the first and the last.

i am not the first
to wish that you were here enjoying life (preferably, with me)
to treasure your smile like it’s the most precious thing i’ve ever seen
and how if your eyes fail to smile, too, something is terribly wrong
to imagine an alternate life where you and i
existed together in more ways than one

i am sorry.
i suppose that you do not understand that i do not wish
to taste your unchapped lips
to touch every part of you
to live in an alternate life where you and i
were intimate together in more ways than one

you are lovable in more ways than one
but i may be the first to say
that i
i only wish to witness your smile
unadulterated
i only crave the safe reassurance
that you so freely exude
is it wrong, though
to want you to hold me like nothing is terribly wrong
every once in a blue moon, only if you feel like it

i am not the first to crave
your touch, your gaze
but if only you would treat me as if
i were the furthest thing from invisible
may i be the first to say
“i would be content.”

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rambles from school, pt 1

Love is not an easy concept to grasp, because it’s not just a concept – everyone defines it a little different. It’s an emotion, or an action, or physical pleasure. Something I didn’t even consider until recently is that love is not capable of being confined to just one definition. To some people, it is one thing, while to others, it is totally different.

As a child, all I knew was familial love; there was also “parents’ love” – subtly romantic, longsuffering, and steady – but that was for adults. I did not dwell on the qualities love, much less on how I would define them. Growing older, however, as I start to revise and realize my own outlooks on various subjects, love is much more elusive than I originally thought. It is not straightforward anymore; rather, it’s like the color black. Some people say it qualifies as a color, some claim it does not. Some think that it’s all one color and anything else is grey that borders on black, but does not count as “real” black; some see different shades to bright colors combined. There is no one, universally-agreed-upon definition, because too many people see too many things.

Growing up, I have witnessed too many things to maintain one definition. Divorce, when two people who used to claim to love each other separate permanently. Immaturity, when one or more parties involved do not understand that loving each other, in any way, supposedly means that the people involved should care enough to work out their differences despite the disagreement. Martyrdom, even the sort that does not refer to death – one person lets another, or more than one, stomp over them because if that’s what the second party wants, the first should oblige, right?

Love cannot be contained by one human. It is too nuanced, too variable, to stand by just one definition. It is not just familial or just romantic. The least we can do is understand that.

12 Reasons Why I Write

“Why do you love writing so much?”

  1. I didn’t know I needed a reason.
  2. It’s a creative outlet. Don’t you always say that those are healthy? Besides, drawing is not an option– oh, you want to know why that is? Well, who ever expressed themselves properly with stick figures?
  3. All my friends are doing it.
  4. Am I allowed to answer a question with a question? (Hope there aren’t consequences.)
  5. Blunt exaggeration of an event can be excused as ‘poetic license’.
  6. I can literally write whatever I want.
  7. If I write, I can talk to others about writing. You wouldn’t believe some of the conversations.
  8. The words on the tip of my tongue leak easily down to my fingertips.
  9. I can’t not write.
  10. Because of the challenge, the puzzle, of fitting words together to convey my meaning as clearly as possible.
  11. Words are magic, simple as that. They’re lines that have a whole set of symbols and rules and structure and they make you feel so much.
  12. The sheer possibility.
{ bubbling over with noisy tirades / pens express better than razor blades. }

“maybe you don’t determine your own worth, after all.”

these are the days that I wonder –
why can’t you see how much I am not?

why don’t you see all the insuffiencies of mine?
it’s been a long time now since I crossed the line
the border between ‘to vent’ and ‘to whine’
and not for the best.

why don’t you see that I can’t unsee
all the flaws that make up me?
‘worthless’ is me summed up logically
and not for the best.

plate of anxiety, coming right up
with a side of burden-in-a-cup
sip of sensitive and impatient sup
it isn’t the best.

and all these descriptions sit precariously
are they accurate or just self-pity?
I fear I’ll never know which they be
that’s not for the best.

