A Monster’s Story

For her, it’s amazing just how much he hates himself the way she hates herself, but all the more his imperfections are so beautiful that it makes her fall deeper in love. His imperfections were something compared to hers. So to say that his downsides are the best things, that his scars are his best features, that the darkness is something not terrible, but beautiful. He’s the angel she’s been dreaming of her entire life. He calls himself a monster, but no, for her, he is the most wonderful angel that could ever exist.

And he doesn’t even know.
Because he doesn’t care.

The thing with monsters is, they tend to destroy the things that love them even before knowing just how much. They leave them in the ashes of their feelings and turn to hate themselves even more. Monsters wouldn’t know just how much.

This monster wouldn’t know just how much.
Just how much.

Had she not known in the beginning? Once a monster falls for a monster, only sad stories and poetry will come forth.

Saudade

 

Once, there was a girl who loved a boy who wrote happy stories, although she was the complete opposite of him. Unlike he, she was looking for the saddest story ever written, something about the most painful feeling any human being could feel, and in her desperation to know true human sorrow, she read every sad book that ever existed.

And the boy who used to write happy stories fell in love with her throughout all her frenzied desperation. He loved her so much his words started to exist for her. The happiness he used to write about stopped becoming what he was trying to convey.

Instead, he conveyed his true feelings for her.

And she never knew.

Years passed and the boy died, left with no more pages to read, the girl returned to find that the person she had loved had passed away, leaving her a book he had written for moments when she was gone.

When they buried him, they had given the book to her, as he requested. The moment she touched the cover, she knew what it was and never read it.

It was what she was looking for.

E P I L O G U E

The little boy walked up to his mother, holding an old, ragged book bound with dried leather strings. She scooped him up in her arms and brushed a kiss on his forehead.

“Where did you find that, my love?” She asked him, but the question passed through his ears as he turned it over and over in his hands.

“Mommy?” The boy spoke, with a tone of curiosity in his voice, “what is this book about?”

She looked at him. She could see him in those wide, innocent eyes, looking back at her.

“Grief.”

Traveler’s Lullaby

I wanted to
pack up and
explore the different
facets of the world
that no man would
ever see.

And most of all,
though you may not know,
(and might never will)
I wanted to find them
with you,
and only you.

Remembering to Forget

“I tried forgetting you, talked to boys until 4 am, but nothing ever worked. You always find a way back, and I don’t know what to do anymore,” she told him through the receiver, leaning on the door in her underwear, within the pitch black shadows of the empty living room. Her tears tracking slowly down her cheeks.

She could hear him laugh bitterly, along with the pops and crackles of static. His voice tainted by anger, and maybe, just maybe, pain as well.

And it took him a while before he talked.

“While you’re up,” he whispered, “at four in the morning trying to forget about me, I was up remembering every little detail I could of you.”

Desolate

An angel fell
for a human,
with sad eyes,
the way the sky
seemed to look
before the rain,
the way the clouds
darkened and cast
shadows on the ground.
He fell for her
simple beauty and the way,
she smiled at the world
from the mirrors in the sky.

He yearned to be with her,
so the angel
for his love, ripped off
his wings and
offered his soul
to the devil,
to become human.
The devil was
a cunning joker,
he gave the angel
pain that lasted days,
days that were
fifteen years each
in the world of man.

But the person he
loved was a veiled bride,
kissed by death,
a black soul, and
had aged as the years passed,
when he writhed in agony,
to become a man.
She had loved,
and had married,
and bore children,
and had grown old,
and had died.

And had not come to know him.
And had not come to love him,
when he appeared screaming
in her dreams.

They say, they say that
the angel turned human,
still walks along the roads
of life, changing bodies,
and memories,
and lives,
looking for the soul
of the girl he loves.

He has yet to find her.

The Boy Who Ate Shooting Stars

You caught
and placed
shooting stars
into your mouth,
tasted them
one by one.
felt their warmth
slide down your throat —
with all the love
the universe could give.
And you traversed
galaxies with
clouds between your knees,
through meteors and
planets, through
rose gardens and
empty deserts,
leaving me with nothing
but the memory
of what could have been
your kiss.

