesday and it was really confusing. I'm in a weird head space. I confused a buret for a pipet and I don't do that ever. I know my lab equipment. I cry almost instantly with sad thoughts. I have to sit down or go to the bathroom to bang my head against the wall to remind myself to keep my shit together and it's worse when I make a sound when cry-breathing because then everyone will know, everyone will know.

Things are strange after you sort of try to kill yourself on impulse. I gave up after 30 minutes because it was taking too long to bleed out and I don't know. I texted my brother, and then my dad, that I think I need to go to the hospital. I had been cutting since the night before. But it was only on Sunday that FUCK IT YOLO MIGHT AS WELL MAKE IT A QUICKIE right?

I remember waiting and sitting with my brother in the living room to see if my dad would pick us up or meet us at the hospital. I remember standing up and feeling woozy when refilling the warm water I stuck my wrists in to keep bleeding keep bleeding slowly nice and lovely. I remember crying. I remember watching the anesthetic being injected and the suturing. I remember the dressing. I remember being taken to a psych ward and begging to go home. The days after blur together. I feel lonely. I'm in a wonky head space and I stare at things and ceiling and lie still a lot.

Wednesday, May 29, 2013

an exercise in being

Here's a great new exercise for all you fitness buffs: hold your breath and clench your jaw, pressing all your teeth on the top and bottom rows against each other, curl into the smallest version of yourself, and for 2 sets of 14 minutes, try to cry without making a sound. Incorporate your breathe into it. Make sure there's nothing distracting you from your inhales and exhales, these are important man! Inhale, contract your facial muscles into an easy path for the brine from your eyes, exhale, contract further. Don't un-tense, don't release, don't relax. Don't you ever even think to dare to, how dare you. Okay. Shudder to stretch. Repeat until you're dead.

I have this problem where I stop being happy. Or rather I'm never happy and once in a while I actually remember who I am. I have this problem and it's with myself and it's about how I still am, how I am still being (most definitely a problem, though I'm looking into remedies don't worry).

I wish I could be a happy person and I could have dream again and I wish everything I wrote didn't stink with the rot of my skull. Nasty nasty thoughts, how awful. How bad. How unhappy.


When I grow up I want to be an astronaut. I hope there'll be a great green light flashing in my face, a nice notice in the mail or a bubble on my screen to tell me when this happens. I hope someone would bother tpo inform me when I become a Grown Up. Maybe I should have had a big birthday party on my 18th, the type with all the ceremonies and the candles and roses and alcohol. If there was ever a tunnel that I could crawl through and emerge as a fully functioning totally not depressed adult, it would probably be hidden by the Powers That Be underneath layers of tulle. The tunnel would be guarded by trolls and a door locked twice but both unlockable with the point of a stiletto heel (also a great tool to stab the troll to death as well). Maybe I'm supposed to be a Grown U[p now, and by denying myself that fancy schmancy ritual I've denied myself passage into the Land of the Responsible and Okay.

It's alright, I spent my birthday the best I could. I went to the spa and all day I thought really really hard about why I should not walk into traffic. Maybe I should think really really hard again because I seem to have forgotten all the reasons I didn't write down but recited mentally. Except that I'm not thin enough to die. I should lose some weight. I want to go for a jog.

Oh here's another, I've just remembered: I want to be an astronaut. I want to see the world from outside of it. I want to see if there's anything worth going back to or staying for. I want to feel weightless, my god what I would pay or study or design or research just to float in the air. I want to be alone with nothing but nothing and then I want to die. Wait no sorry veered a bit off course there, nope. I just want to go to space.

Shortly after I fell sick and even less time after my father decided he was tired of having a sick daughter and I should just get better already since it was getting on his nerves, I decided I wanted to tell my dad that I wanted to be an astronaut, just to have some fresh material for car screaming matches.

Wow I sound like such an angry little brat.

It's a stupid dream but it's what I wake up for. A simplified chain of events after I lost my only reason for breathing (for the past 6 months it had been to lose weight and look skinny for prom) would have several steps, ending in Get To Space, each punctuated with a very very serious 'or die'.

But now I've gained back the weight and I should be talking about why I want to go to space, not why I want to lose inches and pounds. But here I am again, talking about a sickness and a sadness I claim to have but have no proof for. What's stopping everyone from calling me out and screaming liar liar pants on fire? Someone should. Stop letting me pretend that I have a problem when obviously I'm absolutely fine, a perfect healthy weight.

I want to get below 100 again. Then 90. Then 80. And then I will be happy and then I will not need to go to space anymore. But I wish I was stronger, I wish this was an exam I could study for since things are so much harder now and I am cracking and made of plaster and this weight is too much I want it gone. I can't I can't I can't and also I've forgotten to take my medicine and now I want to stop writing because this sounds ugly and I can't I can't I can't anymore

Monday, May 27, 2013

it's past my bedtime

My therapist has this theory about why, instead of nice lovely solid restoring sleep, my nights are filled with long gazes at off-white walls that enjoy pretending to be blue at night, with half-baked plot lines and sentences I swear to myself I will remember come morning but I never will, I know. She tells me her theory on our fourth meeting this month, it’s May now and there are five Sundays when usually there are only four and so this isn’t even the last time I’ll see her this summer, as we’re seated next to but still across each other on that brown couch of hers. Her lips are dry. She licks them as she pauses to read the speech she has written for me in her head. Out comes her tongue, wet monster that it is, as her eyes flick back to read the script she’s hidden in the dark space of her skull to read the next line, the next paragraph. Moisten, moisture, more more more. There are words filling the space between her and me, settling into the middle couch cushion and forcing it to sag as if someone obese is pressing their hips into the dark leather. There is a weight to what she is saying and it’s significant, I can feel it, I can feel it in my bones. Maybe it’s as heavy as I am but I doubt that since I’m no feather of a girl. I should probably listen now, or at least go back in my remembering to where I was listening and then begin to start telling, again from where I left off, what exactly the good mind doctor was telling me.

She said I was sick, she said, sicker than before, she clarified, she thought I needed help, these manic spells that seemed to seize me in a way nothing and no passion ever could were not a good thing no matter how I craved them, she looked at me from above me even though she was half a foot shorter, she paused here, and the best way, she licked her lips, was to drink these white pills. Wow what a wonderful and simple solution.

Down the rabbit hole they went, every night before bed. The rabbit hole here being my throat and the white rabbit being 300 milligrams of the finest prescription crap money can buy.

Fuck shit um.

This was supposed to be a bedtime story.

Hush little baby don’t you cry mama’s gonna sing you a lullaby and if that lullaby don’t rhyme mama’s gonna try some other time and if by 3 you’re still awake maybe it’s a good time to start walking around or start cooking breakfast no throw that away that’s disgusting maybe you should look for your journal from three years ago no no no definitely time to start writing about that boy you met at that thing who looked through you like you were the last flimsy piece of a lollipop he’d been carefully melting with his tongue for hours like you were the world but bent and twisted and orange tinted and flavoured yes that boy the one whose hands fit into the bend of your lower back like no pillow or kitten ever could yes let’s write about him and how he kisses you when he wants to and how that’s a terrible thing but no now let’s write a story about a boy who can’t go to sleep

Once upon a time in a land far away there was a happy boy (Do you see the importance of this introductory sentence? It distances the real world from the fantasy. No matter how fast or far you run, and I run fast and I can run far, you will never travel enough distance to reach somewhere where there are happy boys and happiness and boys who you want to tell stories about).

