Something Like This But Not This

26 November 2016

Look, I'm not here to tell you how big someone's dick is, or how many people I've slept with. I'm certain some boy will exaggerate those figures for you in an effort to prove his masculinity or degrade me by calling me a slut. I'm not here to send you the dick pics in my phone or tell you all the lies I've heard in bed. If you're looking for a diary of a nymphomaniac, you're in the wrong place.

Because while I'm not here to tell you how many orgasms I've faked, I can tell you that I've become a clumsily-made collage of all the boys who touched me; a patchwork quilt of bad habits nobody wants. My craving for everything fleeting is from the first boy who broke my heart, my nail-biting is French and impeccably dressed, and all the clutter in my room belongs to that boy with the cat named Gandalf. 

I'm not here to tell you about people's fetishes, but I can tell you that I spiral into something that resembles depression after every one night stand, mourning all the love I could never have. I live for those first few waking moments on a Sunday morning when there's nothing but contentment beside a warm body. Until he asks me to leave his apartment because his girlfriend is coming over. Until it's time to put on yesterday's clothes and I come home a crime scene with fingerprints all over my body and the stench of guilt emanating from somewhere within me.

I swear I didn't intend to move 6000 kilometers away from home just to vandalize another city with my heartache. In a place that's 4 million hearts strong, trust that you can find me chasing after all the empty ones. It's not that I'm stupid --not in the conventional sense, at least--, it's just that this giving heart is a blessing and a curse with its penchant for bleeding for all the wrong people. See, my mother never scolded me for brushing my teeth so hard until my gums bleed, streaks of red marbling my spit. My friends would always buy me new succulents after I tell them I've over-watered yet another one. I once spent two whole years harping on and on about a month-long fling, and strangers called it poetry. My own brand of idiocy has always been ignored or applauded, but no one really taught me that there's a difference between being fuckable and being lovable.

I guess this is what happens when you're a tourist spot so desperate to become home. Your foundations start to crack in an attempt to distort yourself until you're a heap of debris on the ground but people are still staring and taking their damn pictures. This is what happens when you don't open up but always leave the door unlocked: people come and go and often never come back. This is it. This is what it's like to try to suppress your willingness to love and be loved by letting your body do the talking. This is what it's like to still believe in pancakes on a Sunday and never leaving bed, but having to make do with scraps of fake intimacy instead.

Look, I'm not here to spill all my secrets but I can tell you some of the universe's. I can tell you that those who hurt you the worst are the most beautiful because their faces have never been disfigured with love. And apparently, just because he wants you tonight doesn't mean he will want you tomorrow morning or the following afternoon. Fuckable is not the same thing as lovable.

Photo by: Magritte Kauffman

You Are Enough

19 March 2016

1. You are good enough because you are still looking for the time that heals and the last tendril of fight left in you. And even though you think you won't find any, you still stand in the sun for a better view.

In Another Universe

19 June 2015

In between writing branded content for a living, there are poems forming inside my head. This is a half-assed one.

In this universe, my poetry is the broken record you hear faintly when you're all alone. It's you and you and you and you and nothing else. I admit it's not the best sound but it's still my favorite even after all this time. In another reality, you're 23 and we just finished visiting the playground of the gods and in yet another one, I admire the way flowers grow upside down, their beauty hidden in the earth for people to discover.

In this universe, this poem is not a poem but the many ways a human can long for someone. 

I miss you at 1:44 in the afternoon when I'm writing something that doesn't have your name in it. I miss you on a cab ride and I suddenly wonder if you're in the city. I miss you when he kisses me in the dark and I'm looking at the silhouettes on his unwashed curtain. I know it's a year too late but here are the words I refused to say that day you came back from the ocean: I miss you.

Worst of all, I miss you and it's getting worse. It's gotten so bad that rest of the world is writing about you as well. When they write about lung cancer, they're writing about how your mouth greets sticks of Marlboro Lights like old friends. They write in the language of math because it's the only way to describe the way your jawline changed slopes when you open your mouth to kiss me and when they write music, I swear to you they're hearing the way your hips used to meet mine.

In this universe, this poem is not a poem but an emotional bandaid. In this universe, hope is a disease. In another, you're 86 and you tell me I look beautiful in my hospital gown. In this universe, Jacob is a cheater, Lazarus is dead, and Martha is a worrier. In all universes, I don't believe in a god but I am your disciple.

In this universe, I need to be reminded that there are things other than sadness.

Lol sorry this is what you guys get after my short hiatus from this blog. I'm really trying to become a better mom for this blog but life, you know? Let's follow each other on Instagram instead, yeah?

