The Present as It Was

I always feel like I am running out of time, and also like I am always lost. College makes those odd and strange feelings of mine get worse and even more intense. I cannot seem to be able to go with the flow and fit in. I just cannot answer questions without the fear that I may be wrong or I may sound stupid. Everyone seems to know what they are saying or doing while I am confused and frustrated.

A lot of people are confident or well-prepared. They raise their hands to answer or ask, approach the professor after class, and are able to live like they are okay. Those people make me envious and small. How can they be like that? How can I be like this?

I do not think that I will be the kind of student who will ever feel good about what I know, what I can speak of, and what I can learn. I always feel like I am far behind everyone. Like I’m not enough. There is this fear of mine that often taps me on my shoulder and tells me that everyone thinks I am dumb, and that everyone is waiting for me to make a mistake. It is scary and quite disturbing. It turns me into a little girl who just wants to go home and seek comfort from something or someone because nobody, not even my playmates, can really tell me that it is going to be fine.

And then there’s Time.

I somehow hate going home and thinking of how much time I have left before I go to sleep. I feel so disappointed in life. I am pressured to do well in college just so I can secure myself of a good future, but what about my “now”? What about what I want to do right here right now? Does that matter? Do I really only have to think about my future? What if falling asleep tonight is my grand finale? Have I lived at all?

I want to live, be happy, discover things, explore the world.

I want to experience.

I hate everything I feel whenever I am back in my room. I am always reminded that my responsibilities have stolen every chance I have to actually feel alive. I have to study, read, and attend classes. I have to be a student, a daughter, and a friend. Yet as I do all those things, I feel so insecure. My responsibilities are eating my time away, as well as my own self-worth. I am running out of time, and everything that I need to do is eating the time I have left.

I am running out of time, yet, with all honesty, I want more. 

I am scared to realize that all this time I might have spent almost all of my entire life on something so vague and uncertain. And it is scary how grown-ups think that everyone should focus on goals and dreams. Yet I get that. However, it will still take some time for that future to become my reality.

But what if it doesn’t? 

What if I don’t get to live long enough to make it an actuality? What about what makes my present? What value do I give the present? What value do we give the present? We only realize its worth once it is a part of the past, and that is sad. Really, really sad. We are so focused on other things to even realize that we have been losing ourselves – that we are getting closer and closer to our expiration dates. We are all running out of time, and we are all wasting our time as we get close to dying.

How much of my life have I actually lived? How much of our lives have we actually lived?

A Love Letter To the Little Prince

I was seventeen when I first met you, and it was during a quiet and cold night with stars barely twinkling in the sky. The hands of the clock kept on pointing in different directions while I struggled to fall asleep, feeling empty like there was this voice inside me, echoing and echoing without anybody hearing anything at all. Late hours meant pangs of sadness, but that night, it was different. And it was because of you.

You were the most clueless and innocent person I have ever known. I remember you talk about how you found the grown-ups you met to be quite strange. I thought that you only saw it like that because you were too young. You would not really understand them because the world in your eyes was a masterpiece to admire; compared to their view, the world was just another painting to sell and get known for. To you, to live is to experience. To them, to live is to function.

You walked around thinking about this irreplaceable rose of yours while you became close to others. You loved the fox and the pilot. But you also loved your rose. And the thing is that I knew that you were missing her. I knew, that at some point, you were going to leave. You had to because she needed you, and you needed (to see) her.

I listened to your voice and adored your laughter, but you ended everything with a saddening parting. I tried to keep in touch with you, and somehow we ended things in the same way. Despite our conversations, you really couldn’t stay even though I wanted you to.

You were lost; I was sad. You had a rose; I had nothing. You were too young while I was growing up. You had a curious mind while I had a glass heart, and I am not sure if it will matter to you, but my glass heart has cracks and they are your–departure’s–doings.

I met other people. There was this foolish yet hopeful man named Gatsby, a smart yet depressed woman named Esther, a poetic and caring teenager named AJ. Different people charmed and fascinated me. But even so, there are times when I just find myself being dragged back to you.

I never really knew that I have loved you until now. Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like to relive that night of meeting you, the prince, without being abandoned at the end because, with all honesty, you gave me hope.

For someone who is fond of sunsets, you almost fooled me into thinking that you are a sunrise. Maybe that’s why I love it when the sky bleeds–it’s because I am reminded of you, the prince who gave me hope but left me alone.

“I cut my hair.”

The sun was shining back then. We were sitting together on a bench and talking about how summer was so easy to waste and how the days were so quick at running away from us. The shade of the tree hid our shadows from the world, but it did not hide us from the wrath of the sun. Beads of sweat were on your temples, and you kept on raising your hand to wipe them away. I started searching my pockets for a handkerchief to lend to you. When I found one, I caught you staring at me.

“You cut your hair. Did someone break your heart?”
“No. I just felt like cutting it, that’s all.”