Ugh wait I’m restarting. I’m sorry but I, the writer of this here story, am not such a happy person. I don’t know how to write about happy things or happy people or happy stories even if I really really want to. This is me, the writer of this here story, saying sorry for not being able to write a happy story. I’m saying: I’m really trying very hard but it’s just not coming to me but it’s okay I guess but I’m sorry.

“Writing things comes easy to me even though my penmanship is terrible because there’s no filter, no barrier, no inbetween between the terrible ideas and thoughts in my head and the terrible words and sentences on paper. But writing happy things doesn’t come naturally because naturally I’m not happy but sometimes some times and some things and some boys make me feel happy and that’s unnatural but it does happen. But not now.” I say, I the writer of this here story, to you, the reader.

Continuing. Restarting. Here is your story, which I owe you because I ate all your dreams like a pig.

Once upon a time there was a boy. His mother didn’t like the way he flew around the house and how he didn’t know the best way to sit was on his hands. She didn’t like the hum that boys make, the vibrating note of their existence, and she wondered every night as she took off her reading glasses and set aside her book, why her body had chosen to betray her and give her a son. Perhaps it was because she didn’t run marathons.

So this boy, who was good at climbing things like slides and trees and chimneys, would come home every night covered in dirt. This was proud dirt, dirt with stories to tell. Children know the secrets of dirt and so it wasn’t surprising to see him and his sister, Lola, studying the grime and listening to their stories. The miles traveled and the weather faced and the feet of famous people, all these past things that became stories that were part of the dirt that was part of the filth that covered this one boy this particular day. Lola and him would crouch, bellies to thighs, backs of thighs to calves, feet to the floor, and just imagine the stories that every bit had to tell. The colors hidden in the brown were perhaps the best part, or at least Lola’s favorite part. And then he showered, alone, looking for an hidden secret sneaky wounds and cuts and bleeds underneath his earthy second skin in a fevered hunt that was his own hidden secret sneaky favorite part, and he ate dinner with his loving doting stable wonderful fantastic family and then he went to bed.

But his mother didn’t like how he woke up in the morning before the sun did, how the humming began before her dreams could even end. So this particular night, it was a Tuesday, she took a page from the Tricky Trick Book of her friend Ellen.

Ellen had four boys and no man or hair. Everything she had lost in life, she lost to closed angry fists. But no fists had touched her boys and for that she was grateful and, terribly but also more interestingly, irritated. So she had a stroke of genius, the type and severity of which hadn’t come to her since she remembered the name of the song on the radio, since she leaned down into her own mouth and ripped words off the tip of her tongue and flung them out into the air to be used to be heard to be relevant and less haunting. Ellen took a mortar and a pestle to the white pills given to her by her therapist, who isn’t my therapist and whose couch is covered in soft beige leather, pounding and pounding away, really burning fat and building muscle, toning and firming, working and pushing, until the magic of love and physical exercise turned the pretty pills into a fine white mist barely settled in a wooden concave plane. It was hard to contain the glee and the powder, both legally belonging to Ellen, though she tried her hardest to keep both lids tightly screwed on.

And so, like her friend, the mother of our protagonist mixed prescription sleeping pills into the food of her beloved children. It was the only sane thing to do, the only self-preserving option. The Right Choice. The Good Way. The Snooze Button. Let the children dream longer; let the mother pretend to be dead longer. It was the point in a seesaw that everyone tried to achieve, that point of balance where you are on even levels but there are no feet planted on the ground. Perhaps that it what love is: self-preservation and drugging and pretending to be on solid ground and pretending to see eye to eye.

So the boy, who ate three servings of spaghetti and four of potatoes and five of soda and six of dessert, ingested enough medicine to kill a horse and that night saw the world and the moon for the last time. Which is really such a shame since he missed such a spectacular sight. That Tuesday night, or rather Wednesday morning, the moon was knocked off its orbit by a rather large and angry seeming meteor, asteroid, comet, or maybe it was God’s rocky fist whatever. It spun around and terrified everyone and people prayed and people kissed and people cried but the boy stayed asleep because he was dead, remember?

The moon crashed through his house, smashing his skull into so many pieces that all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t have put him back together, destroying him so completely that all the crime scene investigators and professors and policemen or anyone else who supposedly has authority could never have known he had been murdered by his mother. In fact, they wouldn’t have known that there were three people, a mother and a daughter, named Lola, and a son, all with brown hair, living in the two story house on the street of the first left past the Laundromat, if you're coming from downtown. The moon had so completely destroyed their house, their street, the Laundromat, their country and everything that until that night had been cold hard fact, that policemen wouldn’t have given a shit about if they were blond or not. No one would ever know or care to know because, in the chaos that followed, no one survived.

The men on the moon became the men in the crater and they decided to take the blue planet as their own, after watching it for so long. The earth opened up and cried hot magma from her pores, showing everyone just how passionate and loving a mother nature is. People, when people still remembered that they were people, killed and loved and kissed and cried and stole and ate a whole bunch of Campbell’s mushroom soup.

The men on the moon had swords.

Isn’t that a cool little detail?

The end.

Wednesday, May 22, 2013

old feelings and habits, as well as other things that die hard

These are the things I miss about having long hair:

  • I miss having strands of my own dead cells brush against the dead skin cells of my shoulders. 
  • I miss tying my masses of hair, glorious and long and strong and dead and brown, into a tight bun. I miss the gathering, the binding, the pull on my scalp. I miss studying the angles and corners of my own face in reflective surfaces, skin pulled back and up and tight and neat by an elastic band. It was only through this method that I was able to be sure of what and who I was, am. This is how I see my face. This is how I know how repulsive I am.
  • I miss having something to hide behind.
  • I miss the smell of my shampoo, the smell of bathtime, the smell of being clean. Throughout a long and hot day, hair reminds you of your personal choices of products.
  • I miss braids.
  • I miss having bits of myself scattered on the floor and in hairbrushes, in my food, my pillow cases, looking like dyed black silk threads caught in the web between my thumb and index finger.
  • I miss dedicating too much time out of 24 hours to controlling, brushing, styling my hair. I miss the effort of trying to be pretty, of caring enough. I miss thinking about hair and if it's falling right and if I should rebraid it.
These are the things I miss about having a shaved head: 

  • I miss the feeling of the sun on my scalp.
  • I miss cool breezes.
  • I miss not having to care about what I look like. I miss the funny looks people gave me and how they saw me as a haircut and not a person.
  • I miss the way I looked in mirrors, angles and cheeks and eyebrows and lips. I miss the feeling of being a face, nothing but a face. I miss the certainty with which I knew I was repulsive.
  • I miss running my palm from my forehead to the little space were my skull and neck kiss, the way water flicked off stubby strands, painting the walls in front of me in a splattered pattern. Like clear blood. Like a waterpark crimescene.
  • I miss feeling aerodynamic.
But now my hair is like me, which only makes sense since I grew it myself. It's an inbetween, with strands and locks and bits and pieces falling out of the tiny bun I can make in the center of the back of my skull. My roots are growing out.

