neurotic paradoxes

REFRAIN.stop using them. you and i.

 

 

enough you. let's talk about me now.

it has been a week, see.
i did smell you. inhaled your breath
when i was asleep. yes, i heard your
voice even when the waves crashed
through reefs and rocks. and yes,
i can only create poems with you in it.

sadness, that.

and it has been a long week, see.
there is still nothing in it for me but
you and a memory. there was an excuse
for me to kiss you when half-drunk dares
go rampant. it has always been like that,
that. and still, you are nothing to me but

...that unprofitable dream.

sadness, this.

the week is over, but i still remember
how a wayward arm could find its way
around mine; underneath a table with
empty tanduay bottles on it, two hands
mingle. separate worlds, the hands and
the people who own them. yet tonight,

i sleep. and i no longer dwell on
unprofitable dreams
but of what-could-have-beens.

(see, i like it
when you say you can't.
it is in pain like this
that i can create a
'you'
in 'me')

sadness. that.

me: yes, i am single.

him: why?

me: why not? 's not like i need somebody's dick to be happy, you know.

him: i still think you're bitter.

me: why should i be? i'm not. i'm really not. stop it.

him: stop what?

me: whatever it is you're trying to do.

him: hey, i'm not doing anything.

me: yes you are. you're playing with me.

him: no i'm not. (him toys with her nipple)

me: there you go again.

him: i swear to god, i love your nipple. i meant you.

me: yes. i've heard that a gazillion times already. now stop it.

him: stop what? this? (licks her neck)

me: yes. that.

him: why?

me: why not?

 

 

 

i can post everything here and i won't even care what you think. see, my life, as cliche as it may sound, is an open book.

the pictures speak more than the words i type, words. words i type are nothing else but that. you conjure me as somewhat the kind who can never grow old. not that kind of old. at least, here. me. this.

it's almost three in the morning. i don't remember any mornings when i was ever asleep at three. i think i think too much. it is unhealthy. like that chicharon i ate this afternoon. chicharon and rice and vinegar. yum yum. sinful pleasures.

like that once in a lifetime question where i could have easily said yes but i said not tonight. not tonight? wtf?!

(in-betweens are never good. unhealthy. nothing but pathetic excuses for wanting something you think you don't deserve.)

bull, i tell you.

yes, i blame it all on the alcohol. not only does it save you the hassle of trying to explain what you might have done to someone/something when you're dead drunk, it becomes an excuse to everything. everything.

 

and hey, they say alcohol makes you lose all inhibitions. pfft. pathetically yes.

 

go on. rant. cry. emo-burst. scream. go to the beach. get drunk. run towards the water. wade, wade. swim and pretend you're drowning because they all know you're wasted. let someone save you. let them carry you to the shore. pretend you're choking, gagging water out of your lungs. cry some more. let them carry you back to your room, your bed. cry some fuckin' more. let the next single guy in the group comfort you to sleep (or not). heck, it wouldn't matter if he's in a relationship. what goes on at the beach, stays at the beach. fuckin' leonardo dicaprio. he never belonged.

 

sleep. wake up. hangover. go to nerie's. buy one more bottle of redhorse. make that two. drink again at 6 am. someone would eventually notice the beer, and the hand it is wrapped on. and they'll say, "ang aga-aga umiinom ka na?!" and you'll pretend like it's the most normal thing to do in the mornings. at least your mornings. and you'll watch them again, you'll watch them surf. and you'd envy all the women in bikinis, not noticing that the bottle of happy horse in your hand is your seventh for the day. you mentally cuss about how fat you are.

 

and you go back to the urbanity of it all. always wanting the window seat, knowing that you're all alone. no hand to hold hands with. no shoulder to lay your head on. window seats = face towards the outside, eyes unfocused at any green thing, an occasional long haired guy with a cancer stick on his lips, waiting for the next jeepney to town.

 

half of the time you create worlds where you are the main character and everybody else is your lego.

 

build, build. destroy, create. dismantle. legos are toys. wonderful, bright-colored blocks. pieces. nobody ever wondered where the black lego blocks are. always the blue ones. red. green. white.

 

happy horses. always one happy horse in twenty-four. just one. 'ano kayo, sinuswerte?' not everything you think you know have fairy-tale endings.

 

 

 

i gave up coffee and cigarettes

i hate to say it but it hasn't helped me yet. (yeah you go michelle)

i thought my problems would just dissipate

and all my pain would be in yesterday.

             but it's true, i'm still blue

             and i finally know what to do

             i must quit... i must quit...

 

 

you.

 

 

effin' lyrics.

nothing ever works out if you try really hard enough.

see, it's like this. i rarely take the bus to work, i almost, always have to ride a taxi. it's convenient, it's faster. more expensive, but nevertheless, the short ride will not make me think more of you, and you. and you and her. see, it's like this. i think too much. perhaps, reminisce is the word. but then again, you know how sentimental i can be. i try too hard to remember. and still.

                                                                                               look at me.

 

 

it's like that day when you tried to kiss me but i avoided your lips like the plague.

see, it's like this. i don't call you by any other name other than the artist. yes, it's like the artist formerly known as. except that, your name will remain undisclosed. you, the artist. me, the self-proclaimed writer/poet, whichever is more suitable. yes, well you know you sometimes think of me that way, and it would be best to keep such labels.

                                                                               no names, just labels.

 

 

it's like that day when you held my hand discreetly during the taxi ride, half-drunk and all.

 

nothing is ever complicated if you simply said yes to everything else.

 

 

see, it's like this. i'm a woman of 'no'. no, i love you but you just don't kNOw it yet. no, it's not that i did not want you, i always wanted you but circumstances then won't permit it. no, don't leave me. no? of course you won't, in the first place, we never were.

it's like that day when you asked me: "Can you be my muse?" and I said, "Yes."

                                                           can you be my muse?

                                                                                                     yes.

 

it was a very nice lie, that.

and we go on ranting about how it was each other's fault. no, it's not MY fault. no, it's not yours either.

it's like that day when you said: "I can paint again," and I said, "I can write again."

                                                                                                   lies. lies.

lies. 

 

 

see, it's like this. listen to gorecki by lamb. devour the lyrics. eat it like you never knew what hunger really is. if i could die this very moment, i wouldn't fear

see, the words were meant for you. for i've never known completeness, like being here

you, the artist, formerly known as. wrapped in the warmth of you, loving every breath of you... still my heart this moment, oh it might burst

 

see, it's like this. my taxi rides are short, like what we used to be.

here we go again.

 

look, if you don't want to, that's fine with me.