The sky today

The sky today looked blank. It was a vast whiteness, like a great, deflated eyeball. Here and there the sheet was pierced by brown, gaunt fingers of trees, limbs that shed flakes of skin over the banality below.

The sky today looked naked. The trees silently regarded each other in their bareness. Their leaves, then falling, now settling, painted fine red streaks on forearms and left gashes where once there were only hints of a mouth wont to smile. The whiteness glossed over pupils staring, unblinking, as brown flakes fell all around. Everything is barbed.

The sky today looked empty. It was a pale that clung to shirt-sleeves and hems. It did not speak of holiday chill, or the last dregs of a cool February before the first hot gusts of March. It was cold that oozed down chest and thighs until finally settling at the soles. It was dangerous that way—insignificant only until the last, lethal blow.

The sky today looked old. Stale mists hung in the air like heavy curtains, smothering vigor and will. It was a pillow, which smelled of talc, slowly pushed down against eyes, nose, mouth, all in deep rest, until a single convulsion disturbs the illusion of tranquility. It proclaims only itself shall grow and be old, worn, moth-ridden.



There is a reason to get out of bed
to brush the tangles off my hair
to wear stockings just because
to hum while making coffee
to eat fried eggs and toast
to cleanse and exfoliate
to lie beside the dog
to water the plants
to iron that shirt
to spray mist
to live and
to love


You will love me and I will not
understand how you can see worth
in eighty pounds of cuts and scars
engraved like small, secret tattoos.
wrong art hidden even from you,
like that picture you took of me,
my polystyrene face and hair,
a plastic gaze and rubber smile:
the painting of an amateur,
the girl with whom you are so sure.

So, forget about morning texts.
Do not flinch if I break away.
Never you mind to wait for me.
Forget and go about your day.

2 AM and a Pen

Your flannels were extensions of your skin;
the flannels that crumble when I touch them.
I can see your ex behind your glasses.
La acabo de ver… estoy triste.
She is mouthing words from your inside jokes.
I hear beads of sweat trickle down your face.
I wish we had more mornings together
(but I’ll never be enough, not at all)
It is the sex that binds us together.
If I’m vulnerable enough, you’ll stay.
The disgusting self-portrait of self-love:
my head on your chest. It feels too quiet,
fleeting affection now almost fading.
You will love me. I will not understand.
Your cigarette leaps at me in anger.

A loose grip, earphones on… quiet.
Should I leave Michael at his apartment?
You’re not worth anyone’s time, Divina.
Estoy triste pero no sé porque
I walk out towards the road—oh, a bus.

I wrote this following the Twenty Little Poetry Projects prompt, but with the order rearranged.


we’re still together

if we weren’t
too fucking different
assholes do you
we could work?

if we weren’t
too fucking toxic
lovers could you
still see us together in
five months’ time?

if we weren’t
too fucking in love
dumb with passion
struck by affection
we would’ve given up.

you don’t need death to be dead

You wake up and you cry because someone thought it would be funny to let you live still.
You get out of bed but not without early morning thoughts of jumping off a bridge.
You throw on a shirt from the pile off your floor, shorts and black sneakers.
You brace yourself for another day at school.

It will be over soon.

You get drunk two hours before your curfew, just enough time to sober up before you go.
You light cigarette after cigarette in between bottles of beer, a short-lived revelling.
You put away your pack and lighter as you prepare for the bus ride home.
You spray on store-bought cologne all over to hide your sins.

This is my silent rebellion.

You sit through another lecture from your parents about your painfully average grades.
You remember cutting back on sleep just to finish your work for all seven classes.
You think about the lunch breaks you skipped just to go study at the library instead.
You know you lost ten pounds in just three weeks.

But they wouldn’t know that.

You take a look at the faded slashes and cuts, some already healing, others still fresh.
You run your fingers over the lines, tracing their lengths across your wrists and arms.
You reach for your little blade from an old pencil sharpener and draw new lines.
You feel your dog sit beside you.

If I could run away, I’d take you with me. 

You plug in your earphones as you cry to Morrissey on a Wednesday night, lying in bed.
You stare at the cracks in the ceiling, numb, unable to sleep for the past three hours.
You contemplate messaging your friend, but you think she’ll just be annoyed.
You flip onto your stomach and scream into your pillow as sleep takes mercy.

Let me not wake up again.



ontological doubts

what am i
to you?

a classmate
acquaintances more
than actual friends. never talking
about anything more than our mutuals
over beers. i bet you wished you could have
left me alone there at the bar as mere friends.

a wrong kiss
after six orange shots
hands groping then tearing
bright yellow strips of caution
tape that closed off our pathetic bodies
to the indifference of patrons and waiters.

a playlist
you put on loop
with the volume on blast
as you recall the night before
vivid as the impulses that thrust
my glass body into your calloused hands.

a label
of fading gray letters
that contact you saved as
“the girlfriend” you loved to show
off but god forbid I become flesh and claim
my name lest I threaten your frail sense of ego.

a plaything
whose hands you hold when you’re cold
you hug me tight because you want warmth but
we both knew i was host and you were the parasite
that buzzed “I don’t know” with every frustrated question
of “what do you want from me?” and “what do you want to do?”

what am i
to you?


The little flame is haunting, now still, then dancing, in a pool of soft white wax on top of the black, marble surface of the headstone. I turn to look down the row of plots etched in the ground, thinking about the number of well-dressed rotting bodies and skeletons beneath. They think they’re so discreet, being covered with grass and weeds. But I know where they lie—the flames tell me. They litter the ground like fallen stars. flick flick flick.