I wish I was not in the inbetween. I do not like it here. I wish my thighs did not widen at the top and my arms didn't turn to pasty, fatty flab as my shoulders draw near. I wish I did not need to be so round. I want legs like arms and arms like wrists and wrists like death. Why is it that we turn so circular, so full, so curved as we go near our center? I know the torso houses our inner bits, our vital organs. Are they so hungry that they need to draw all the fat and adipose tissue and energy reserves to them for easy access? Arms and legs are important, but not necessary. You can live without the feeling of sand between you toes but not without lungs or intestines, and you can do without holding the hand of someone when you are lonely but hearts breaking can actually kill you. I wish this wasn't so. I wish my center would stop being so needy, would put aside its appetite for a while and let me be. I wish the space I occupied was not immutable, I wish I could shrink down into a something, a girl whose legs do not round out or arms that do not curve. I want to be small and happy and have thighs that do not flatten and embarrass me against the seat of chairs. I want to be a child, to sweat like a child and to feel like something blissfully happily newly alive. I'm tired of being tired of being tired of being me. I want to be hands holding other hands, tendons and bones connecting through tissue and skin with the pulse of another person. I want to be efficient blood cells, fighting disease and sadness. I want to be swallowed pills, chemically altering the way the day comes to you. I want to be swallowable, gel-encased, dissolvable in stomach acid. I want an end in sight. 

It's summer now but I woke up early to do a thing and get a plant and now I'm tired but I can't go to sleep since my little brother needs me, or at least I can hope and dream and pretend he does and hope and dream and pretend that he wants me there, so I need to hide my life again in a closet, packed in boxes and bags. I need to move, to stop sleeping on this thin mattress and water this plant, which needs watering twice a day and I named it Butter. And then I will go and do things like a person should do. I will write the thing I have to write for my therapist, the thing she has asked me to write and the thing that I have put off because I had papers to make for classes and things to study for so I can have a successful future. Now I'm still putting it off, instead choosing to press the shiny new keys of my shiny new keyboard to type these sentences, which hold no therapeutic value.

Saturday, May 11, 2013


Do you know about plastic balloons? These ones. I hope you grew up playing with them or know someone who did or google them, watch a video, something, because it's a bit important that you know the what's-and-how's.

Lately I've been feeling feelings that are best relayed from my mind to another by comparing them to plastic balloons. I am a plastic balloon, is what I'm saying. I am constantly growing. Watch, gather round, ladies and gents, kiddies and whatever-you-ares, look at me! I'm an amazing expanding girl. Watch my waist and wrists and thighs and arms grow grow grow and bloat bloat bloat and then throw me into the ocean so I can float off and find another island with more ladies gents kiddies and whatevers to entertain. 

But oh wow here's the cool part: I am also deflating. Here's a question, which shall segue into my discussion/explanation/analysis/whatever: what are girls made of? Not the muscle and blood bile phlegm tears plasma or water. The thoughts, the dreams, the things that make them tick tick tock? Are there things that are common between all girls? What about all people? If there is, something like hopes for the future or  happiness or dreams or wants or feelings, then I regret to report that I am lacking these things. What serious medical complications can result from this? Her heart has stopped because of a deficiency of dreams. Yes, actually that sounds true. I am deflating like a plastic balloon that has a teenie tiny hole that no one can see. I am shrinking and no one, especially me, knows why. My hopes, dreams, happiness and sanity are flowing out of me, perhaps through my ears or piercings, and they are becoming part of the outside air. The big bad world. I'm becoming empty and wrinkly and I no longer reflect things in a pretty way.

I don't feel like being right now. Being is becoming a complicated thing. An elaborate process. A demanding routine. I don't like it and soon my back will break and the last straw will snap or catch fire or whatever. Soon, someday, some night, some afternoon, I will simply stop being. I will poof and I will disappear and I will maybe then be happy.

In the news section: today I went to see a brand spanking new shiny doctor. She was nice and she doesn't like her name either. I thanked her for sharing by loosening the taps of my tear ducts and flooding her office. My brother came with me, proving for all those who read this and everyone else in the world as well I suppose that he is sweet and nice and he didn't complain even though we were waiting for 3 hours. Now I am home all aloney on my owney in my dormroom, which I am beginning to despise. Well, I'm not all aloney. I have here with me a little goodie bag of drugstore treats. A brown paper pocket in which I will keep my brand new true blue bestfriends. 

Here is a playlist. It makes me smile and cry, but in a happy way. I know the difference.

Friday, May 10, 2013

baseless complaints

No one ever tells me that I need to 'eat a bit more' anymore, that I 'need some more meat on my bones'. I get it. I have a surplus of meat on my bones, I know. I can feel the added weight with every lift and fall of my feet. I can feel everyone who knew me when I was thin, I can feel them as if their stares were a part of me. Oh, they are thinking or whispering to the people who they like enough to let stand close to them, she's gained so much weight since last year. Maybe they will call me a poor thing. I don't want to be a poor thing. I want to be a thin girl, that is the adjective-noun combination I crave for.

Yesterday I didn't eat anything at all except three or four or five (my god no wonder I've gained weight, I'm so terrible at control) sips of a cafe americano. And water. And if crying and scratching and jumping out of bed to get away from nightmares counts as cardio, then I had a pretty good workout yesterday as well. I lost   a whole entire big fat kilogram.

But I look in the mirror and my thighs are still not small enough. The circumference of my upper arms when measured by graded tape or my own phalanges, it's not a number that I am comfortable with. The problem is compounded, the problem being how conscious I am of the surplus and how heavy and weighed down my poor poor bones feel, this problem is compounded by my idiotic glances into reflective surfaces. My god I need to lose more weight. I should never eat again.

Wednesday, May 8, 2013

reality check

For my next trick I will brush my teeth and comb my hair just like a real! live! girl!

Maybe that is what real girls do before they go to bed. Maybe that is what real girls do in the morning.  Maybe real girls never sleep and instead watch television all night. Maybe real girls sleep on thin woven mats on the floor. Maybe real girls eat real meals and maybe real girls do not. Maybe real girls have handbags not to carry lies and imaginary friends, but for things like lipstick or pocketbooks or wallets. And in these wallets, maybe real girls keep their coins secure and safe within zipper-lipped pouches, instead of placing them all soft and gentle on top of their swollen puffy eyelids and eyebags. Maybe real girls work real jobs or get real allowances from their real parents to buy pretty shiny happy bright things. Maybe real girls do not worry if they have enough spare change to place on top of their swollen puffy eyelids so that when they are in a boat in a river in the underworld, they can pay the toll fee and go somewhere new. Maybe real girls think about these things, maybe real girls do not. Maybe real girls only have pretty shiny happy bright thoughts, or maybe they have exclusively terrible dull ugly thoughts. Maybe they know what to do with these thoughts. Maybe they do not. Maybe real girls can sleep with all the lights off and they do not hear the sound of sadness, which is heavy with solutes but still nonviscuous, leaking out of their veins to pool in the spaces between their muscles and fat. Maybe real girls prefer to keep a light on or their laptop on or the screen of their phone on even though no one is texting or calling or greeting or talking when it is past their bedtime. Maybe real girls check their phone or computer screens, emails, social networking accounts, inbox, voicemail, to see if anyone has noticed how sad, yet real, this real girl is. Maybe real girls like real boys or other real girls or no one at all. Maybe real girls do not flinch when people touch them. Maybe real girls do not mind it when their thighs touch, or maybe real girls do not have thighs that touch or maybe real girls do not have legs. The important thing is that they are real! live! girls! They are tangible! They are facts! They are birth certificates and vaccinations and tuition receipts  They are proven to exist! They have real girl bodies that may be soft dry flaky oily, but my god they are real. They are 3-dimensional. And that is more than I will ever feel like. I am not a real! live! girl! but I like to pretend that I am. My body is fidgety, it either changes in size, composition or density. Sometimes it decides to not exist altogether, sometimes it won't stop reminding me. I am almost entirely certain that I do not have a body, that I am an It who is walking and talking and playing Uno with friends. I am not a real! live! girl! Real girls are constant, not liminal. I am barely even alive at all. I am not a real sound, I am an echo.

life lessons

Never have I wanted to joke around so very very much in my life. I turned 18 last Monday and every hour since midnight May 6 has been hell. How long do I have to wait before it's not ironic to die? Not that I'm going to try to, but just that I am tempted to. This isn't a countdown until, it's a countdown until the end of.