The moon was nowhere to be found that night when we were on the rooftop. We were both disappointed because we had been excited to see the stars bow down to the beauty of the insecure moon who only knew how to make a name for herself using the sun’s guidance. You asked if we could stay a little longer despite the absence we were confronted with. So there we were, lying on the rooftop under the night sky.

“You cut your hair. Did–”
“No. I cut my hair because I just wanted to. It’s not about a guy.”

You were staring at me. When a cheeky grin showed up on your face, I found myself asking you what you were happy about. You looked away, but that proud grin was still present. You held my hand back then, and I watched you breathe while my heart was pounding, deafening me with its own beats.

It was my birthday and we were together in my room. We were sitting on my bed while we were eating slices of the cake my mom bought for me. You were kidding about how I was starting to get old, so I joked about how you were starting to be a jerk. When you were finally finished with your share, you watched me eat. A smile never left your face. When I saw you like that, butterflies fluttered around inside my stomach.

“Your hair got shorter.”
“Yeah, it did.”

You got off of my bed and when I asked you where you’re going, you said that you’re just gonna ask for another slice of the cake. Before you went, you touched my face, whispered “I like you,” and kissed my cheek. I froze and it took me minutes to let what happened sink in. I waited for you to come back. When I got impatient, I went to the kitchen. Mom said that you had gone home already. She also told me that I had icing on my right cheek. That was where you touched me–where my cheek felt your thumb gently press itself against my skin. That night, you were all I could think about.

On our first date, you kissed me by our doorstep when it was time for us to separate. We were both trying to silence ourselves from the happiness that wanted to escape our lips. I was past my curfew, and I joked about blaming you for it. You said that it was also my fault, and that I had no right to complain since I was the one who told you that it was okay. You ruffled my hair, and I playfully slapped your hand.

“Not gonna cut it?”
“I don’t want to.”

I woke up beside you while you were brushing my hair using your fingertips. The light peeking from outside made you look gorgeous. The sudden contrast in colors made you look too good to be true.

“Your hair has gotten longer.”
“It’s been a while since I last had it cut.”

You smiled at me. I asked you if you had been up for a long time. You said that an hour or so had passed and you just watched me as I was sleeping. You pulled me closer to you, and I felt your bare skin meet mine.

It is winter. The two of us are talking on the phone. You are telling me about a girl you couldn’t leave alone. You say that she makes your day, and that she makes you feel things even without doing anything at all. I play around with my hair as I wait for you to stop talking about her. It has been months since we broke up. It has been months since you’ve moved on. Even so, here I am, still bearing feelings for you that I can no longer mention since you sound so happy about someone else. I twirl my hair around my finger as I stare at somewhere far away. Then, suddenly, you ask me about how I have been. I pause for a moment. My mind races with ideas giving fuel to my beating heart. But even so, none of them can really be said. When I realize that I have stopped playing with my hair, I remember the times you asked me about it.

“I cut my hair.”
“Because you felt like it?”
“No. This time, it’s because of a guy.”

I feel like I am undeserving of love and friendship just because of how fat and ugly I am. I have no thigh gap, flat stomach, tiny waist or a good pair of long legs. I am just the girl drowning in her insecurities and pouring her frustrations unto herself. I decorate myself with ugly scars–scars that might make people think that I am crazy or thirsty for attention–just to feel something else besides these guilt and hatred that I have for myself. I have stopped making batches of new scars, but I haven’t stopped hating myself. I try to change myself a lot just so I can accept myself. Yet, even if I do try to, there is always a point where I get back to the beginning where I feel that I am insignificant, worthless and invisible. It is getting harder each day, and I am getting tired.

The Shitty Poem

My heart
only knows
how to say

Your heart
only knows
how to say

And for that
we are
a pair
of cat
and mouse.

Where the cat
is hungry
for something
that stays.

And the mouse
just leaves
and abandons
the game.

The Prostitute

Look at my skin
ready to be devoured
by the selfish wolf
with the lack of self-control.

He will stare at me
as though I am a meal
and as I give him pleasure
he gives me his money.

He’d say “fuck”
over and over again,
and I would just let myself loose,
and moan the time away.

He’d think that I liked it,
he’d think that I liked him,
but no, I didn’t.
What I liked was his bill.

He would trace the curves of my body
and act as if he’s an artist.
He would even pretend we’re making music
and dance, oh how intense.

After his peak of ecstasy,
he’d fall onto me
as he takes some air to breathe
and takes my dignity with him.

I hate my job.
I hate fucking random men.
But I needed to make ends meet
and so the girl became a bitch.

“You’re very pretty,” they’d even tell me,
but I knew what they really meant,
“You’re only pretty in bed,”
but then again, every girl is, for them.

Once they’re caught or even in trouble,
I’ll be called a slut.
Oh how I’d love to go and ask them,
“Didn’t you say you had a good night?”