A gust of wind makes my little flame shiver. I hold my breath, waiting for it to go out. It doesn’t. I exhale, and it sends a ripple through the flame. Beside me, my brother cups his hands around his candle, and the flame steadies after a while. His is now as still as mine.

I feel as cold as my parents probably are there where they lie looking up at us. I put my palms over the little flame, and I savor the heat. flick flick flick. It must have been rude to do that, for my little flame snuffed out. I’m sorry, Mother. I watch the smoke rise and disappear. It’s funny. My mother is just like the smoke from my little flame. She would always do that whenever she was angry. Rise and disappear. She would breathe very deeply, close her eyes, stand, turn away, take her bag, slam the door, open the gate, start the car, back the car, close the gate, drive away. She is like the smoke from my little flame. My dad was never like that. He just disappeared. He wasn’t even smoke. He was nothing.

That night, I keep thinking about the flame, flick flick flick, how it danced and twirled and stood still and shivered and stood still. I want to be still. My brother and I have never been still ever since they left. Never. We danced, but unlike the little flame we twisted and writhed grotesquely, scratching at our eyes, tearing our hair, bashing in our limbs and laughing when we heard them cruk crik cruk cruk crik cruk. They get to lie peaceful while we slowly turn to hollow creatures.

I get out of bed and walk downstairs, groping for the light switch. I make my way to the kitchen, where I find a fat, blue candle in one of the cupboards. I find the matches, too.

I go out the back door, careful to keep quiet. I retrieve my can of gasoline from where I had hidden it in my little garden.

I walk into the bathroom, my face floating, lit by the flame of my candle. I take two rolls of tissue from the plastic box underneath the sink, and walk upstairs to my aunt’s bedroom. I scatter the first roll everywhere—on top of her dresser, at the foot of her bed, inside her drawers. I take out her clothes, littering the floor with them. I close the curtains, and open the can. I let out enough to wet the entirety of the clothed floor. I wet the dresser and the drawers and the curtains and the ends of my aunt’s blankets. Finally, I let my little flame kiss the feet of the curtains. I quickly walk over to her drawers, and light up whatever’s left inside. Finally, I light the ends of her blanket.

I sneak out, and walk over to my brother’s room. I take out his clothes and strew them all over the floor, just as I did in my aunt’s room. I douse the floor with gasoline, and step outside before lighting up the patch of clothes nearest the door. I feel the knob and lock it from the inside before quickly shutting it.

Finally, I return to my room. I douse my bed with what’s left in the can and light up the end of the blanket at the foot of the bed before climbing into it. I turn to my right side—my favorite side—anticipating my little flame’s embrace. I smile as I feel my feet grow warm. I shall be dressed better than this in the morning when they come to get me. And we will lie beside you, Mother, and we won’t pretend. We will be fresh. Our plots will be naked, free of grass and weeds and life, and we won’t pretend.

The little flames are haunting, now still, then dancing, in pools of soft white wax on top of the black, marble surfaces of the headstones. flick flick flick.

The Sunshine Blogger Award


Hi everyone! I’m really excited to finally write about having been nominated for The Sunshine Blogger Award by namitha. Thanks, girl! Definitely consider heading on over to her personal blog for interesting doses of prose and poetry.

1. Thank the person who nominated you in a blog post and link back to their blog.
2. Answer the eleven questions sent by the person who nominated you.
3. Nominate eleven new blogs to receive the award and write them eleven new questions.
4. List the rules and display the Sunshine Blogger Award logo in your post and/or your blog.

namitha’s Questions:

1. Would you prefer skydiving or scuba diving?
Scuba diving. I would really love to go see the reefs some day!

2. Would you call yourself an indoor person or an outdoor person?
I’m definitely an indoor person. I can amuse myself for hours with books, writing, DIY projects, my pet, and music, among other introverted things and activities.

3. What’s your favorite thing to do?
I love to read and write!

4. Cat person or dog person?
DEFINITELY A DOG PERSON! I actually plan to do volunteer work at a shelter nearby.

5. Why did you create your blog?
I wanted to create an avenue where I can practice my writing and also learn from other aspiring writers.

6. Where would you see yourself in 10 years?
I would be studying law by then.

7. Do you have a phobia? If yes, what kind of phobia?
I’m claustrophobic.

8. How do you get motivated to work towards your goal(s)/target(s)/ambition(s)?
I remind myself how far I’ve already gone; of the people who are counting on me; of the standards that I set for myself.

9. What kind of people do you like?
I really lean towards the introverted pole of the spectrum (>50%). I prefer people who are similar. I really love it when someone’s interests are in sync with mine. I also like people who I can have real conversations with anytime and anywhere.

10. What superhuman power would you like to have?
I would really love it if I could read minds. It would save me the trouble of actually interacting with people. Kidding! (No, not really). But seriously, think of all the miscommunication that could be avoided with this power!

11. What kinds of books do you read? / If you have seen/read Divergent, what faction would you see yourself in?
I prefer realistic fiction, but I also have books of poetry.

* Bonus question: What do you think of my blog?
It’s an interesting blog! You can write prose and poetry, which I think is great as it shows your flexibility as a writer!

My Questions:

  1. What is an advocacy that you’re really passionate about?
  2. How many books have you read this 2016?
  3. What is one thing that you hope to accomplish with your blog?
  4. What do (or would) you do when (or if) you experience writer’s block?
  5. What is the first book you’ve ever read?
  6. What is your favorite song?
  7. What is your favorite book of all time?
  8. What made you start a blog?
  9. Are you a collector of anything? (e.g. stationery, pens, etc.)
  10. Are you looking to get published someday?
  11. What book have you read more than twice?

My Nominations:


I’m really looking forward to reading your answers!