Gifts and Guts | a drabble

Confetti rained down on Anna for the first time in 13 years, and they flew from the party poppers her parents held with party hats on their heads and rainbow masks on their faces.

She squealed as she ran over and hugged them. “You remembered!”

She put on her own blue mask as they entered a car.

“We have a car now? Ooh, where are we going? It’s a surprise? Well, okay!”

Half an hour into the ride,  Anna’s phone pinged. Her body froze as she read the message.

Take the chicken out, we're almost home.

It’s from her mother.

The Last Rally

At her curtain call, gold bloomed in every curve and crease of her skin and the sun smiled down at her and the crowd, her beloved cheered at her every bow and curtsy they drowned her in confetti, and in balloons, and party horns, and party hats and cakes, and candles, and ice cream of all flavors what a feast it was; almost as if they knew that she will never see tomorrow that she will never raise her arm to wave goodbye nor to ring the bell but they couldn’t have.

The Tower That Housed Death's Patrons

God forbid I wore a mask again the losses that lined these walls stood to be unmeasurable for the toll rises every minute beyond each door held a silent beeping or was it a silent weeping? the posters on the walls gave no embrace no matter how wide the lady’s smile was on her hand, a syringe, with scrubs so clean, so spotless, pristine a real one walked past me her hair disheveled, her uniform stained while a wheel bound child rolled by a lollipop in his hand, a cast in another I was torn between having my heart ache for them and sighing in relief when the man behind the counter told me, “Transaction complete.” The sun warmed my skin as I left I never looked back, but I wondered when was the last time they saw the sky?

Detaching The Cord

April crawled without a hum, squeezed its way into my palm, but March still clung into my skin, so I burned my calendars in a bin.

Felt the sun, breathed in the moon, coalesced my brain cells with these tunes, the seven days warped to infinity, these hands of time knew no fidelity.

I touch everything, everything I break, dipped my cracked mirrors in the lake, these empty hands reached for the rocks, to mold them into a million locks.

I built rows and rows of iron walls, until my hands begged me, “no more!” but I grew deaf, and I grew weary, semantics lost, my eyes were bleary.

why can't I reach you

the raindrops of my irises fail to water your empathy what will it take to make them bloom? your petals glow below my sunshine but your beauty wilts underneath my thunder and gray clouds where was your promise to lend an open leaf? your prosperous roots dry at the sip of my ocean, and you’ve yet to reach the core. another sham, it seems.

never forever, forever never

don’t tell me forever when even the sun leaves and the leaves fall and the fall is inevitable and the inevitable scars and the scars never fade and what never fades is all that remains forever.

The Victim and The Villain

The venom they echoed left a bruise on my veins my eyes beheld as the mirror magnified the damage they initiated, and I sustained the hatred I’ve no answer whether I was a willing accomplice but know that these nails contributed to the punctures the wounds escalated into the decades and the scars failed to recede the instigators fled the scene, only the cells remained to sift through the fibers, to stitch what is viable, but the river froze before they could even with the presence of firewood and even with a box of matches that already wore a handful of scratches.

a declaration of my obsession

I will never tire from my restless tirade of the limbos we all bound ourselves to consciously, unconsciously deliberately, spontaneously internally, externally inflicted, received targeted, casualty my fascination fails to wilt and my nails itch to scratch the ink in shapes and lines I’ve yet to behold them before for so long as this earth follows the sun the cycle of heartache persists and so will I, and so will my pens.

who truly lost whom?

and only did we gather in a formal circle to share a common lament was when it was time to stand before a melting pyre a few words exchanged, a few petals dropped and we leave the dirt to handle the rest but should the flame be able, it would’ve posed a question to every tear that fell in every frowning cheek where its presence was when his once beating palm was still open and waiting he would be met with silence then and should the flame be able, it would’ve wished for them right there and then to make haste and leave; to disperse and dissipate for when his feet trudged this earth they only appeared to flaunt the brighter counterpart of their tears.

the river stills at the touch of winter

the kiss of frostbite dangles its absurdity to my longing, cracked lips the embrace of spring has yet to grace its existence to the bits of piles of boiling earth that dance between my subzero fingertips I lay my palm flat against the dampness and soon, every drop shall be devoured by leaves as green as it could covered in putrid snow I implore you, let me harvest your remaining purity while oxygen still escapes my lips I’ll drink the whiteness of the canvas with a deadly grip blood shall pour beneath my fingernails and seep into the threads, until the cloth loses its title the yarn shall melt, and the wood will burn but as I cradled my hand, the bleeding subsided for soon, it won’t only be autumn who would bid its long overdue farewell.

are you for certain this is paradise?