My feet are cinder blocks and I want to go swimming in the ocean. My arms are empty and I want to draw with red ink. My head is heavy and I want to cram gel capsules into it so I never lift it from my pillow do you understand do you fucking get it? I am sad a lot and alone a lot and I'd like to smile and tell a joke, like haha being an adult sucks I quit. But I don't know. I don't I can't I I I just I oh. What is the point of breathing when it's too hard? Because there is so much snot in both my nostrils and because my tongue is swollen from getting caught in the crossfire of my teeth who break up and get back together everytime my jaw fishes for the right words?

Oh right I had something important to say.

Lately I've been learning the value of words. I talk a lot but I've been falling out of practice. It's not my fault, I'm sorry I've been busy creating things and breaking things in my head and dreaming in black and white. Very taxing activities. So what I do with the surplus is: I save them for people I want to talk to. I collect them in my palms and my wallet and my pockets, but sometimes they spill out and shatter on the floor when I am busy looking down at my feet and someone greets me and I fucking hell I say hello back how fucking silly of me. I am collecting my words to spend here or with people who I want to spend on. Spend words. I will feed them my words. I will take my thumb and index finger and put them in my mouth where they will lift gently the word, which will taste like spun sugar, and then my wrist will take this vessel across a vast and terrible space and place it, my word my darling my dear, in your mouth where it will melt and you will drink it and die.

My stomach hurts. I drank down a lot of pills but I don't think I'm going to die tonight. They were the wrong kind of pills for a big big job like that. I think I'm just going to find out a lot of things like what my voice sounds like when I cry when sleeping and if rainbow nerds produce rainbow vomit.

I wish I was on a deserted island. Or a dessert island. I wish I felt like an adult already. I wish I was thinner, so much thinner. I wish I had a big ol' knife to cut off the loose fat of my thighs and arms and belly. I wish the people who I want to read this will read it because Jesus fucking Christ this is my cry for fucking help don't you get that? I am losing my mind I think and I want to know if you can hear me. Can you hear me hello hello

Thursday, May 2, 2013


Would you look down on me if I paid you to kiss me? I hope you do, down the bridge of your nose and at my eyes then my lips and then my chin, my neck, the place where the muscles of my throat segue into my shoulders. I hope that the next scene is the one where you lean down and kiss me and take my money and run.

I am growing stagnant, soon there will be mosquito larvae swimming in the whites of my eyes.  I am calcifying and becoming a tree in a simultaneous and painful process. Here, I shall stand for the next 200 hundred years, eyes blind and limbs unswaying in monsoon winds. Despite the time of day, my leaves will not respond, their stomata shall remain still. I will continue to feel the heat and my sweat will come from my tear ducts and it will burn like a concentrated base, which may burn just like an acid, and this is how I will die. I am shrinking and backing away and I can go whole days in multiples without having conversations. I don't want anyone to touch me. I don't want anyone to be around me. 

But I would like to be kissed once in a while (meaning every other 15 minutes or seconds, whatever is more convenient for you). I like kisses a lot, they make me happy.

Remind me again how and why fat floats. Rather, assure me that it does. I'm having the hardest time believing this, considering how underwater I feel. Autopsy will begin at 6 oclock in the evening, incision will be made to open the abdomen, laterally, and enough water to fill a kid's inflatable pool will gush out from my belly and burst lungs. I am drowning. It's a good thing no one talks to me because I don't to open my mouth and let more water in. I look in the mirror everyday, as well as down at the scale, and I am 100% sure, scientifically, proven, justified, backed, I do know I am obese and fat and disgusting and my face is the size of the moon and sometimes the saltwater leaks out again from my goddamn tearducts but this time the phenomenon is called 'crying'. So yes, why am I sinking when I should be gliding along the surface? What is dragging me down? Why are my pillows constantly soaked?

Kisses are nice and lovely and I think about them a lot. Well, kisses and suicide, as those are kind of complementary things. Or substitute things. I forgot. I never really liked Economics so much (or do I love economics and I forgot that too?) Anyway, I think  about kisses and I sit on benches and I think how nice it would be to be kissed, how lovely it would be to have someone hold my hand and not expect to touch my stomach and never say anything about how I look or ask why I'm crying. Disney taught us to make wishes but never how to make them come true so what do I do now? Someone teach me how to make someone kiss the sad parts away. Someone teach me how to not be sad, that way I don't have to kiss people anymore.

EDIT: Oh and beeteedubs, by kissing I don't just mean that lovely wet mess with the tongues and the sexy bits and whatnot. Not I just mean placing your lips on my skin, anywhere. My ears my neck my forehead, all those three are favorites, my knuckles my knees the place where my arm bends, the opposite of an elbow. Kiss me and let me pretend to be your words. Let me pretend to be something abstract, something not so concrete. Let me pretend to not have a body for a second. Kissing lets me die for a bit and I like that. I like that feeling a lot and that is why here, on the internet, I am begging for kisses.

But don't kiss me anywhere don't touch me anywhere don't you dare, unless I say you can. Don't sit close to me or pinch or poke or prod. Don't put your arms around me in the back of taxis or squeeze the soft flesh of my upper arms. Don't. I get so angry. Don't kiss me. Don't come near me. Stay the hell away. I will invite you, I will ask for the kisses I want and I will take what kisses are given in reply. But do not assume, do not ever assume. I will ask politely. I will not be abused.

Sunday, April 28, 2013

members of the crustacean family

You do not have me in the palm of your hand because I do not fit in the palm of your hand. It seems in the time it took you to blink, I've grown up and now I do not fit in your head or your life or your schedule, much less your hands. Your palms are bigger but my fingers are longer, maybe that's why I am clinging on more than you. But palms and fingers are not as good as knuckles in wiping away the salty leakages of eyes. Yours are calloused from boxing, which you have tried for forever to get me to do but I am simply not interested in violence for exercise I would rather run away, and mine are too soft, removable body scrub. They've been soaked for too long in a 100% organic saline solution.

