How I Love You

You make me
want to see you,
touch your face,
hold your hands,
and kiss your lips.

You make me
want to love someone,
when all I really want
is to protect myself
because I’m so done of loving
and I’m done of getting hurt.

But you make me
want to love you,

You make me want
to sacrifice
the security
I’ve given myself.

You make me want
to risk everything
that makes me safe.

Because when I
started loving you,
you took away
every chance
that I could get
from the happiness
of being safe.

I don’t want
to be safe
by myself.
I want
to be safe
with you.

And that is how I love you.

To My Own Creation

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I drew you in the sanctuary of darkness so you could act as their light because I’ve gotten too used to black lines on white papers. I wanted you to be different. I wanted you to bring light to darkness, and not darkness to light because that’s how beautiful you are. And I want you to be unaware of that, that’s why I can’t make you smile for them. I have to make you seem like you hate being there despite bringing a miracle. That is your torture. Because I’m your possessive and sadistic creator. I am the artist.

Goodbye, Innocence

I used to love being in the arms of my father while my mother would look at us with a gentle smile on her face. I would get that warm and welcoming feeling while I stared back at my mom as I returned the love my father had given me through his embrace. After a moment, my mom would give in and join us. Sometimes, it might be the other way around wherein my mom would start the hugging session, and my dad would be the last one to join.

My happiness existed with them, as well as with silly toys like Barbie dolls, dollhouses, paper dolls, and pretty much any toy that would make me feel like I was in control of the lives of the people I could use as my subject. I was the queen in my own lifeless and tiny kingdom. I was the queen in love with being in control of herself; but with my parents, I would become a princess because the real queen was my mother.

Reality had a different kingdom for me to rule over, though.

Whenever I went to school, I would search for my friends. My friends and I often talked about ridiculous things. We would brag about our toys, clothes, and accessories. But as we grew older, our topics started to involve boys and crushes. We would even guess who was going out with who, as well as who liked who.

I had a crush on a boy back then. I could not help myself from smiling every time I would see him around. Sometimes, my friends would tease me, and I would be annoyed even though I liked being teased about him. But that crush faded along with other girls’ crushes. I would never ever forget the night that I started wishing to be the girl he liked.

There came a day when I went to school and talked to my friends about this girl who was liked by many guys. I was insecure, but I could not admit that. Other girls were insecure, too. A part of us wanted to be liked by guys, as well. Not being liked led us to think that something might be wrong with us.

I started to get aware of my appearance.

My dresses, shirts, and pants became tank tops, skirts, denim shorts, and fit clothes. I started to like showing my curves off even though I got even more insecure when other girls did the same. We were all looking at each other’s bodies. Sometimes, I had a better figure than someone. Sometimes, I was inferior. My body started to crumble under my expectation of being pretty. I was never fit even though I had an okay body. I only felt fit whenever I was around a girl who was inferior of my figure. I just had to be better.

My once powder-kissed face started to get blessed with makeup, too. I liked making myself look beautiful. I would do it for my own satisfaction, but sometimes, I would do it for a guy.

Having a crush was no longer the same. Whenever I had a crush, I got it badly. I knew that having a crush didn’t require me to be on a mission to have to attract the guy, and be in a relationship with him, but it made me feel like that. It was as though I had to be sure that we both belonged to each other.

And because of that feeling, I experienced the joy of being loved back, and the pain of being cheated at. I also experienced being the other girl in the relationship, as well as being the one rejected. I experienced a lot of things. I also got my heart broken.

I started with being happy with meeting someone’s gaze, then that happiness started to get less until I had someone to hold hands with. I started yearning for warm hugs, until I ended up with wanting to be kissed on my lips. But having my lips kissed was the beginning of my yearning for a greater way of being loved. I started liking the feeling that I got whenever someone kissed me on my neck, on the top of my breasts, and in other places of my body. I was once a queen or a princess, but to a man, I would become a land that his lips would want to travel at.

Sex had been a disgusting word for me. But I came to a point where sex was normal, and the phrase “making love” is cheesy and disgusting. That was all until I met another guy.

Time was fast. It danced with me, my father, and my mother; but death took them away, and I was left with him.

I fell in love again, but it was finally a different kind of love. It became one that I could not abandon. I gave birth to a girl, and it reminded me of myself.

This time, I am the queen. I am the queen of my own world, as well as the queen in my own child’s eyes.

But sometimes, I have to remind myself that I am also just a girl who used to love her parents’ arms around her, and is now yearning for them. I was the girl who was confused whether I was a queen or a princess. I was the girl who thought that happiness was with having a prince beside me.

I cannot help but wonder if my mother were the same, and I cannot help but wonder if my child will have the same insecurities I had had. I am afraid because I have met and seen girls who think that men complete their lives, and when they get hurt, it’s as though the universe has played with them.