I grew to learn this is a travesty the threads of our lifelines are forever disarrayed by the inevitabilities our fingertips could only ever grasp were we born to mold our own downfall? destined to pave a path that leads to nowhere, all because it's all we ever grew to know? the blazing sun sends a hiss to our paling skin and the clouds dismiss us with their downpour will midnight ever belong to us? it was a folly to claim their sacred words would cleanse us of our irregularities when they themselves have yet to shoulder the slightest mud on their porcelain leather no one is certain this is paradise.

Heron

you were a somebody dancing in my nighttime reverie I prolonged my downtime just to grasp you tighter but the sun dissipated and so did you I was left to scramble over and hold the only essence of you that remained in the recesses I looked for answers between the dusts under the rug but the answers were just more riddles more words for me to put together they held nothing but hollow codes arrows that led to dead ends in the end, the only thing I had left of you was your name.

the blood of guilt runs through your veins

did you ever stop and ponder the aftermath of your vices? I've grown numb to the pounding of my chest after your spontaneous treachery yet your fingers bear no burden as they pulled the trigger that dealt the final blow did satisfaction swell from every cell in your body as you reveled in my quiet lament? you dare cry to the gods your losses and perils knowing you leech off of the prosperity of another the boldness you possess to lash out in betrayal when your pleas remained unanswered it was you who carried on down this path this path littered of dust and ash a little sneeze, a little cough and you’re quick to point an accusing finger to those who trudge the same dirt as you the blood of guilt runs through your veins and no amount of salt and bleach will ever wash away the venom that escaped your mouth know that history may forget your name but never the disdain you let free, and therein lies your only legacy.

Consumed | an essay

In which the consequence of overconsumption is explored. A work so raw yet so far removed from the original words that founded this lament in the first place that it is an overconsumption in and of itself. It is an essay born from a college professor's prompt, that then became a learning experience, and finally into a challenge of how far our vocabulary can go.

Read on if you will.

Reality is far from an effortless concept to process. The normalcy, the chaos, the mundane; it does not matter. It can wear whatever moniker it sees fit, shapeshift however form it desires, be as light as the sun’s rays or as dark as the night sky, and I will reject it all the same for the simple truth that it is mine; my own weight to shoulder, my own troubles to resolve, and my own boredom to bear. It is a truth that I refuse, and a reality I will never accept.

Perhaps in the past I’ve learned to grasp with utmost sincerity that I was, I am, and I will, but not anymore. It is now a faraway memory, and even memories aren’t as vivid as they once were; the weight they hold on me is akin to a feather on a scale, and I hold on to it like a single thread on the brink of snapping. It is a stark contrast from my state a decade ago; blurs and blank spaces did not plague even the recesses of my mind, and there were more feathers before, too, with more threads, and they were thicker, stronger; my fingertips displayed not the calluses they now possess.

It was the age of discovery, of which I explored nooks and crannies my fingertips could reach, and my eyes could behold, and my curious gaze happened to have landed on books holding pages inked of words molded by novice hands or otherwise that promised stories living beyond the borders of this world. It was my greatest find. To have been a child fond of all things untrue, like talking mice who can do parkour, a backpack and a map that can hold a melody, a spiky, blue ball that can roll faster than lightning, a four eyed pink creature who can make someone cry, and a ketchup loving skeleton, literature was a breakthrough, the key that opened a hundred doors and a thousand possibilities.

I learned of the bliss one feels to indulge in words not of their own creation, and I clung to that high, to the disquiet that dissipates as I consume the ink and blood that isn’t mine. It is easier, lighter, and chiefly, safer. It is my getaway, my distraction, my escape. Yes, that was it. I won’t be chastised for the simple desire of fleeing reality every now and then. It is not a crime, no? Truly, it is no sin to yearn to forget just for once, yes? But, of course. To live is a heavy burden to carry, and to some, a worthwhile struggle; an honorable opportunity, but even then, one cannot fault another should they wish to breathe a different air, a different breeze created not by a tree with a brown trunk and green leaves that decorate its each, individual branches, but by a tree in which purple vegetation blooms right above its roots and rainbow butterflies nest on its flat stump.

In other words, fiction. That’s the crux. What better way to forget, or even better, to ease the load we carry, than to resort to fiction? The common man was no stranger to the euphoria one receives in the consumption of false realities, and I am a common man—was a common man; I learned the tedious way I no longer hold the right to bear the title, for the common man knew the limits, the common man knew the line it should not cross, and above all, the common man knew when to hold the reins, while I did not. What were the limits? Where was the line? How do I hold the reins? Can I still take control of it?