Remind me why you call me your little girl, or an angel. Sometimes it feels like you're mocking me, because there is nothing about this presence of mine that is little. I speak too much and go too far and I simply occupy too much space. All this excess if my fault, I'm sure my bones are tiny gorgeous little things and I have sinned against them buy burying them in adipose tissue. Sometimes it feels like you're warning me. Or prompting me. Would I still be your angel, if I was dead? Would I be any angel at all? Not only an atheist  I am also forgetful. What if I forget the Young Women's pledge and promise? Where can I go without Faith, Divine Nature, Individual Worth, Knowledge, Choice and Accountability, Good Works, Integrity and Virtue? Who cares I'm lost either way, dead or alive, in the Inbetween. What if I forget how to breathe, what do you think that would count as? A mistake or a suicide? Only I'd know the truth. Despite the connections we've had and our shared genetic material, you ill never know and I hope that doesn't bother you.

I'm not angry. I love you. I just wish clocks went backwards occasionally so I could go back to the end of highschool where I lost all my friends but I had my father to pick me up every day after school and I lost 1/3 of my body weight in 4 months and I also lost my mind but I had someone to talk to and take me to the beach on days I was too sad to go to school, much less get out of bed. I miss you terribly, even though I see you every week. I wish you had left a substitute, anyone I could talk to. Right now my head is muffled because there is no more space for the thoughts to bounce around and I do not like this feeling at all. My skull can only stand so much pressure, all rocks crack, even mountains can shake from too much and that is what I am suffering from: an acute case of too much and there is no one else with hands big enough to catch what spills over.


The light looked pretty on your skin and that's why I kissed you. Looking back it wasn't the most terrible decision I've made, but I doubt it would make it into the top ten best, either. It was three o'clock in the afternoon and your skin was sticky with my sweat, I'm sorry about that by the way, and the way your face angled into mine formed a cave so perfect, millions of years of slow and gentle erosion of a mountain side couldn't imitate it. Here pooled our warm breath. From this pool I drank, as if dying of thirst, or rather suffocating since I was drinking through breathing your air, and not water. Do you understand?

You kept me alive that afternoon, which was nice of you. I had a pleasant time there, tangled in your limbs and with knots of affection blossoming like tumors in my stomach. I didn't want to leave. I didn't want to go elsewhere, whether or not I've gathered up my things into my arms or bag, just sometimes want to leave but  that afternoon I didn't. I was content with being still  for the first time in a long time, the first time in a while where I didn't want to walk away and into traffic. But I still do, now. I'm sorry, I still think these things, here in my dorm room where it smells like incense and loneliness. You didn't fix me, you just calmed me for 5 lovely hours. Perhaps that was what you were meant to do, here with me, not to sound narcissistic or self-involved even though I kind of am even though I am too crap a person to have that be justified, but maybe just maybe you were destined to hold my hand and lean into me and over the back of my chair so I could rest the top of my head against your stomach. Maybe it was your job, assigned by some Other or Greater or Imaginary thing, to keep me still for a while. I've had a terrible week and if there was a bathtub in my dorm, then I would have filled it with tears three times over in the past seven days. Thank you for helping me forget that, how very kind of you. I think I am rambling but I can't help myself, it's only been 16 hours since I've kissed you, how can you expect me to have collected my jelloid pieces up already?

But every time I pulled away and placed a few terrible inches between your lips and mine, I asked 'what?' and here is what I wanted: I wanted you to smile and tell me things, stories, jokes or funny words. I wanted you to say something about politics or a song you like. I wanted you to talk about your passions and who you are, because I want to know these things about you. I wanted you to explain why, even though this hadn't happened yet mind you, when your friends dropped me off where I could get a cab and you'd already left because urgent matters called your attention away from me, why did they seem reluctant to leave me in a place unknown why did they say I needed to be kept safe because I was your dot dot dot, fill in the blank. I wanted to have a word, a weapon, a solution, a shield to fill in that goddamn blank and only you could have given it to me. I wanted you to tell me that the light looked pretty on my skin as well, even though it probably did not. But you didn't do any of these things and what tumbled out of your mouth was the word 'nothing' over and over again and now that's exactly what I feel, nothing at all.

Friday, April 26, 2013


The evidence of my crime was tucked away neatly underneath my fingernails. Despite the training they received in police academy and despite their best intentions and interrogation techniques, I doubt they will ever find him. He has the best hiding place in the world, ten in fact. A suicide, the official record reads. He took this many pills when his stomach, tired organ that it was, could only take about half. The acids that have resided in his abdomen broke through and, like a rebellious teenage gang, vandalized the rest of his pretty pink insides. Maybe the autopsy will reveal my name burned into his intestinal wall, carved into his arteries or maybe the villi of his lungs have been arranged to spell out the letters that address me. I doubt it though. He never saw it coming, he never had time to prepare, to plan revenge.

I pointed a gun to the pretty little triangle where his eyebrows and the top of his nose meet. It’s like a park between neighbourhoods, the perfect place to hide a body for children to find. I had kissed him over a dozen times in this exact spot. I had felt his skin, his years and his acne outbursts of the past, through him right there, in that spot. When I lifted my chin and contact was broken, I wonder how much of him I stole away. How many of his skin cells did I carry on my body, adding excess numbers to my bathroom scale? Tonight I shall boil myself and rid myself of him. Tomorrow I shall get a manicure and pay someone to scrape beneath the white tips of my nails and remove him from me permanently. These are the scissors, the razor, the sharp edge, that I will use to cut the thread that had connected us for so long.

At gunpoint, he swallowed. Down the hatchet, washed down by his please’s and don’t’s and oh god oh god’s, those pills were the last things he will ever have tasted. Not me, not my skin or sweat or lips or hair or tongue. It was gel encapsulated death and fear.

Once his eyes sewed themselves shut, I touched him. Oh lovely boy, why did you make me do this to you when I loved you so much? How selfish, how cruel. We could have been happy together, at least five days out of seven. This is when I made my mistake: fingers in his hair, tracing the corners of his mouth and the figure of his bones through his skin, I collected him as a keepsake. Slowly it built up, all that grime and dirt and tissue and sweat collected to form a dark organic mud. My soft patter, patter on his cold body took too long, was too thorough, I was too silly a girl. I hold my hands in my lap and look at them and wonder why this man in a uniform is not looking at them too. They have such a great story to tell and no one who wants to listen and that is the greatest tragedy of all this week.

higher upper smarter

I've been thinking about taking a minor in History. I really like the subject and the fact that everything is stories, though sometimes they have suffered the tragedy of being written down in a boring voice. I like knowing about realities that were, I like knowing about the people that have walked past the trees I walk past. I like it. I like History.

Maybe I'll apply today, or maybe Monday because right after my classes today I'm leaving for my grandfather's house to spend the weekend (insert here crossed fingers and tearful pleas to god oh god oh god not let me gain weight, give me strength to shut my mouth and go jogging for the hours reserved for meals). I shall climb the stairs and get an application form from the department that I can never really remember how to find, besides that there are stairs involved. I will fill it out and submit myself to another course two courses in History and two electives,  all my own doing unlike the two subjects we're required despite our actual program of study. I'm excited.

