#forself

Everything eventually gets better — a lie, the beautiful façade of an abandoned building, the paint on rusty steel. I lied to myself. I knew, all along, nothing is getting better. Everything is only getting worse ― the climate change, the nonstop cry of guns everywhere, the nonstop cry of burdened hearts. Every single day, the world only gets stranger. And, oftentimes, I let the truth become a stranger, too — as if it was someone I have never acquainted with, someone I never heard nor knew of.

Fear is a friend that knocks on my door. At random times. At lonely times. At times when I barely ask for somebody. He tells me he'd stick around in bad times. But he is there most especially in the good times; he awakens my thoughts and whispers through my ear the words I am afraid to hear: these euphoric moments are not meant to last. But hope - is a friend that I let in my door. At desperate times. At times when I badly need somebody. She usually leaves me with fear but comes around during the bad times; she hugs my mind and her words echo in every corner of my head: the horrible things are not meant to last, either.

The hole in my shirt is how my soul breathes the agony in words, and the bliss in poetry; the cadence in lies, and the fluctuation of truth; the conformity of what’s right, and the incongruity that’s left; the air it [my soul] inhales is either a mix of all or a blend of none; oftentimes it spawns chaos inside my lungs.

Anger rages inside like waves in the ocean dancing and prancing  in the middle of a storm; it feels like the boat is sinking, and my whole body trembles, a sudden hefty feeling sails inside my heart, and the fear of drowning makes my chest pound rapidly, endlessly, heavily, and that's when I jumped into the vast and boundless waters of the ocean - I let it swallow all the burdens, I let it calm the outrage, I let it quiet down all the enraged voices inside.

My entire life was almost always spent trying to hide the scars that labeled my skin ugly, disgusting, full of flaws. Everyday, I spend hours looking at the mirror, trying to see which clothes would cover all the imperfections; which clothes would give other people the chance to step on my skin — and those were the ones I already threw away. Over time, I have known all the words my ears have to suffer from my mother look at your legs, your arms, your thighs, they just show how you have no control over your fingers but little did she know how these fingers, although trembling, were the only fingers that touched these scars with softness, which the world cannot ever afford to give. These scars, these are mine long before someone claims them to be theirs; I named every one of them after every insult my mother had given birth to; after every disapproval I see in every person's eyes each time I try to show them. These ugly, disgusting marks, these don't make me less of a beauty. I hope my mother sees me the way I wanted to be seen.

We become so desperate of love that when an empty hand is held out  to us, we try to fill in those spaces with our fingers without ever thinking twice, or thrice, or four times; and hold them as if we were meant to cling to them forever but sometimes our hold become so desperate, our fingers etched on the spaces of strangers’ wrists, red skintight marks,  slowly breaking them to pieces and situations become so desperate, then, it will be known to you, these spaces will be just spaces, as if, it was just a black hole, just pure nothingness, yet, still, it consumed you whole.