I asked myself once, was I the cause of my own undoing? Was I to blame for walking a path that once promised bliss? As I pen this I grew to learn that yes, I was to blame; I walked that path and strayed from it; I took one of my only means of respite and ran it to the ground. They say you learn a thing or two from your missteps, a lesson you ought to follow on your next attempt, and from this I learned that every pursuit carried out with such intensity and obsession is bound to become the pursuer’s viper. But then what? What’s next for me?

I’m not the only one to blame here. With a bitter heart, I’ll point my finger to this earth, or rather, to the billions of humans that it houses. Why do we fail to be kind? Why offer a hand while hiding a knife in the other? Why insist on paving a path that leads nowhere but down? Do we truly loathe the notion of someone else grasping at success that in turn, we’ll allow no one to win at all? I lament for our lives, for our past, our present, and our future. Had the world we designed donned more colors than black, white, and gray, I would not have found a home in words that hold false realities, to the point I’ve long forgotten the real texture of my own bed. I would not have turned a blessing into a curse. I would not have been so dependent, so obsessed, so addicted. For who wouldn’t? Who wouldn’t want to solve a puzzle that isn’t theirs? To root for a fictional being to take the risk? To hate on a villain that won’t retaliate? I would, because it’s easier when the failure isn’t mine to face, when the consequences aren’t mine to bear, and when the pain isn’t mine to endure. It is a huge weight off my shoulders to know it isn’t my future that is owed, and the stakes are something I can disregard by simply closing the book.

I craved that high. I wanted it, and I needed it, and it gave me happiness, until it did not. I failed to notice when, but somewhere down the road, the tables turned, the chairs spun, and utensils fled the dining room. It was only when the dust settled that the truth came to fruition; the line between my consumption of fiction as a hobby and as a coping mechanism blurred until it was obscured beyond repair.

I relied on it a little too much, to be honest, and therein lies the problem; too much; two words that my vocabulary, up to this day, refuses to welcome, and so, I paid the price.

Who would’ve thought a thing I indulged in with such fervor and hunger would become a crutch I, due to unfortunate and inescapable circumstances, cannot let go of? That something that once, and still, to some degree, brought me joy would be the very thing that would also take it away from me?

I never wanted this, nor did I ever see it going this far, but, oh, such irony, it is now a reality I must face, the reality that fiction, a medium I held so dear to my heart, is no longer the healthy escape it once was.

I clung too tight to the wonders of imagination that I lost my grip on what was true. I enamored myself with pretty semantics that I let it pull me so far away from sincere words. I poured all my anger on fictional villains that I allowed the real ones to parade their shoes all over me. I associated my joy with the successes of determined protagonists knowing full well they won’t be present to celebrate mine. I walked the path of a million false names and yet I cannot for the life of me don my own with the same steadfastness and grit.

This reality consumed me, and so I consumed an alternate reality, until it consumed me as well.

End

Thank you for reading

Rubble and Red

It was Banabas street until it wasn’t Only ash and soot live here now They were anywhere and everywhere From the grayed out sky to the ruined asphalt Each step I take disturbs the dusts That caked this all too familiar path And I coughed—more for the longing than anything And I sniffed—more for the heartache than nothing We were all here once My mother, my father, my sister Along with my neighbors My neighbors’ neighbors And their friends And my friends This was where our tiny cars and paper dolls ruled and roamed and lived This was where our homes stood proud Where the food and gossip was loud the laughter and tea was normalcy and our second instinct was comradery And then we heard them, and then we saw them They roamed the skies, warned no goodbyes A subtle whirring, a chilling looming The unsuspecting street of Banabas went on with their merry ways but before we—before I knew it there was no more mother, no more father, and no more sister no more neighbors, no more neighbors’ neighbors, and their friends and my friends, and our small cars and paper dolls One were all but guts and gore, another were metal and plastic, while the other were plain ashes Our homes stood proud and tall no longer Under the sun, my fingertips grew colder For there was no more Banabas street Only rubble and red.

this poem had been sitting in the docs since december it's quite distasteful what inspired the existence of this poem, but it's here, and it's real.

don't turn a blind eye simply because you have the privilege to look away

if they can power through the rust and ashes, you can stop for a minute and listen to their voices

the guitar and the ballerina

The guitar and the ballerina failed to escape the rust one’s box hadn’t been opened while the other was catching dust

But, oh! In the old days Melody was sung, rhythms were made There was laughter, there was joy Simple sublime shared under a shade

But the clock had spun too much the hands had walked too far and though the end was far from nigh the guitar and the ballerina hid under the bed discarded for the sake of finding new highs.