Besides that, summer class is going quite well. It's the end of the second week and what with the accelerated rate at which classes are paced, I really have no time to not think, every day, in and out, besides Economics, History, Filipino. I walk and run and skip and idle from CTC to Bel to Berch. Everyday, everyday. Okay sometimes my mind wanders, when lectures feel dragged out, or maybe at night when I am exercising and hating the things that flowed down my throat today, I think about the way I like my shoulders now, but not my upper arms, I think about how the skin of our elbows look like the concentric circles of a tree, I think about why the bird who cannot sing hates me and sits outside my window every morning, I think about  how heavy my eyelids feel all the time, maybe it's the contacts or maybe it's my soul, I think about why he/she/whoever won't talk to me first, I think about my brothers, my parents, my cat, about how I can go days without conversation or anyone bothering me. I think about how I cannot kill myself now, since I have no roommates now and no one will find my body until the heat makes the smell and my skin and organs unbearable. But mostly I think about my subjects. Except tomorrow and the next day, as well as every other weekend, and maybe Monday next week because it's my 18th birthday. Also public holidays. 

Thursday, April 25, 2013

educational experiences

This is the problem with turning 18 in two weeks and having a little brother who is almost six months old: I love him too much that I've forgotten that, graphically if family trees are graphs, we're on the same level. I forget that we are technically, at least 11 days, we are both children. What I am painfully aware of, however, is how I can support my own head with the strength of the bones in my neck. I feel his soft skin and I love him so much that it bubbles out to the surface and dries my own out. I can read signs and books even though I know he cannot. I see cars and shoes and tables, chairs, spoons, trees and I know what they are. They are things that do things but to him they are completely foreign. What I am saying is that I have been thinking, because I can think, is that I have been doing too much thinking and my brain is so wonderfully heavy with information and trivia and manners and names and memories. I should really stop thinking, because my little brother seems so much happier than me. Maybe I should take an electric saw and a soup ladle to my skull and empty it.

I have two brothers. I am the middle child and the only girl and that is the truth, the truth, nothing but the truth. At least it was until junior year highschool. Let's tone down the drama because I hate talking about myself (at least things besides the shallow, the observations, the failed jokes). I really don't like to tell people how my gears fit together because I know, in the gut of every cell, that they do not care. People have their own shit to deal with. I'm going off because I am on things and what I am saying is that I will tell you a story now about my family, which no one can repeat or blab as if it was their own because it is mine godfuckingdamnit. Right. People with parents who are together freak me out because, despite the fact that my parents only got officially annulled when I was in freshman year highschool, they were never together. Sure they loved each other at some point, but that is beyond my memory and I really don't care about that time. I love my parents but they are separate entities. Their is no 'and' that  bridges mama to papa, no conjunction, no entity of parental solidarity. There never has been. So don't ask me if I care if my parents separated or if it affects me because it doesn't and if you assume that they need to be together for me to be okay in my stomach then I will sand in your face and then heat the grains trapped beneath your eyelids until they turn to glass and you can finally see my point.

I've gotten off topic.

I'm sad today, more so than usual, so excuse me.

In junior year highschool my mother was married to Mike, who is nice and makes good chili potatoes and peanutbutter and jelly sandwiches and he treated my cat nice and made my mother buy things to make the house nicer. They-and-they-and oh fuck it I don't want to tell this story. Basically I have another brother now and I'm not the middle child anymore because there is no middle in a group of four. Also I'm not a child anymore. Also I look at my darling babiest brother and I want to keep him in a plastic bubble away from me and my other siblings. I want him to learn and to grow up and to speak Tagalog and Bisaya and Ilocano and play sports and go to school and hate school and know our grandparents. I want him to learn how to speak and walk and do mathematics. I want him to do things I've never done and probably never will do, like cry from laughing too hard, or go skydiving, or live til he is old. I hope he never knows how he will die, never feels the flat and heavy stone of comfort settle inside him as he thinks 'I will deliberately be the death of me, someday, somehow'. I look at him and wish and pray on stars and to deities that he won't have to hold someone he loves while they are crying because they are sick in the head, and I hope he never feels like the best way out of a bad situation is by unlocking your blood from your skin with nails and thin pieces of sharp metal. I hope his little mind never wanders down dark paths and off cliffs. Sometimes I even hope he never gets to know me, that I die before his mind starts writing things down in permanent ink, so that I can't infect him with the sickness that I am. So that I don't have to explain the things that words cannot, but history does. How selfish and hideous of me.

I hope he never wonders why he breaths. I hope he smiles all the time without the corners of his little bow mouth feeling like rigor mortis is already setting in. I hope he never stops in the middle of planning his birthday and starts thinking, casually as if to decide what to have for lunch, whether or not he should live through it, and how to not to. I hope he can imagine himself growing up, can imagine himself at all, because he is wonderful and he is possibility and he is so soft and he smells so good and maybe once the people I know and the person I am, we were once like that but now we are not. A testament to the cruelty of time and change, written in stretchmarks across the back of my knees.

Mostly though, I hope to god buddha allah jesus and santa that he never forgets anything important. Our family has no history of Alzheimer's but three out of four of my father's children have empty spaces in their brains where things that were important used to be. One forgot how to smile, one how to eat and one how to laugh.

Wednesday, April 24, 2013

absolutely free time

There should probably be a disclaimer here, but I can't remember if I've started another post with one before already so I should maybe take the safe path and high road (yes, I know that isn't the typical use of the 'high road' but I consider it to also mean overpasses/footbridges, which really are safe road-crossing fingydings, all up up and away from speeding cars). So no disclaimer then.

Summer classes are having a strange effect on me: I am forgetting how to speak. I can still talk, oh yes, don't worry. My flimsy hold on language isn't going anywhere. I can recite in class and blog and text and write love letters. But I'm falling out of practice in the art of the conversation, not that I was ever much of an artist (too many, umms, wows, pauses, gosh, obscenities, oh oh oh's, and not-funny type jokes). But because of my schedule which fits none of my friend's schedule's, I really don't have anyone to regularly talk or hang out with. Combine this with my situation of no roommaties and wow look at that. It's 8 oclock at night and I think the last person I talk to was the cashier lady when I bought my lunch. Though, of course that's not exactly the case everyday, considering it's 7:44 in the morning right now and I'm not really a lady who lunches.

Positive side: I have cut back on some terrible vices and ingestions, like alcohol and snack time. I have so much time to exercise, I'm so deliriously happy. While stranded, at least I have with me a level of contact with the outside world, a means to make friends on new islands, and no pressure to eat eat eat and become fat fat fatter. It's a nice cool feeling against my palm, made by the reigns to my own freaking life, huzzah. Though secretly, and I hate to admit it, I miss home and the beach whenever and my mom asking me again and again and again and not ever at meal times, if I am hungry and bringing me food despite my actual answer and then me hiding it and throwing it away. Nothing quite like home, it is where the heart is after all. So despite the thump-thumping I feel in my chest, my blood pump must still be in Davao, in a ugly purple house with my mother and my cat. If that is my home. I hate growing up. I hate growing.

Despite all this free time, I haven't been writing at all. Oh okay, sure, my wrist still remembers the Roman alphabet since it is always flicking and looping and sliding from left to right as I write my notes in class, everyday, 10:30-3. But I haven't written anything about me, my life, something that people might read when I am dead, Lost Treasure/Indiana Jones-style, searching for clues. Why is she gone? Why did she do it? Was it planned? 

My life is one not worth writing down, but since blogs carry significantly less weight and cost than sheets of paper, I feel I'm insulting the universe less with every crap character. Still, I wish I had something terrible and offensive to be excited about. I'm growing sick and tired of the sound my body makes against knuckles. One can only hear hollow sounds so much before they open the box and shove something in to muffle the echoes.