Despondency

Fate has been in love with Time for what could have been millions and millions of years. And Time loved Fate in return.

Time would give Fate so many gifts,
memories to be remembered–and forgotten,
laughter gone unheard and heard,
tears seen, and will never be seen.

Fate tipped the scales of life and death,
and offered Time lives and stories.
Youth and decay, happiness and sadness.
Time kept the gifts forever and ever.

But in the midst of all those lives and all those stories, the tipping of the scales, the passage of the years, Time forgot Fate, and met the World.

Thus is the story, how Fate rocks the World with sadness and destruction,
of how at times Fate would be merciful and give the World happiness and peace,
and Fate still tipping scales of death and life and life and death, and all the stories she used to give to Time to mold was for hers and hers alone, making the World seem cruel to the eyes of strangers,
and Time but the flow, keeping the World at bay, making it whole and beautiful, as it should be, and it is the truth.

This is the story, when once upon a time, Fate had loved Time, and Time had loved Fate, and the World had written the saddest tale of all.

The Story of You and I

Do you remember the scene? Played out in my head,
two years ago we were strangers waiting for things
we could never have. I was fighting away the demons
stuck within the blood of my pen, and you were unknown.
Like a bird out in the open, a crow with black feathers spread
embracing the blue sky, searching for a place to land.
And I, the rooted tree, dying under the midday sun,
staring up at you, envious that you were free.
And slowly fate had crossed our paths, intertwined it
until we were brought a step together. The crow had
landed unto the branches and brought it life.

I remember your eyes the first time I looked at you
and saw how beautiful you were. A man leaning
at the side of the wall in silence, and eyes downcast,
all the different shades of brown and sadness.
Stormy and lonely, and dark and scary and
b   e   a   u   t   i   f   u   l
You are every bit as beautiful as the world seen
outside the window, like constellations illuminating
the night sky, like snowfall gleaming in the winter sunlight,
like a rose in full bloom, what could have you been living for?

And you gave me so much to experience in so little time,
somehow in that stretch of what could have been “forever”
I grew to treasure your presence, every bit of your essence,
the way you stutter at times when we speak, or the way
your eyes brighten up so much the sadness dissipates,
your smile is fit to the angelic value of your name,
and in turn they become bits of happiness I can call yours,
or the warmth I felt from the surface of your palms,
or the harmony of your voice that sent my demons away.

In that small stretch of what could have been “You and I”,
yes, I do love you, and does it matter now?
Now it has only become “You” and “I”. Nothing more.
Have you given me up? Like how I have given up?
I’ve given up on hoping and waiting, knowing that
these endless days of being patient will not come to fruition.
I’ve given you up, knowing that you can never become mine,
like how you said you could. It won’t happen. You’ve left.
You’ve spread your wings and flown away, you won’t come back.
But remember, I’ll love you until I can’t anymore, your answer
is still a need to be heard. But until then, when the time has come

goodbye.

Hate Me

Lately I have been dreaming of
your singing voice, echoing within my head as
blood in my veins slowly change into tears.
But where can we now stand
in this thin line between love and lust,
love and hatred,
love and unlove?
It’s been so long since I’ve felt
the warmth of your touch upon my skin,
and sometimes I just wish that
I had never let go. I had taken that
leap of faith. The consequences
of pushing away the fear and “living”.
But now I’m aching to hear the sound
of your voice, stumbling upon words
and poetry and lost affection,
now burning within the embers of
hatred. You promised me.

 

But where have I
landed now?

 

“You hate me now, don’t you?”
“No! Why would I hate you? I won’t ever hate you. I swear to God I won’t ever hate you, how could I hate you?”

 Liar.

 

Death is Sweet Pleasure

I am dying.
Slowly, unlike how disease eats
away at my insides. Slowly.
I die everyday, in the mornings
when I wake, alone in my bed.
I die in the afternoons when
sceneries are painted blurs outside
the moving window. In my head
I die in the evenings, when
all is silent until I fall asleep.
I die of loneliness and envy,
of sadness and jealousy,
of loving and unloving,
I die with the thought of you
crossing my mind everytime I
close my eyes.
And I don’t mind it. Dying this way.
I don’t mind it all.