What are your different realities made of? :)

P.S. Do you like my new theme?!?! It's cleaner now and I removed the page breaks for lazy readers like me, lol. AND!!! I got it on sale (from $25 to $3.99) because I'm supposed to be on a shopping ban, lol.

Photo by Robert Chang Chien

For Once, This One's For Me

17 April 2015

For Once, This One's For Me | Eunoia by Clarisse
Some weeks ago, I dedicated my 7,000th tweet to myself because I almost never get shout outs from myself to myself. Sounds vain, I know. But hear me out: it was one of those days when I was feeling great about myself. One of those days when I thought I've finally made peace with the past. One of those days when I thought I've finally fallen back in love with myself, you know?

But as of this writing, I just finished an insightful conversation with a friend who's somehow going through the same thing as I am and as much as I want to comfort her and tell her all the things to love about herself, the words seem too hypocritical to be coming out of my mouth because I realized I'm still not quite where I want to be yet.

So, deriving from one of Megan Falley's writing prompts from last year's NaPoWriMo (National Poetry Writing Month), I decided to finish one of my unfinished pieces for someone else (my journal is 80% unfinished, cheesy poems and 20% bad handwriting) and turn it around. The prompt is to write a love poem you wish someone would write about you. I've written one too many love poems to all the wrong people, I figured I deserve at least one. So for once, this one's for me.


This is for the times all your J's turned to Joseph's and all your P's turned to Philip's. For all those letters sent and unsent. For all the drunk poems you sent out into the universe that you didn't bother editing sober. Now I want you to watch all my words, regardless of the letters, to transform into your name. Your name is ethereal. Your name is ocean. Your name is petrichor. Your name is tea with perfect sugar. For once, this one's for you. For all those conversations that leave you hungry for sadness. For the nights that leave a bitter aftertaste and the afternoons spent humming a chorus of what ifs under your breath.

For once. For once,  this one's for you. 

So listen. I want you. I want all of you. I want the heights and the depths; the whirlwinds and the lulls. I want to know all the letters to your thoughts and all the numbers in your infinity. You can tell me as many times as you want about how you are nothing but a tourist spot made for wandering and how no one ever lives at the peak of a mountain and I will always respond with, "But you are my home". I want to forget my native tongue and learn yours. I want to memorize the alleyways of your mind and live at the outskirts of your city where the glamour of it all starts to fade. I want you to be home. 

Because, listen: moving into you would be my awfully big adventure.

You are cliff diving: you scare the shit out of me and I don't think I can do this at all but I will anyway because that rush -- that rush -- is worth the pain of fear trying to claw its way out my throat. You are climbing Mount Everest without as much as a coat on: you could freeze my fingers off and I would gladly let you if that means seeing the whole world the way you do. You are the ocean I wouldn't mind drowning in: filled with all the unrecognizable things I want to remember for later. 

Baby, you are sex in the Louvre: an indulgent thing I didn't even know I want.


You could turn something as mundane as eating breakfast on the couch into an adventure. Going to bed with you gives me an adrenaline rush similar to that of jumping off an aircraft thousands of feet from the ground. Hell, even brushing my teeth next to you with our mouths full of cheap toothpaste makes my brain run out of oxygen. And isn't that what love is supposed to be? Transforming all the regular shit we have to do on a daily basis into something tolerable? Into something exciting, even? 

So listen. Maybe this one poem does not make up for the fact that hundreds of your poems are still bleeding for the wrong person somewhere out there but I hope it somehow makes up for the sent letters that came back unread. For the days when your heart is a heavy machinery you can't operate. For the times you tried smashing yourself to wholeness. For the temporary numbness in between shot glasses. For the moments you found it hard to breathe but tried to anyway.

For once, this one's for you: your name is adventure and I hope you never forget that some people feel right at home on mountain peaks.


You see, one of my resolutions for this year is to fall back in love with myself. Sometimes I backslide. I'm a fat girl telling myself to eat clean when really, I'm always falling back on a steady diet of the past. Maybe that's okay, too. Maybe it just takes a long time to quit some things and some people. Maybe you just have to give yourself gentle reminders from time to time that you are something you deserve to love, too. Or you know, maybe something like this:

Lol sorry if this is too weird and scattered and cryptic and not blog-y at all, but it's one of those moments, haha! Also, I'm realizing that I have no idea how to write love. I'm used to writing hurt.

Anyway, what kind of love poem do you wish someone would write you?

Photo sources: Tumblr