Monday, April 22, 2013

budget magic fingers

I think I feel a fever coming on. Not a dance or music or party fever, a regular run of the mill, cold sweats and achy joints. Oh dear. I can't cut classes too, but hopefully I can manage to not look like the walking dead of tomatoland.

So summer classes have been okay, alright, nothing special. I have so much free time and my schedule matches up with my friends' to the furthest extent of passing each other as we walk from our first to second classes. Oh no. On the bright side, I've decided to finally finally finally volunteer at PAWS, since I have the time. Other things: menial jobs. I really don't mind waiting tables, ringing up cashiers, being that annoying sales lady who stands next to you as you browse through racks of dresses and who keeps saying 'dress, ma'am?'. I just need something to do. Though I really really want an internship or anything at UP NIGS, since rocks are my jam. 

Enough about that. Thoughts about what to fill my hours in with don't make good broadcast programming. 

Friday, April 19, 2013

nap time

Listen up because this is important: last night I had a dream about you. Note here that 'you' is something I say with a specific definition in mind. I am not talking about you, my reader, or you, the person who makes my heart go all a-flutter and who forcefeeds me caterpillars, or ever you, silly person of the general populace. This isn't a Dear Person letter, a demand, a rant, a dedication or even a sensical (sensible? a thing with sense) blog post. 

That's the problem with dreams. They are so very hard to define and because they're abstract, it's impossible to slap them in the face even when you sorely sorely really really truly badly want to. I've had dreams where I died, at my own hands; dreams where I jumped off cliffs, only to fall in love; dreams where I forgot what colors are right; dreams that made me not want to wake up; dreams where I would have rather amputated my own thumbs using a nail clipper than go back to sleep. These latter dreams are perhaps the best because they are catapults of the mind, they eject you from bed and make you wash the dishes or fix your closet or dance or write in a journal, anything oh god please just so I don't have to try and fall asleep again and feel that terrible heavy weight on my chest and feel the eyes of the supernatural or the imagined naturally super on me and my skin. 

The short and short of it: I know I had a dream last night and that it was stressful. I know that now, in the morning sunlight, my chest is tight and it feels like a worm composed of drill bits is vacationing in my ventricles. I know from the scratches that run parallel to my fibula that it was not a good dream, that I wanted to wake up. Or maybe that it was too hot a night and my tendency to battle the heat with an assault of fingernails on skin, a persistent little back and forth, a shallow digging into epidermal tissue that is supposed to, in some way, scare off the dry air from touching me, like when you wave fans back and forth over fresh food or rotting corpses to scare away flies. Maybe I should not have worn pajama pants. Boxers or underwear or the nude would have been a better idea. 

I have no idea who it was I dreamed of last night but I can tell you this: I went to bed and closed my eyes at 10:57 last night and it took me about another hour to claim my prize of REM. All this time I was possessed by the urge and the need to kiss and perhaps that explains the delay, maybe again it was just the goddamn hot hot heat. This morning I was awake almost an hour before my alarm was set to ring and the urge to feel lips against mine has not yet left and I have no freaking clue what to do about this.

Monday, April 15, 2013

sunshine is my ex-boyfriend

Credit where credit is due; the summer is a very high and proud summer this year indeed, oh yes, oh boy, damn straight, sure. Sweat is a method of cooling down the skin, and as well a method of toxin excretion, but not these days. Now sweat is my skin actually melting, bit by bit. From Ice Queen extraordinaire, breaking hearts left and right and eating the poems of boys for dinner and washing down the bitter taste with their tears, I shall become a puddle. Splash, splash, spite, spite. You will not dream of me, you will step in me and I will soak your shoes and the bottom bit of your pants leg.

There really is no where to run and no motivation to either (hear these words from my mouth, my meaning mine meaning me, a lover of exercise and cardio longer than my attention span). The Sun is everywhere, saying hello from 92,955,807 miles away. Hello, I am the Sun. I am here. Please don't ignore me. The Sun is whiny and clingy and desperate. The heat is smothering me. The Sun saw what we did to Pluto and got terrified of being next, terrified of being dumped, of being in the past. The 8 minute gap between us does nothing to ease the insecurities of a celestial body.

What other explanation is there? Solar flares? No. It's a sad, struggling, extension towards us, us, us. Why else is there heat in the air and heat in my water, heat in my blood, heat under my dress and blowing up my skirt, heat in classrooms and restrooms and under cold water? Either the Sun wants us so bad bad badly, or the Sun is angry because we've been craving the cold for too long. 

Snap crackle pop, this is a problem. Thinking about what exactly the Sun could be thinking is a problem-making thought process. Oh. Maybe the Sun has forgotten about us, has turned the other way, is looking around the room as we try to hold a conversation, because the Sun, oh glorious gorgeous life-giver, is bored and is waiting for someone else to show up. Maybe the Sun is lazy. Can't be damned. Cannot be assed. Can not be bothered. Oh.

Whatever the reason, it is very hot and this is me, complaining about the heat as if it's the most important thing in the world and the most important thing in my life and everyone should pay attention to me me me as I talk about the goddamn weather as if it was a personal insult against me.

Saturday, April 13, 2013

finally something else to be popping

So I am back in my dorm from Davao - Boracay and now hello Manila. I hate unpacking. Also, though I basically spent the last three days frying my skin and face and everything, I hate hate hate the heat. Muggy and humid and smogy. Someone please tell me and my lungs where all the air went and why the sun is so angry. Life without airconditioning...I need to readjust.

Sunday, April 7, 2013

It Was Love That Killed Her

It was love that killed her. Love that shoved her head underwater and held it there until her lungs held no more air and they gave up on her and she died. Love was what she last saw and it was the sound ringing in her ears, the bitter taste on her tongue and it was what filled every single bubble that escaped her lips. But it was still love, and that was beautiful.

They had met on the subway, where he was reading a newspaper and she was staring at the ceiling. Or maybe at the beach where she was sleeping and tanning in a purple bikini all alone on a beach blanket which seemed big enough to hold both her body and her soul with the sun turned up too high. Or maybe in the park, where she was sleeping on a bench. No, no, she wasn’t sleeping. She was resting. She was awake, keen to everything around her and sensing how every bit of the world was rotating around the sun at that very moment. But her eyes were closed and that is what made people think she was asleep. He had sat next to her, or she had opened her eyes at the precise moment that she may call out and say hello, introduce herself and fall in love. Ahaha, love. Had she known what would befall her, maybe she would have kept her eyes sealed shut. No, of course not. If she had known, she would have practically flown to him. Maybe she did fly to him. Fly into his heart and melt into him, seep into his veins and become the very blood that pounded through his heart. She was hot. Sizzling like asphalt on a summer day. Air bent around her with the heat of her body, or maybe with her presence. Maybe her just being there was already messing with reality. It was possible.

No, no, no I take it back. She was not hot. She was gorgeous. Beautiful. Pretty. So, so pretty. And lovely. But she was not hot. She was fragile. But there was nothing like her. And that is why, precisely why in fact, no one remembers what she looks like. We remember someone so hauntingly perfect looking that we forget who she was. I suppose she had a nose and a mouth and two eyes that looked at things, but for the life of me I cannot describe them in any way. I cannot say whether her hair was long and wavy or short like a boy’s or bright and red like fire and really that type of hair is hard to forget, but I can’t even remember any trace of it if it had been hers. Only to say that, like Italian cooking, they all mixed together to make something so horrible perfect that you wanted to die just so nothing bad could ever spoil the memory. She hated Italian food.

