Farewell Romeo.
Farewell lost one
I long not for you no more
But I’ll think and dream of you
for years, decades, eons
You used to be my one companion,
sharing my body and soul
we would jump about, bubble blowing
finding delight in the back of the car
feet blanketed by sand
I’ve realized you’re never coming back.
I’ve said my good byes
You were never a real person,
but close enough
lost, faded, gone.
Moving On.
I know your pain just shakes you to the core
And you feel healing takes too much time
Remember, this has all happened before
Trust me; I know your wounds are still sore
And your heart feels like it is covered in grime
I know your pain just shakes you to the core
You feel like you just cannot love anymore
And your life no longer has any rhyme
Remember, this has all happened before
Believe me, I know moving on is a chore
And your relationship was still in its prime
I know your pain just shakes you to the core
I know happiness seems like a distant shore
And acceptance is a hard hill to climb
Remember, this has all happened before
But before you can go shut that door
And listen to the timer of grief start to chime
Know that I know your pain shakes you to the core
And rest assured: this has all happened before.
Where the Sad Things Hide
As they kissed for the last time
His eyes betrayed the cruelty of his crime
She was broken beyond repair
His last words, “Take care,”
Locked into her mind they stood
Where even death did no good
And hidden there in that sad place
Is the trace of an angel’s tear as it rolls down her face
The water it stained as it fell
There is where the sad things dwell
How To Survive A Fairytale.
If you should find yourself lost in a book,
Where certainly no one would think to look,
Follow these tips to keep yourself safe,
From witch, or from troll, or cold-blooded snake.
Be Helpful
If someone should ask you for a helping hand,
Help without thinking, do not be grand.
Chances are, they will later come back,
to assist you from a confusing trap.
Listen
If you’re given advice, listen or be doomed,
Even if it comes from an animal,
However degrading, I am sure you will find
it is highly preferable to stay alive.
Be Cunning
While there are those who mean you no harm,
There are the people on the other arm,
Most would eat you without a regret,
So stay alert to keep safe from them.
Stick to the path,
don’t open the door,
keep away from that cottage,
or we’ll see you no more.
Follow these hints,
and you will be safe,
but beware if the rules you ignore and break.
Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Imaginary Friends and Alter-Egos. (Part 1)
Sometimes, my cousin would come over but she was too old to be playing with plastic dolls and would rather watch cartoons than play pretend with me in my little house. My sister, on the other hand, well, I didn’t really like her back then. You know when you’re a kid and you hate playing with the older kids because they always want to be the boss? That’s the case with my sister. I didn’t want her to meddle with my rules. I didn’t want her to tell me what to do and always be the one to get stuff like pillows, food and other toys, and run errands for her because she’s too busy combing the hair of her favorite Barbie doll. Good thing, she started to get addicted with cartoons so she’d be in the living room watching with my cousin. I had the entire playhouse all to myself.
You see, my little playhouse was not just a playhouse. It was, for me, at the time, was my refuge. When I got scolded for leaving the bedroom messy or for not finishing my meals, I’d hide in my little house. When I would hear my mom and dad fight, I would run into that little house and pretend not to hear a thing. When our annoying relatives would come visit, I’d run to my little house to save my cheeks from getting pinched and being contaminated by kisses. In that little house, I would feel safest.
I didn’t mind that I was a loner. I didn’t have the luxury of playmates. I wasn’t allowed to have friends over because play dates where not yet heard at the time. So, my only playmates where my toys until I grew tired of their big black eyes staring at me and that factory-made smile that suddenly became disturbing. It was in desperation and a little bit of creativity that I conjured up my imaginary friends who later in life became my alter-egos. Alter-egos are usually a second-self, an extension of who you really are however with a distinct personality from the real you. For the record, I am not, in any way, have a mental disorder, just an unstable and complicated imagination with different personalities given a specific situation with specific people. And while people usually have only one alter-ego, I have FIVE.
(to be continued)
Memoirs: From the box under the bed.
I liked being a mess. The desk that should have been clear so I could do my homework was always besieged with bowls of cereal and spoiled milk, old magazines, and Post-it notes I had forgotten to remember. My floor was a vacuum in itself, eating anything entering my room. It consumed sweaters, stuffed animals, socks, shoes. When I occasionally did laundry, I would dig up clothes I couldn’t even recall purchasing. My shelves overflowed with containers of little odds and ends: hair bands, chapstick, cigarettes, loose mints, coins, earring backings. I couldn’t always see these things, but I knew that they were safe, nestled somewhere on a shelf. Like old friends in a phone book, I figured that someday I would find all the loose strings and tie them together.
One lonely day in May when all of my friends had yet to return from their internships and summer vacations, something inside me began to itch. I tried taking a shower, scrubbing myself with every bodywash and bar of soap I could find. I brushed my hair and my teeth, but didn’t feel any cleaner. I checked my e-mail - empty. I checked my Twitter to see for new mentions and Facebook for new tagged photos, but I had already seen everything.
