Was it possible to feel everything and nothing at the same time? I don’t think I will ever understand my feelings. Some days, I have a really good grip on them while other days it seems like they’re made of water; fluid and dodgy. I want to eat up the whole world, gobble it up and let it make its home inside me yet I also want to kick it to a curb and burn everything down. A trapped comet keeps on hurtling inside me and I’ve no way to let it out—I can’t even pour out all the words I keep hidden behind my lips, they stack up down my throat just like my world piled haphazardly in a corner. Tonight as I let my birthday pass, I watch the moon snuggle into its bed of night and realize that I am so small; a tiny speck, a stardust that can wink out of existence with just a whisper. Bite me with your rubber teeth and I’ll be gone. Odd.
I like flowers so much and am borderline obsessed with daisies. I love how it’s a flower within a flower. Beautiful and poetic. Just like what I wanted to be.
You found my heart near the side of the road, a tiny bird with a broken wing. I remember your hands being so careful while you held me, like a small shake might cause me to shatter, between your palms. I glowed there; your palms were so warm I wanted to curl up and stay there for a long time. You mended me with your affection and I basked in it the way a person does when the sun feels like exploding, scattering its rays everywhere. In my mind, I saw your eyes so alive; your smile dripping light. I could have loved you, you know, but you tried to stop me when I wanted to fly. You treated me like a fragile wine glass that will break at the slightest touch. I am not weak. The warmth in your hands turned to ice as they left ghosts on my skin.
It’s okay if you only remember me when you need something, I’ll be the white asters you carefully place between pages of a book instead of bookmarks. I know I am not a good friend though I do not know how to assess if one is a good one or a bad one. I’m not the first person you think of when you have a fork in your mind, stirring your brain cells and nerve endings nor am I the one you approach when something heavy is sitting on your shoulders. I understand that, accept that even. I should be hurt by this fact, that you only acknowledge me when I am of use- when I am a tool, but it just makes me glad that at least you thought of me, of my name, of my skill, when you can’t think of anyone else’s. Maybe there is a borderline between friendliness and stupidity and I might be straddling it, or crossing it every time you shape my name in your mouth and I extend my help but I don’t regret it.
There is something hard about letting go. Attachment is visceral; made of tightly knotted fingers, of complicated square knots, of hearts conjoined into one. It’s almost like detaching a staple wire into a paper, it’s never easy; you might even get hurt in the process. And you might’ve removed the staple wire successfully, with or without the aid of someone or something, but the paper will never be whole again; left with an imprint, a tear, a scar.
Separation is never easy, especially if it’s unwillingly. On days where the sun decides to hide itself behind the clouds and lets the rain beat its fists on the ground, I think about how easy it is to attach yet so hard to detach. And maybe it’s because we’re always taught how to love people but not how to un-love.
Scientists believe we are just atoms taking up space in the earth. Doctors believe we are just a bunch of fragile bones and blood-running veins and skin they can cut when they need to. People almost always misconstrue what we’re made of based on scientific knowledge and general facts poured down their ears. But I believe that it’s the little things that make us who we are. We are made of stardust riding on the coattails of our blood; of stories woven into our bones, the other element they need aside from calcium to keep them strong; of laughter and smiles and simple touches that help us make it through the day; of lists and works and the amalgamation of ideas hopscotching in our nerves; of people who hold us, who break us, who repair us, who hate us, who love us, who trust us, who believe in us, who respect us, who leave fingerprints on our skin and in our hearts; of lies and secrets and mistakes that follows us like our shadow; of the whole universe tucked between the spaces in our bones. We are everything. We are special. We are made up of so many things, not even the scientists nor the doctors can figure out.
The first time I saw you cry, my heart splintered with every teardrop falling on your shirt like tiny hands clinging on every fiber. I saw your shoulders shaking with every sigh you let out and I almost fell apart, right there and then. I wanted to shut the windows of your eyes so much if that meant stopping your tears from falling; wanted to grab your shoulders with an iron fist to stop them from vibrating. But most of all, I wanted to smother you with my hug and make you feel that the world’s still rotating on its axis so everything is alright, or soon it’s going to be. The sound of your cries reminded me so much of rain pounding on my roof on a lonely night bereft of moon and stars; of a girl’s heart weeping of a lost love, of a broken voice so cracked no band aid in the world can heal it. And I had the urge to put them inside a bottle and feed it to the sea because nobody, especially you, should ever cry because of me.
I remember you gave me flowers when you left me. I don’t know why you did. Did the flowers symbolize the love we once shared? Beautiful and alive but gradually over time, it slowly dies? That night, I plucked all of the flowers’ petals saying “He still loves me, no he does not.” All of them had six petals. Just imagine the apoplectic pain I went through just to admit to myself that you’re really gone. I kept the stem when all of the petals were lying on the cold floor of my room bereft of your warmth, used it a chisel to carve ladder rungs on my forearms; windows on the inside of my wrist, rivers on my thighs. I was crazy sad, the only person who loved me back gone, and all I wanted to do was fly. But my mother’s words came creeping out to whisper to me. “Time heals.” is what she said. At first I refused to believe it, rejected it like I reject the world. How does it heal when it doesn’t even move at all? But time’s hand seem to get rid of its arthritis slowly, when you don’t notice it. It kisses all your pain away until there’s nothing left. So I gathered all the petals I shedded from the flowers you gave me and framed it on my wall, so I have a reminder that everyone might leave and everything might hurt but time is going to be there to erase all the pain you hoard.
Bits of me are scattered everywhere. I am the stars you couldn’t see, the light so dim. I am Comet Halley trapped inside a skin, finding my way out of the deep blue sea. I am the moon on a lonely night, alone and cratered with imperfection but still spilling out some light with a smile. I am a black hole who doesn’t know when to stop, I take everything in until there’s not a thing in sight. I am the galaxy, I am the world. I am the universe hiding between my bones.
She’s the type of girl you shouldn’t love. She takes people by the hands and crush them like petals because she can’t stand beauty and lives to tear it down. She’s a hurricane, she’s a gale; a force so strong you can’t help but be blown away. She’ll attract you like flowers attract bees but she won’t let you take a pollen, not even a flower seed.
She’s the type of girl you shouldn’t love. And she knows it, embraces it. But she’ll make you fall for her. Kiss you like a promise and then break it. Touch you like a butterfly’s wings, so light so soft so alive. She’ll turn you into a dog who keeps following her like a shadow, but once she senses love finding its way right under your nose, she’ll drop you like a hot iron on the cold tile floor and be out of the door before you can even say no.
She’s the type of girl you shouldn’t love. Because she won’t ever love you back. Love is a form of beauty and she lives to tear it down.
She’s the type of girl you shouldn’t love. But you can’t help it. Not even a little bit.