I want my daughter to be sure of being a queen. I will rather be her servant in her own Kingdom. I do not want her to be unsure of herself. And when I leave this world, I want her to be happy.

Chicken Nuggets

Tasty-looking and delicious,
my hunger is immediately seduced.
I run my tongue over my lips,
and imagine its taste upon them.

I take a bite and close my eyes,
and feel the goodness satisfy me.
All my troubles and my regrets,
left my head because of my chicken nuggets.


One Friday night,
I am all alone
in my apartment
with a box of pizza.

A pizza is a circle
that consists of triangle slices,
slices that look like rooftops
of houses that are not built.

I take one slice
and ruin the neighborhood
as I open the gateway
to the void of starvation.

There is a warmth of acceptance
inside my tummy
while I take another slice
after finishing my first.

I continue to eat
as I fill my emptiness
with the presence of a home
abandoned by its reality.

Another bite arrives,
another house disappears,
another delight comes along,
another slice awaits me.

I go on and on
until the box is left
with nothing but the space
the rooftops have left.

Once everything is gone,
and I have nothing left to take,
I can’t help myself from smiling
since the world is beautiful again.

I have taken all those rooftops
and gathered them inside me
just to be my own house,
and be my own home.

A food may be a food,
but it can be something more;
a pizza may be a pizza
but it can give you a home.

I just need to know that someone out there, someone I really know in person, will miss me when I’m gone. I have to know that once I disappear, someone can get the feeling of running in the forest as if he’s searching for an answer about my disappearance. I want to know that someone will feel like a miracle has just died. I have to know. Because I’m so done with myself. I just have to know that someone’s holding on for me.


I like arguing with you because you make me feel like your faith in something you believe in is greater than any proof I have that can support my argument against your argument.

I like how perturbed you get when I make more sense than you do. You would squint your eyes, knit your eyebrows together, get your lips to quiver, and let your fists be braced by rage. My ego gets even more aroused when you start to look away and seem as though you’re refraining yourself from hurting me.

It’s cute.

You’re cute.

You’re cute when you protect your belief from anything against it. I find you adorable because of that. Really.

I can imagine you fighting for me. You’d shut down any idea given to you that’s about me being unfaithful. I like that idea. It’s not because I am unfaithful. It’s because I want to know what it’s like to be trusted that much.

I want you to search for me after defending me behind my back. Once you see me, I want you to let out a sigh of relief; then smile, walk towards me, pull me, and kiss my forehead. I’ll look at you and blink, then I’ll ask you, “What’s the matter?” You’ll give me a bigger smile and answer me that nothing’s wrong. You’ll think, “She’s not the kind of girl who cheats. I trust her.”

But that’s not what happened.

You went to see me that night and caught me with a guy. I told you that we were just friends, but you didn’t believe me. You punched the guy and said cruel things to him. You were mad, and you were looking at me. You called me a bitch without knowing what the truth was.

We argued that night, and all the blame was pinned on me even though I was the one telling the truth. I cried back then, especially because you left. I cried on the next evening and the evening that came after that.

I love arguing with you. I love imagining you defending your beliefs. But that night, you broke my heart because your faith in me disappeared so suddenly just because of an assumption or accusation. You believed in your accusation more than you believed in me. And I hated that.

That’s why when you apologized and asked me if I wanted us to be together again, I said, “Convince me why I should want us to be together again.”

And although I regret what I said, I want you to regret losing your faith in me. I love you. I really do. But I just can’t be with someone who can’t trust me. Once you believe in me with such great faith, come back for and to me.

But you never came back.

You never did even though I waited.

All my life, I’ve been nothing but a shadow. I hide myself behind other people. I don’t like the light so I turn myself against it. There is a darkness in me and I always have it.

But it’s never too late to change.

I no longer want to be a shadow. I wanna be a person who can look at the light and still be free. I want to be who I really am, not just a ghost I created myself to be.


I love the way you make me think of words to describe your perfection whenever I look at you.

You’re beautiful, breathtaking, picturesque…

I love the way you give me so much feelings to have when, usually, I feel numb.

You make me happy, sad, jealous…

I love the way you speak as though you’re singing a song I could care less about; still, I’d listen to you.

You’re pop, rock, alternative…

I love the way you make me love you when all I really wanna do is protect myself from loving someone again.

I fall, and I fall, and I fall for you every single day.

But I hate the way you make me think that this won’t last. And you think that you know how this will end.

Because you’re afraid, scared, and terrified.

You think that what I feel is temporary. You think that the me who loves you is temporary.

But this is what I think:

That doubt of yours? That’s temporary. If anything is ever ephemeral, I won’t let it be my love for you.

And still, you left. You didn’t trust me enough.