I went downstairs and found my brother playing video games on his PSP, my sister on the phone, and Brandon watching Spongebob Squarepants – everyone in their right place. I told my sister that something didn’t feel right, and she suggested that for once I should clean my room. The thought itself made me nauseous. I went upstairs to sulk, feeling so overwhelmed that I might as well have been floundering without a boat in the middle of the the Pacific Ocean.
When I opened the door to my bedroom, everything was in its usual cluttered arrangement. A plate of half-eaten pancakes sat on my desk, soggy with syrup from the morning. My bikini hung lifelessly from my doorknob, dripping of pool water. My heavy covers lay crumpled and cold across my bed, molded by the twists and turns of the previous night. Piles of dirty clothes sat unsorted, collecting dust.
I stood in the middle of the cluttered room, breathing in the filthy air that I had become so used to. In the silence of that moment, I began to hear the clock ticking. I became aware of the moldy smell. I noticed that a spider had spun a shimmering line from my lamp to the top of my mirror. I shivered in disgust. I remembered during the holidays how my stuffed animal, Vanilla, had fallen behind my dresser and I hadn’t noticed until I caught the repulsive scent of her fur burning against the lit up cigarette, until it was too late and she had a permanent brown spot.
I suddenly felt sympathy for everything in my room that I had buried, never to be seen again. Lost items I had blocked out for years made their way back into my consciousness: my favorite yellow tank top, the picture of my mom and me on that helicopter ride, my magazine collection.
I had an urge to dive under my bed and uncover everything lurking in the murky depths of dust, and to climb up into the highest corners of my closet and rescue items that had been mingling with the spiders. The innocent piles were growing higher and higher until they were looming monsters before my eyes. They were threatening to swallow me whole. I had to get rid of them. And so I started to clean.
In a box buried under old textbooks, I found a wooden tablet engraved with a message my mom made before she died. It was supposed to be her gift to me for my ninth birthday. I hadn’t thought of her since she died thirteen years ago. I suddenly remembered the thrill of running naked through cold sprinklers with my siblings in the garden, the spicy smell of barbecue mixing with the salty air at the beach house in Paoay, and the distinct feel of her soft malong rubbing warmly against my cheek each time she enveloped me in a hug. I remembered how my mom would read me stories before bedtime.
I sat with this wooden tablet, blocking out the rest of the mess around me. I was in the middle of a storm, but I sat there and studied it until I had memorized every line:
“Rozanna Bianca. My graceful white rose. You are the fairest of all; be strong my darling for not everyone will understand. But remember that God himself is blessing you forever. I love you my darling. I will always be with you in spirit. Happy 9th birthday.”
Tears began to roll down my cheeks again, and the relief was like the sound of heavy rain pounding on a roof.
In that box under my bed, I found a picture of me and my childhood best friend, Nina. She had given this to me before we parted for high school. I traced the green and purple patterned border with my thumb, realizing that I hadn’t spoken to her in years. She reminded of how simple life was. How we would go to her house and make silly music videos and how horrid my haircut was in 3rd grade. She reminded me of how lame we were and how we both liked being in front of the line. She reminded me of how we would ditch piano lessons to play or how silly we were to think that platform shoes were cool. She reminded me that everyone in grade school could dance and sing and that friendship meant being seatmates forever. But we lost touch when I transferred schools in high school; and now she had moved to California after college. I had lost so many precious childhood memories over time, letting them slip away into the tide like grains of sand. It was the kind of conversation you never want to end because for each moment it felt like a bucket collecting droplets of water from a leak.
Under my bed I even found that picture book of Brandon when he was born. I had forgotten how fast time does fly. How he would fit perfectly in my arms wrapped in his baby blue blanket and how it was such a joy hearing his first laugh and noticing that he had deep-set dimples. Five years later, he comes to me with scratches on his knees and clothes covered in dirt from playing with kids from our neighborhood. Five years later, I could barely carry him. But what really caught my attention, though, was my image holding him. I had short hair, barely-there eyebrows, make-up less and fat. I stared at that girl, barely able to recognize this person who had drowned in the mess of my room so many years before. I was so young and naive. I decided to completely reorganize and revamp my room so that all the books, belts, and baskets were in their right place. It was like finding the missing pieces of the puzzle.
The finishing touch was putting together a collage of photos in the past 21 years and hanging it high up on my wall.
After all, it was me I had been searching for.
Sonnet: A Kiss Farewell
I take your hand, and think of ways to keep
you frozen in this perfect spot with me.
We know this is the last good-bye; we weep.
Held back are soft good-byes, and those things we
cannot bring ourselves to say. Time moves all
too quickly, and our coffee is as cold
as our toes. I surrender; collapse doll-
like into your giving arms. My soul folds
within yours, and somehow I know my eye
will gaze upon these familiar sights soon.
And yet, that fact does not my tears make dry.
We grasp this moment; reaching for the moon.
Malicious skies tear us apart and this
is the worst part of all; gone with a kiss.
ALLURE | OPENSHOOT
Allure | Open Shoot
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inclusive of hair & make-up.
October 9-10,2011.
Babydoll. <3
