At age 16, freedom tasted like a vanilla ice cream cone— hand-scooped fluff, as white as lilies in a crisp waffle chalice, served right to my window in a freshly asphalted parking lot. Skin fresh like porcelain, eyes as deep as the pacific rim, breath smelled like freshly cut raspberries dipped in mayo and we agreed not to get married until, we're twenty-five. Please stop I can’t handle thinking about the future again, not today. Dear world, please stop caring. please. save yourselves, for I can’t stand to be the girl who waltzed in with the wind and crawled out with your heart. I'm now a cocktail of fire and gun powder, all ready to explode. My hair covered in caffeine mist of the heavy monsoon air and my hands all rugged with the load of your murderous melodies. Backbone erect like a newly designed light house, happy eyes turned smokey beneath all that make up, the lips that told stories chapped under the weight of words, glass slippers turned into pretty little stilettos, covering stretches of dirt below my feet. And if you’re in love, then you are 'the lucky', cause most of us are bitter over someone. Rainbows aside, my need has not diminished, but anything I say, you won't understand, so what is the point of writing?
Sunday, June 16
Monday, June 10
Sunday, June 9
I’m not scared of him.
He’s scared of me.
He's scared that he once lost something so close, so dear that he's afraid he'll loose again.
He's scared that I'm charming, and if I'm around he'll never concentrate on his goals and so called decisions.
He’s scared that I’m too interesting, that I’ll distract him from all the other girls.
He's scared that we share something so strikingly similar that I might manipulate him into sharing something more.
Saturday, June 8
As I sit and watch the rain dripping from the window latch, flipping through the pages of my old diary, I find pieces of you every now and then like a giant jigsaw puzzle thrown around my house. I carefully take each one of them and try joining them in my mind to make out of it a torn picture of you. I wish the memory was a little more clear and not half replaced with fragments of words like, 'damn, you loser.' or 'fuck off whore.' I try not to smile while I look at the rugged and torn rail tickets from the time I came to see you home. There is a little note you wrote to me, I've saved it like a mother would save it's unborn baby. I scribble the thoughts in my mind, the half empty canvas with crayons pink and blue. I feel this strange pain in my tummy which is exactly opposite of what the butterflies made me feel. Here's what you do when you are hurt: You run away, faster and as far as possible from what's making it hard. I'm almost there, I found a picture from the past; oh wait, 'that isn't you.'
Friday, June 7
Why hello there gorgeous! I hope you feel beautiful today. I hope when you woke up and looked into the mirror first, you saw a better you. I hope today is better than yesterday. I hope the sunshine isn't too harsh or the thoughts of him aren't clouding your day. I hope you don't listen to Katy Perry's 'Thinking of You' and sulk beneath your pillow. I hope you don't run away from people because you pretend that you hate them or because things aren't unanswered. I hope you are treating yourself better. I hope you know that you deserve nothing less than being happy and that your favourite fairytale is still true. I hope you don't sheath that pain underneath your fake smile cause there is nothing wrong in being true. I hope you smile back at the guy who smiles at you at the subway everyday; hoping, someday you'd smile back too. I hope you aren't afraid, afraid of failing in love any more. I hope you know that monsters that you need to fight are within you. I hope you know that life will never fail you, it will always show up exactly as you see it. I know, I know it's easier said than done. You see, maybe I'd never get over my last love too. I hope you know that there is someone out there who feels exactly the same as you do. That girl is me, that girl is you.