Friday, January 22, 2016

She's A Wild Disaster

She's full of awkward pauses & has an everyday forecast of weirdness. Her aloofness blamed on her, as if she walks through a room, desiring to ignore the social & the innocent; and punished on her as if she has carved a heart out for dinner. Has it occurred to anyone that her mind is not even there?

Wherever she's inundated of insecurities she spells them into oblivion, with a shrug. She's so full of unspoken & undiscovered places. So many secrets buried in pits that are now in other pits. Don't go down this path, friend; not unless you're ready for the thorns.

She has the heart of a hurricane, which starts beating like a gentle breeze. She's enriched with the most painful minerals ever discovered. She's so enclosed in her cave, alarm systems sensitive to the tiniest steps of anyone entering her life.

There's no map to her soul, no directions to her mind, no GPS to her heart. Yet, when described by those who don't know her, they suddenly know every inch of her being, and they sum it up by saying: "She thinks she's better than everybody else."

Silence, oh foolish psychic who can read the souls. There might be pain injected in your words.

Tuesday, January 5, 2016

Never A First Dance

Suppose there's a girl waiting to be asked to dance. Suppose she's waited all her life.

Suppose that one day the lights of the stars would all shine on her and that the moon would sit on the first row to watch her bring her body to scream life. Suppose that she was so worth the dance, that feeling shy or embarrassed was a thought for after the fact, not at the moment. Suppose that her legs were soft and luminous, as the dancers on TV. Suppose her rhythm was the harmony of two pair of legs, and not just hers. And suppose there was a man willing to dance with her.

Suppose that the mornings were drenched in the sweat of two lovers, and that she called it rain. Suppose that in that rain, she was allowed to dance, and that she would let him slow her down, with a slow dance, to the pace of their heart beats singing. Suppose she didn't have to beg for him to dance with her. Suppose dancing with her was something out of this world. Suppose that they could sync with each other, as do the clouds with the net. Suppose for one moment that he did want to dance with her.

Suppose he asked for her first dance, took her into the stage under the moonlight. Suppose he forgot that the world was a witness to their secrets, and suppose she said "yes" with a kiss. Suppose she had been waiting for that moment since the first time he refused to dance with her. Suppose that it was unexpected, as she knew that she wasn't worth much of anything, much less the cost of embarrassment.

Certainly, he would not care for such embarrassment with a girl worth dancing with. Well, she knew she wasn't.

Suppose she waits under the moonlight, and wishes upon every single star, every night, hoping her wish will come true. Suppose it never comes true. Suppose it won't. Suppose it doesn't. Suppose life happens. It's alright...she's only waited all her life. She'll never be asked to dance, because girls like her don't get the best things in life.

And suppose Bruno Mars was right: "All she wanted was to dance...But she's dancing with another man." Not at all, she whispers. She will never be asked on her first dance. Her verse would stop at "All she wanted was to dance."

Sunday, January 3, 2016

Not A Goodbye

It was The White Castle that enclosed both of them, him and her. They could never be together, life wouldn't allow it, nor would their friends, much less their families. They were responsible for a lively beanstalk, which decorated The White Castle. There they were, in the middle of December, he was holding her hands. After one week of silence, finally she replied to him. She had never seen a man fight for her with such vigor and gentleness. As a matter of fact, nobody had ever fought for her at all.

His time was limited, as he had to go back to his tent, so he grabbed her hands, careless of her approval, and she did not tug away. She craved his wantfulness of her. As he began explaining himself, she stared at his lips. They were so perfect in shape and form. Did he know this would be their last time together? Surely he suspected the possibility after her long, weak silence. He violated her bubble in the most fervent and devout way; she felt wanted. He pulled her into his arms without a care of any request, because he just wanted the skin wrapped around his lips to breathe on hers. She did not fight, not even for a little bit. Her racing heart did not let her doubt that she felt alive. Their lips still mirrored each others' and their lips danced, slowly, creating a wondrous movement. And as their lips harmonized, he exhaled, still caressing her lips with his: "I missed you." She died at that moment, as her heart stopped beating and filled the space of the room with speechlessness. When her heart started beating again, she was able to reply "I missed you, too." So many emotions crossed, bumped, and tripped at that moment, she could barely realize she had died for a moment.

She began her speech, trembling with every heart beat. Her heart trembled, as she was about to lose him in the next ten minutes, forever. She explained her position and she tried to tell him she had to leave. She could not stay with him. And when he said "I don't want to lose you" she died again. This time a little longer, a little more intensely, and the room was filled with speechlessness again. There has never been hands that so fearlessly held hers, unwilling to let go. She did not understand how, with her mental strength, tough spirit, and willfulness, such soft, tender, and fragile words broke through her walls. She sat there, waiting for the words to take form in the air, to make themselves heard to his ears, but her lips were a pair of paralytic legs; all she needed to say to end it was "this is it." But it is as if they had become unknown to her vocabulary. She fought, battled, and tackled her brain for them to appear. "This" disappeared, "is" evaporated, and "it" dissipated. He waited for the words to dismiss him, but she could not bare the chaotic thought of leaving their flourishing beanstalk to die in this white castle, to wane away, without holding him many more one-more times. She lost to him. For the very first time in her life she was so frail in somebody's arms. Her whole life, she emptied herself away, giving herself to those she cared and loved in the form of tough lessons, hugs, and sacrifices; this time she gave nothing--she was just herself, breathing in her own skin. It was okay to be herself now.

She had come home to The White Castle. But it wasn't The White Castle that was her home; home was in The White Castle, because he was in The White Castle. He was holding her so tightly, it was as if they were becoming one. And if she could record the sound of home, it would sound exactly like his heart beat that night. And if she could paint a portrait of what home looked like, it would look exactly like his smile. If she could close her eyes to his smile every night, she would be the happiest woman alive and dead. And so she lost. She could not say goodbye.

As they left The White Castle she whispered in his ear. She pulled away, before she couldn't let him go. And so he pronounced a spell, commonly said by those who want to get their way, except she knew this had meaning, for neither of them were getting what they wanted: each other. And he chanted it: "I love you." "I love you, too" she replied. And right before she went under his spell, she asked herself: "Will he always love me? Or will he forget me as quickly as I came into his life?"