They would lie in bed and hold each other.

They would sit on the floor and fight.

They would huddle in clubs and do lines.

They would never talk or they would have inside jokes or they were communicating on the frequency reserved only for lovers. It was impersonal. Or it was so romantic that they were practically eating each others souls.

The boy was a boy. He was sweet. He was nice. He was a boy. There is never much to boys. They are what they are and any time they try to deviate from the norm, well, then they are no longer boys. They become friends. They become the end of jokes told at parties thrown by normal people. And the boy we are talking about now is anything but that. He was nice. He was sweet. He was just a boy who was born at the right time.

But he made her laugh. Everything made her laugh and that is what he liked about her. She liked that he thought he was the one making her smile. And that was the glue which kept them together.

They had fallen in love, as in truly in love to the point where no matter how many miles were stretched between them they would still be holding hands, under a bridge. No, not under a bridge that is so stupid. At the top of the tallest building in the city. Yes, yes, it was there. They were looking at all the people below and they realized that they hated every single one of them. And it was breathtaking love. Love that, if not so pure as theirs was, so pure that even the finest crystal meth in the world looked dirty and cheap in comparison, would inspire one to catapult off of rooftops. But then he left. And a metal bar came crashing through her chest, leaving her with a wound the shape of a heart where hers should be and no way to breathe. He had traveled to the city of The Next Life on a bus that picked him up with its windshield and he had left her with the Shattered Remains of a Life and a Dead Love.

He had done it on purpose. He had done it on purpose. He had left her on purpose.

And so she went looking for him. She went and looked all over the land, searching under every rock and behind every tree just so she could get mad at him. She searched in suburban neighborhoods, the occupants of which were doomed to live in their boring loops of lives anyway so it didn’t matter, and on top of skyscrapers. She screamed his name as she cried. She screamed his name. She screamed.

And then, as all land showed no love, no trace of him even, not even a bit, she resorted to her second plan. She would search the ocean. Search until he was found.

a silly little story i wrote back in senior year of highschool. it's posted on the sci-wing's website here.

Saturday, April 6, 2013

speaking of apology and confession

It's really kind of hilarious how easy it is to fool my parents. Oh yes mum, please buy me fruits. I've already eaten. I'm not hungry. Don't mind me just getting a second serving. Can I have some more eggs, bread, rice, cheese, peanut butter, soup, calories, calories, food food food? I'm totally better, totally fine. I love eating. Gonna go exercise. Can I have some money to go grocery shopping? I want to bake cakes.

But here is the trick: I am going to let the fruits rot and spit out the bread and throw away the eggs and I didn't really eat and I gave the cat my dinner. I'm not practicing yoga, not really. I'm locking the door to my room because I cannot be interrupted, not right now. I am stretching. I am exercising. I am studying. These moments are crucial. I need to be surrounded by four walls and alone with a reflective piece of hell, I need to see what exactly I am. I am my fingers making a closed circle around my upper arm, I am my rib cage and collarbone, I am the brave vertebrae that push out of my skin, I am hips and tendon, I am numbers. Despite what my birth certificate and online profiles claim, my real name is pronounced in inches and pounds. 

Darling father, I cried when you ordered pizza and asked me if I wanted to do more modeling jobs because I'm so anchored down by my flesh. It's pulling me underwater, despite the fact that fat is supposed to float. These tears are salty because they are bits of ocean spilling out of me. If I was a mermaid and my vocal cords worked even when submerged I would tell you that I am not better. That things are worse. That my face and bones hurt because I am angry all the time with them. Your darling little angel got sick because she wanted to be gorgeous for prom and then she got better and then she got worse. The end of this story is that she will die, not that she will be cured. She gained weight and lost control and she, I mean I, will trade her mind in bits and pieces in order to get back a firm grip on something anything oh no oh please.

Better is not fatter. Better is not a place or a smile or a goal weight. Better is not a healthy range. Better is impossible. All I've gotten out of recovery is extra flesh and people commenting on how much 'healthier I look'. This makes me want to set myself on fire. Once you see it, it being the truth about food, there is really no way to go back. Sweet, salty, sour, spicy and regret.

(But do you know what the worst part is? The icing on the cake and the cherry on top and the salt in my wounds is that I don't look sick anymore so I can't be sick anymore. What right do I have to complain about fat and to think about food and to cry when I eat so goddamn much? The answer is none, no, not at all. I should just shut my mouth and get back in control and stop whining like a little shit.)

Friday, April 5, 2013

end a sentence, begin a new paragraph

Growing up is not fun at all. 0/10, would not recommend. Hormones and hair. Our skin stretches and we learn about things like calories and basal metabolic rates and our hands expand like five-point balloons. But we drop things as if we're covered in butter. Oily. Slick. Slipping away.

If we are mosaics of memories and experiences, of secrets shared in slumber parties and reactions to trauma -- if this can be considered a formal definition of what is an I, then someone please give me a Do Not Resuscitate form and a noose, right this instant. Oh please. I'm afraid I was born without webbed fingers and the spaces between my phalanges are wide enough for everything to fall through. It's not my fault! It's genetics, it's preconditioning, it's all that goddamn butter. If our significance is found in a collection of itty bitties, then I am rapidly devaluing.

A list of what I've lost: 20/20 vision, the stuffed animals and beyblades and Kaoru doll that slept next to me for years, the ability to eat, trees to climb, years with family members (because of miles), cellphones, contests, my patience, the ability to touch people without wanting to claw my way out of my own skin, baby teeth, parents as heroes, safety nets, pets, earrings, potential, pieces of my front teeth, skin, blood, hair, bone, tears and sweat, feeling in my feet, a home, siblings and most importantly my mind (though until the autopsy, who can really say if I've lost it all). 

I do not like it. I do not like how I am not a puzzle incomplete. I do not like how I may have gained inches and pounds and knowledge and responsibilities, but I am still less of a me, compared. I have been, I say this indignantly, the realization thump-thump-thumping my heart against my brittle ribs like war drums, oh dear oh no I have been distilled. People can be complex, yes, but not at 2 in the morning when all the lights are off except for the backlights of a screen. This is when things come out to play. Not ghosts, but real live distilled grown-up people. And without my decorative armor, my bits and pieces, my hoard of memories and scents and pieces of paper, I am just. Perhaps that's why I can't write in only one journal anymore, why I have dozens of gorgeously bound blank pages hiding in stacks of novels I haven't read yet. There is no strength in these arms to lift a pen to a specific page, no, no more, just let it fall on any old paper. I give up this silly fight. Perhaps that's why I find it so hard to keep a blog, a record of myself and my life and my breaths as they circle between my lungs and the world. It's no easy task to pin something down with words and ink, and the incredible shrinking act of my who-ness doesn't help. It's hard to write about my life as if this is the 'during', the 'middle of'. Not when I don't see now as a single chapter of my book. Oh but that doesn't mean I see me as a book. I don't live a life worth writing down. I don't live at all -- I walk and breathe and go to class, oh isn't that sad? But I am a grown-up little child now with an allowance and everything. This is how I will spend my time.