i recently got a haircut, adamant that it would make my life easier

a single look in the mirror, a single epiphany

mind numbing, reversed supernova––

i look like the old me, except not quite that me.

fuller cheeks, blurrier eyes, but the same dry mouth.

a gust of wind reopens old book pages,

scent of parchment and tears lingering in my room.

i look like the old me, except not quite that me.

i don’t feel like the old me, i tell myself.

however, why am i here then?

the question echoes itself, attempting to transcend itself

to look for an answer for itself, to fill a gap within itself

it just continues to echo.

a faint answer, in the distance.

Penelope. World War 2. 1939

It rained of ashes and blood, of sweat and tears, of war and gunpowder. The reverberations of the street rattled Penelope’s body like a building waiting to topple over the alleyways. Sure, she was hidden away, but deep inside she knew it was bound to become a useless idea.

With her remaining hours – or minutes, or seconds, who could ever know – she began to write on parchments about an idyllic fantasy. How lovely it must be to walk freely and let stars blink against your skin, without fear personified having a gun to your head and a knife to your back. Penelope thought of the asphalt covered in autumn’s shedding, rather than of its darker color, morbid fates scattered, and cities living harmoniously; no prejudice, no avarice, just living. Sunflowers are free to grow, and grass is green on every line of sight – in fact, some citizens could have taken into naming their house plants because they are as sentient as we are.

The whiff of cookies from the local bakery, and roses planted on the windowsill are the only scents flooding the town. Her yellow bike would match well with her favorite baby blue dress – cut above the knee, having a white collar, and light grey buttons all the way below to her chest – even more so with the tranquil ambience of that fantasy.

Then, she would write of everything she would see, everything she would touch, and feel. Words would flow out of her hands, and they will touch the eyes of the reader through multiple copies of the text on paper. Letters would pile up on her front porch, of how every verse and every paragraph resonated with them, and emanated an empathy they did not know could exist on such a thing.

She thought of love – of how her mother was once a distant memory, and now she will be part of it, of how deeply it makes her chest ache that she could not live long enough to find another half. What would they have been like? I imagine they would have the softest of eyes, and lips that are only mine to kiss. I do not mind if they do not have the kindest of hearts, as no one ever really does. They’d have to be lovely enough that I would choose to own a dog with them, or two, or five. How nice it would be if they play a musical instrument, a piano or a violin, perhaps. Maybe even a harp. How nice it could be to fall in love, to be able to live long.

For a moment, her chest is heaving with all the tears of a better state, then she had an idea, and her eyes lit up so much that they could compete with the biggest star. Decided, she will – she has to live again, years away from this chaos, and if she gets to live even just one moment from all of this, she knows that she will be contented.

Falling asleep to her outlandish thoughts, the cold floor suddenly felt like the most lavish of beds anyone could ever conceive or stumble upon. Her mind drifts off to where dreamers live, where souls never die, and the last thing she hears is a muffled ringing in her ears.

Sienna. 2040.

With eyes glistening from tears, Sienna pondered of every star flickering in her line of sight. For once, she did not have to study their approximate heat and color, or the percentage of their chemical composition; she was free to admire them for the grace that they behold.

Grandmere’s own star had burned out, and now she has walked into the white light hallway without an impasse. Even from this distance, she could faintly hear close friends of her family and acquaintances offer their condolences, and how they speak of how it was not an ephemeral life. She had spoken up against more than just multiple political bigotry in her time, as she was also known to always offer help for whomever and whenever, and still have hands like clouds that are always willing to hold those who need holding.

This similar situation is bound to happen again, sooner than later. Her genetics had betrayed her, and she inherited– well, whatever it was. She would have to walk through the same blinding light, and as of right now, she stands in front of the doorway. Sure, modern medicine has had a brilliant advancement for the past decades, but not enough to curate a panacea for what was infiltrating her wellbeing.

With a heavy chest, she breathes deeply, and decides she should think of something else instead. In nostalgia’s name, she recalls all the lectures and mini lessons she would receive, which felt more like nonsense to a 5 year old’s pair of ears, but now? They’ve carved out their own significance in her very being. What were they? Let’s see.

“Honey, I admire that you want to choose this path, to become an astronomer. The first of our family, imagine that! I could speak of this for decades. But remember, darling, to always take some time to rest your eyes and look at some art. This one happens to be my favorite. Even the brightest of minds need to relax.”

“Even Albert Einstein took little naps like I do?”

“Yes, darling,” she said as she gave a warm smile. “Even Albert Einstein takes afternoon naps.”

