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As the month of February comes to its untimely end, I would like to post a little update:

I (hopefully) will be graduating from my undergraduate course this year. I have many things to accomplish before I can go through with that, but so far, I'm on the right track. Or I think I am, which is still a good start.

This means, I will be a part of the workforce very soon. Another implication is that I will finally be forced into the messy dynamics of adulthood (let us be honest, no one is ever genuinely ready). I will not have as much free time, especially since I will be flying to Manila before I even graduate for the board exam review classes. You all know this: I am not the best in the study of Chemistry, so I will have to devote as much time as needed to fully absorb everything.

That being said, I might have to let go of this blog. I emphasize "might." I am definitely not going to stop writing, but I am going to need a fresh start on everything related to my future career(s) and intellectual pursuits (e.g., writing) I will retain some of the content here and transfer it to wherever I may build a new blog. Most of it, however - 249 posts in almost 5 years of writing - is going to be scrapped.

I hate to be sappy but I practically grew up on this blog. (Fun point: my first entries were about K-pop.) This is a very important place for me so the idea of shutting it down is hard to grasp. Que sera, sera.

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To Anyone

I hear it again,
the throbbing ache of a hand
thrust into the air,
out of the landfill,
solitary.
I have seen it more than once
in the little time I have grown:
Small bones a-mask
in the pallid, stretchy skin of a ghost.
They tell me the same things -
if I recall well -
"One small, white pellet
before she retires;
(And a fourth of this kind
just to be sure.)
Make sure she takes it."

The first of many times,
I hung myself by a thread
and floated on broken sentences
heard over the telephone.

By the second time, I learned.
I measure what I carry
in careful nods that ride on a beat,
one, two, three, one, two, three -

I am glad you are here.

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You know you should have said something.

The coming day pulls flesh over eyes
like sheep skin.
The strobes mock us,
"What of the night
disapppoints you?"
But my mouth disappoints me too.
It falls prey to its own ministrations,
Child to its own lies.
I have heard a dozen or so
voices tonight; they tell me
the same condolences.
If our mouths had lives of their own,
would their offsprings be as cowardly?

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Definitions, or something akin to them

I do not open these boxes anymore;
My heart has nothing left to see.

Feel the enclosure of my hand
That is colder than the phrase

"You and me," the pronoun "us"
A far call to the gods.

In this earth, we are forced into words.
The entirety of ourselves - existent, breathing,

Tangible - packaged into letters
That spell nonsense. Most of the time.

"You" pron., resident of the memory;
"Me" pron., a somber amnesiac.

"Us" pron., a regret, or might-have-been;
Something one keeps in boxes.

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Phone Calls at 9 PM

These are the people who write about death:
the red-eyed waif with a cut on her cheek,
the old lady reading today's paper,
the man laughing amid the crowd.

How can a phone call change anything?
The tendrils of your head are in waves now.
I know you'd hate it if we put "Angel"
on your tombstone in bold, tactless letters,

Like how I hated it when you borrowed my dolls.
Will you sit beside me tonight
and hear me asking for forgiveness?
I can almost feel the flapping of your wings.

There is a black slab of penitence
on my chest; my mother pinned it on
with trembling hands. I held them
the way I held yours in the last slumber

I shared with you.

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