so you listen, you listen! with barely a comment
listen to the rambling of the broken-but-not-bent
the girl who’s compassionate but not content
she’s not at her best.

so you listen!
you listen.

precious, loved, and worthwhile
honest compliments you heap in a pile
overwhelm her, consume her, with your while
one of the things that you do best.

choices are what is key here
make a choice, avoid a tear
but still worry about who is dear

love and love and love and more
care is what makes up your core
out and out and out you pour
some of the things that you do best.

these are the days that you wonder –
why can’t I see how much I am?

seasons of unease

Everything is cold, so cold. Only the moon peeks out from behind the silver fog. You are cozy in your little room, curled up on a maroon-coloured window seat; far from any sort of harm, but not all is well. Not all is well. You have no idea what you are thinking, though – nothing is wrong?
A little voice that’s probably inside your head whispers /Nothing obvious, at least/.
You inhale deeply, because it feels like if you don’t you will choke on nothing at all. Maybe doing so will help clear your head? Nothing’s wrong. Nothing’s wrong.

Everything is budding, and everything is turning green. It does not help your mother’s allergies, but she is an adult, she can handle it, or so you like to reassure yourself. She is an adult, much like you will be soon – someone magically equipped to deal with all of their problems. Someone who either forgets how to imagine or never really grows up. You are not sure if you are ready, but who is?
Something is still not right, and now it is making you queasy. /Nothing obvious is wrong/.
So why does it feel like there is?

Everything is in full bloom, except for flowers that need the cold to survive. You have not been invited to any celebrations so far, but the vacation is still young. After this season it is off to school-for-grown-ups, but do you even qualify? This is more than a daunting prospect, it is terrifying.
You are getting more of a handle on the wrongness that has nagged you. It has something to do with unobvious feelings.
But what does that mean?

Everything is falling, including you. Falling for the friend that you have really loved for ages. It’s a peculiar feeling, falling; like nothing has ever been more hopeless, and nothing has ever been so delightful. It’s like walking on a clear platform, suspended in time for the entire world to see.
It is almost time for cozy, maroon-coloured window seats, and maybe you will not sit alone this season. The queasiness has almost dissipated and you are at peace, for the first time this year.
Nothing’s wrong. Nothing’s wrong.

[so I’m stupidly happy with this because it is 4 sections/seasons, 12 paragraphs/months, and as far as I can count, 365 words. I’m gonna hit publish before I second-guess myself too much.]

past tense

abandoned ashes
will never written
too young, too young
to know what’s done is done

too late to turn back
hope you don’t regret
all the battles never really won

liar liar, you said that you were fine
why did you fib, oh friend of mine
something was wrong, that I could tell
I’m sorry you saw your precious life as hell

keys cold as our feelings
rest in his pocket
deadweight even now

feel too young, too young
to know what’s done is done
what is to be done now?

and there are regrets
there are delusions
but none of them are yours

liar, liar, you said that you were fine
how was I supposed to know to distrust?
something was off, and we daily pay the cost
crying out for what is lost

I guess you didn’t see all who loved you
all who never told a single lie to you
I guess you couldn’t tell that I
would have died before letting you take your life
can’t see when, why, or how
I guess ‘I love you’ is past tense now

you.

i wish you didn’t say ‘i love you’
when i’m in a state that cannot believe you
and sometimes i wish that you could see
what’s eating at inside of me
(but sometimes i’m grateful you can’t.)

you told me not once, not twice, not thrice,
you told me umpteen million times
but right now i can’t believe you.

you proved yourself over and again
saying, ‘remember that? remember when?’
but right now i can’t believe you.

you made yourself clear at all the right times
stressing love that never dies
but right now i can’t believe you.

you helped me up when i fell down
and knocked my head against the cold hard ground
but right now i can’t believe you.

you loved me not once, not twice, not thrice,
you told me umpteen million times
and still i wouldn’t let myself believe you.