“He broke your heart, didn’t he? No. He didn’t. Because one day you’ll find someone who writes poems about every second they got to hold your hand, and you would realize that he did not break the spine of your story.”

“People have always been made to say goodbye, love. Friends, lovers, your favorite celebrities, family, everyone. And one day, I’ll have my turn, and so will you. That is just how life works.”

“Grandma? What was it like back then? When you were younger?”

She thought deep and hard of what to say. “It was much more darker and convoluted back then, darling. Grandma had to protest for my people’s rights – and now, it saddens but also gives me hope that it’s still an ongoing path.”

Sienna made a confused face. “What does that mean?”

“You’ll find out in class,” she says as she lays a kiss on her forehead.

“If you had the chance, would you ever go back?”

“Why don’t you go find out? Now, I’ll go and bake your favorite brownies, how does that sound?”

Why don’t you go find out? Why don’t you go find out? This echoed in her head. If she had the chance, she would wish to go back in time, to whenever her grandma was born, so she could understand how she came to have the heart she has – she had. In blissful thoughts, she drifts off to a little nap, and the midnight breeze lulls her into a deep sleep.

a single cut off of the switch

candles blown out, stars hidden

in the pitch black night;

in darkness, we have become the same

in darkness, we are all the same:

no difference in skin to identify,

no accent to judge you by, 

no religion to vilify—

we all need to be allies,

that when the dawn comes we will rise with hope

run into the birth of morning;

we are the pearl shining bright in the east,

and the sun will wake with us.

the tears, the sweat that

we have spilled for the country will drown out the hellfire.

they may try to burn us down, but we will be burning on,

we will not lose hope

we will be the hope.

———————————————————————————————

a/n: what happened has been much too much. manchester. bangkok. syria. marawi. wherever. this is not okay. we can't go on like this.

to my fellow filipinos, please stay safe. i may not be from marawi, but know that my heart goes out to you. you will get through this. 

let's make peace our war cry. 

I hear the rustling and crunching of dried leaves, the crackling of brittle branches against soles. The footsteps sound rushed, urgent, as if trying to run away from someone, or something. Breaths are heavy, chest is heaving, tears are teetering over their eyes' edge. They lean against a thick oak tree—an attempt to unload the weight on their lungs and heart. Their shoulders slump over, a hand clutching the cloth of the shirt over their chest, but I've known too well that that would constrict their breathing even more. 

Finally, they chose to have a seat, keeping their heads on their knees, as they speak of words indiscernible amidst their weeping into their hands. The sides of their cheeks glisten against the moonlight, resembling a mystic waterfall located in the space between heaven and hell. I attempt to get a closer look, but they must've felt the sudden freezing breeze, as they looked in the direction of where I was. Luckily, I hid fast enough inside a bluebell flower. The air becomes tepid again and they resume their crying.

I've seen this happen over and over again, and they all end up the same, but I still wonder what would make them still run away to a place as secluded and dangerous as this. Maybe they never listened to the old ones' tales, convinced that they are full of bollocks, that they are nothing but hullabaloo and a product of a too-wild imagination. Maybe they did listen, and that's why they came here. Maybe all they wanted was an adventure. Maybe they yearned for an escape, much like I used to, once. But, I digress.

All those maybe's — whatever they may be — don't have much purpose in this place. They all meet the same fate. I have to do what I am tasked to do. 

I step out of the petals, and kneel before the human. Slowly bringing my hands to their cheeks, I raise their head and look them straight in the eye. Their pupils dilate, and their eyes widen. They now have no control over their actions. A brush of conscience could try to scream at them that they need to run, that this will not end well, but it will be disregarded as quick as it comes. 

I stand, and beckon them to rise with me. Carefully, I walk front to the path that plain sight cannot spot, and they follow, with eyes still in the same state, and their body moving against its own accord. The trees bow down closer further on walking, as if they wish to be intertwined with those in front of it. No cricket nor owl could be heard. All is quiet, other than their footsteps. 

I've memorised these routes like the lines on a hand. For me to get lost would only happen if I had the capacity (and ability) to be. To be lost is a commodity I could only wish to have.

I'm nearing the end of the path, and my own breathing heaves like theirs was earlier. There are no tears to fall, as I no longer have the body I once owned. I've done this times too many, but it still stings. How ironic it is that even I am moving against my own accord. I am a curse that I can't reverse.

The waters bang against the bottom of the cliffside like uneven beats of a drum. I look at back at whom I've lead on to here. Any trace of jagged breaths have left. Words left tethered to their ribs will eternally remain where they are. Their body will never be found. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

I walk past the edge, floating a few feet before them, but more than a hundred feet above the water. I held out my hand for them, beckoning them one last time to follow, with a smile to reassure them even a little. They take little steps this time, almost tripping at a stray stone, but not nearly enough to cut off the trance. 

