A Bedtime Story

My parent’s warning: Never wear your crown because it shines too bright.
If you desire to be rescued by princes, you have to be a pure-hearted girl
Who sings good songs and asks safe questions.
Leaving her empire behind, she rides on his steed
Swallowing the rest of her senses behind her coy smile
(She can puke it out later, when they live happily ever after).

I’m sorry, mother.
I’ve tried my best to be nice. I’ve been a good little girl,
But what do I get with being cute? A man’s knee pressed to my leg.
Uninvited.
His thighs a spread canopy at the bottom of the dinner table,
Asserting the space that he thinks is his.
Pushing me at the edges.
For supper, he serves morsels of moral convictions with his mouth,
And leaning to me closer, he breathes,
“You should come with me to church.”

I am already tired of the kisses people steal in the dark
When their mouths speak of chastity in the morning.
“No, I never intend to have sex with you,”
But his fingers spider its way at the hem of my skirt.
We’ve never been chaste
Yet we show up at masses every Sunday,
Waiting for the rites to end
For the lights to turn off again
So that we can attend to what’s already burning.

Lover, you should already know that
my tongue is a fire that cannot be quenched
by any distilled sparkling water you drink everyday.
It’s too late now. You cannot rescue me.                                                                                         It demands. It hungers.
And it speaks of your undoing. Saying,
“White Knight, here’s what I want: I want to see you fully at your unmasking.”
Turn on the lights. I am not blinded nor scared by your sharp edges,
Your jagged pieces, your naked self that is stripped of armor and defenses.
I am not anymore a little girl who faints at the sight of blood.
I have been torched through many stakes.
My heart, already a live coal which no man can put out.

If you really want me, you have to take part in the burning.
Else, you remain in the shadows and become
the very monster you fear under your bed.

Lang Leav: Keys

Lang Leav: Keys

Notes: I know there’ll be coming a time when I will rave about how heart gripping Lang Leav’s poems are, and I feel that tonight (or today) is the right time to do so,

Okay, so according to Leav, some hearts have keys. It’s interesting to know why. I mean, we all started as innocent little babies in this race. And unless if one of us is Chucky, the notion of trusting was an easy verb to grasp.

In fact, there’s this childhood game where I can associate this with. The Open the Basket game. The game where the basketless chick would cry out, “Open the basket!” And in an instance, arms are opened and the chicks are free to go wherever “basket” is still open or unoccupied. It’s interesting to think that as kids, people can easily open spaces for other people they’ve only met a few days or minutes ago. But as time passes, a lot of arms become stiff and a lot of baskets become fortresses. By the time one reaches adulthood, the ability to have an open heart becomes a gift- a rare commodity.

I am one of those who aren’t spared of keeping such gift. Something went wrong during my puberty years that made me distrusting. I, too, have decided lock my heart. And I can’t help it. Like the game, I’ve kept mine close because a past hurt is still lingering there- unable to accommodate new people who are or maybe in search of a place they would want to call home. Often. I wish I can reboot the past events so that the now wouldn’t be so distrusting and awkward.

But of course, I can’t. I’ve already realized that there’s no undoing of the past. And that what really matters is NOT what happened but how one deals with it. However, I cannot deal with this ALONE. I need an outside help, someone who would speak words of life to me. Someone who would shout, “open the basket!” to set things in motion again. Or at least, to weather the lock that I’ve put on my heart.

Your words are the key to mine.” The poem says. And I find it very true. If not for the people who encouraged me and pushed me to get out from my closet, I think I’d still be the darkroom girl who has a limited, black-and-white point of view. And probably I still had the same bob cut I had for years.

I’m not saying that I’ve managed to open my heart entirely again. Heck, I don’t think I’d be able to manage that even for a handful of years to come. There are still areas in my life that need fixing, insecurities that need assurance, and a load more. But one thing I find out in this poem is that words are powerful. They have the power to free or to lock one’s heart. The words I hear can either nurture or destroy me. At the same time, the words I use to open one’s heart can either bring healing or corruption.

I should have not forgotten the words I used. And I should be careful with the ones that I’ll be using.

Hard Candy

I mourn for the loss

of my technicolored world

full of cartooned bunnies.

Now all I have are bits

of caramel candies

in paper white wrappers

of hand drawn rabbits.

They taste too sweet on my tongue

and leave a bitter aftertaste in my throat.

I eat them anyway

savoring its richness

but also knowing that it would

never be the same as with the ones

I used to watch in the commercials.