Just like that, one moment they were still standing at the very nib—everything was still, the next you could hear them gasp (or scream) before their bones shatter at the touch of rocks, and be carried away by the currents, as if the ripple was nothing. 

What have I done? What have I done? What have I done?

I flee quickly, with the sounds of everything and anything still echoing around me. I can't go back to where I found them. I went to the first place I thought of; the patch of bluebells, away from the cliffside, away from the oak tree, but not far away enough to forget all about it in the morning. I would give anything to forget all about this.

This is what I am. I am a blue wisp. I am tasked to lure these people into the same fate I was once in. And there is nothing I can do about it.

how daft of me

thinking i could remain in 'a world of fiction'

castles woven by someone else's mind,

a book's spine i see as no different from mine, 

pixie dust for rice grain, mystic ink rivers 

(delve in deep,you'll find treasure chests hiding heartbeats)

velvet hardback covers as alabaster blankets and sheets—

that if i read slowly enough

reality could cease to exist

and i could ease myself into a far-away home

first-person stories 

giving me a chance to be someone else

a fraction of a day being a parallel universe of me;

only an ideal that i could dream to be:

a protagonist reaching the greener side of things,

a variety of good and bad, jagged and silk-smooth skin,

butterfly-winged-stomachs, flower seed eyes,

wonders growing inside of this body, clear skies,

with personality of appeal and interest, not of a repellant

sword-wielding, wand-waving,

strongly fighting, purpose finding, 

feeding off of curiosity, never held back by gravity, 

everything-else-things too good to be defined as part of me, 

a less lonely me,

a witty-but-wisdom-filled me,

a happy me,

a better me.

now i fear having to close the book,

in denial that all stories must come to its end.

how detrimental it feels to have to separate myself

from these ink-blood characters, from my friends

they've understood me better than i have on my own.

how bittersweet this is,

but i still choose to write endlessly

about different places that would never be but could be

(only remnants of those are in this tangible world;

the good in the bad, as i'd like to perceive)

maybe you could tie me to a balloon,

unfurl the invisible wings

that i could escape this life—a hullabaloo,

float away with the pages of a paper world

be a tad too close to the sunbut at least i'll be burnt long before literature ceases to exist.

(but i think, even then,

i'd still diminish myself as a minor character

lacking development, not much of an interest;

maybe i just need to be kind to myself.)

replace the caffeine with your thoughts

they'll keep you up just the same

feel your heart wanting to escape

grit your teeth until all you wish is to shrink,

shrivel into bits, into morsels, feeding yourself to an unknown

curl in your bed you've had since you were eight

oh how you wish you'd never have grown--

ill-fitting glee, fictitious backbone

see every weighing scale as your awaiting gravestone

how lonely you are, darling.

how alone you have become.

but at least, in the morning (or the next evening)

you can write about everything

best case scenario, you'd feel cathartic.

remove the batteries from the clock

pluck off the hands, as if they were rose petals

drain the sand, bring it back to shore where it belongs

your time is up, our time is up,

it’s over, lover.

i’ve flipped the coin my number of tears too many times for you

heads for forgive, tails for forget

but whichever one it lands on, i don’t fret

i always choose to return to your arms

arms that have held others

arms with love potions flowing in its veins

arms that have held others while pretending to have only held me

i could’ve known better

i should’ve known better

i thought you were the morning,

the dawn of a new story, lighting up my eyes

dry the glistening rain on the pavement,

a vibrant yellow against the gray;

you were not just a saturday in a week feeling like all were mondays;

you, you, you.

but you were the night,

and i was a flower needing the sunlight

--skin needing heat--

but anything to be with you

until i didn’t even care that i was wilting;

i could not bloom

i could not wake up.

you were the night

and i cried to you

mildew tears staining rose-kissed cheeks

but you can’t spell tears without ears

and you never listened to my cry

you turned them into hurricanes

flooding me, drowning me

forcing beautiful things down the drain

and i could do nothing but go with the currents.

i was too much for you too handle

too this, too that

you told me that i loved you too much

you told me that this felt like a mistake

how could this be a mistake

when everything i had, i’ve put on stake

for your sake, for our sake

but all you said was you needed a break.

i am still hurting

barely a whisper of a petal left of me

stems broken down, nothing is holding me

but i promise you,

i will grow from this.

i deserve the sun.

i do not regret you

i cannot regret you

because at one point

you were exactly what i wanted.

but i regret not realising much earlier

i was giving the love

that i deserved.