When I was a little girl my mother fed me her dreams one spoonful at a time. I didn’t have the heart to refuse her so I swallowed back the “no” that was threatening to climb its way up to my lips and pursued the dreams she spoon-fed me with. Now I threw them up when she’s not looking. My index finger is the proof.
When I was a little girl the only music you could hear in our house was classical music singing from the speakers. Soft melodies waking me up with sweet whispers, my skin basking in the beautiful lyrics. Now it’s words thrown back and forth, shouts blaring from different mouths. My ringing ears are the proof.
When I was a little girl my body was neon bluepinkgreenorange Sharpie flowers and Crayola-written words. Acrylic paint dripped from my fingers and ink smudged my face. Now it’s scars and bruises and love bites, insignias reminding me of what and who I am now. My sweater-covered wrists and jean-clad legs and thighs and hips are the proof.
When I was a little girl cotton candy clouds, blowing bubbles, and dandelion clocks took up the real estate of my mind. My soft hands built doll houses and having trust was as easy as reading your ABCs. Now it’s insecurities and you will never be good enough and the only thing my hands ever build are sandcastles of trusts that will never last. My rain-filled eyes are the proof.
When I was a little girl, the world was mine trapped between my fingers. Now it’s me trapped between the bleeding cracks of the world. No one would let me out. My hands and feet decorated with rusting chain are the proof.
Writing about love is like reading a passage in a language you can’t speak; you can never grab the essence of it because the meaning is lost in translation. I don’t know how to write about love but the moment I saw you, I thought about how the words began to wring the life out of my heart.
I don’t know how to write about love but for you I am willing to trip over my misplaced commas and fall off the paragraphs with scoliosis that I’ve made. I don’t write about love but for you I am to willing to strip my feelings off and present it nakedly in front of everybody. I don’t write about love but for you I am willing to humiliate myself, wound my ego and shove the face of my pride down the sidewalk. I don’t know how to write about love but for you I am absolutely willing to try.
I’d write about the cheesy opera music that blooms in the background when we talk. About the sunlight that pours out of your mouth when you smile. About the way you’ve taken up permanent residence in my mind, occupying every single thought I have. About the way an angel breathes on my skin whenever you touch me. About the imprints you’ve left inside my heart. About the way I can see my resolute future when we kiss. About how intrepid I am when you’re beside me and about how I feel warm assurance when we hold hands.
I’d write about how I want to climb up a mountain every time I hear you laugh because I’d like to spill out all the joy I’ve kept in my bottle of repression. I’d write about how hard and how fast cupid had hit me with an arrow as big as Jupiter that pinned me to a tree. I’d write about how I choke when I began to dream too big when I met you. I’d write about the way you render me speechless, the way you put a cage of raging butterflies in my stomach, the way you fill my head with thoughts laced with LSD. I’d write about the way I let my baggage of irrational fear about falling and relationships go floating on the riverbank.
And I’d write about how I got this lovely scar on myself the minute you said hello and I fell in love with you. Because I landed face first.
I love you means I get to hug you from behind every time I want. It means I get to play with your hair even if it it took you hours to fix it in front of the mirror. It means I get to ask you about things that will make you squirm and still expect to get an answer. It means I get to punch or slap you whenever I’m annoyed or embarrassed or just because I feel like it. It means I get to hold your hand and never let go. It means I get to lean on you like a wall or a pillow when I’m tired or sad. It means I get to kiss you in the dark, in the light, in the kitchen, in the rain, in the ground, anywhere I want. It means I get to love you with all of my heart.
And I love you means you get me. All of me.
I am the spaces between your fingers, the name you sigh between kisses. I am the love bites on your neck, the scratches on your back. I am the slap across your cheek, the playful punches on your arm. I am the sound that resonates down to your toes, the echoes that reverberate through your bones. I am the ocean in your eyes, the storm in your mind. I am the luggage taking up the entire space in your heart, the muse behind your ideas. I am the sparks in your veins, the chills down your spine. I am your moans, your laughter, your smiles, your sighs, your grunts, your inspiration behind everything that you do. I am your heart. I am yours. And I belong to no one but you, wholly and irrevocably.
They say that the only way you can be writer is when you’ve found your voice, when you’ve known who you really are. And in that moment, I realized that maybe I can never be really a writer. Not by a long shot. Because the sun has set and risen a thousand times, the moon has come and gone, many of the people I loved have left me in the dark but still, I have not found my voice no matter how loud I scream, or how soft I sigh when I cry.
I haven’t found myself, still. And who knows why.
It’s amazing how one person can make you feel everything all at once. When he holds your hand and you can literally feel sparks flowing through your veins going to the tips of your fingertips. When he scoots closer to you and you just can feel heat in your body and warmth from your heart or when he pulls you closer and you can just feel his body and you try to stop the stupidest smile your face will make. When he says your name and his voice resonates down to your toes and melts your insides. When he smiles at you even if you’re not doing anything and you feel like you’re flying and your world is spinning around, giving you a kaleidoscope of emotions. When he does something and you just know he’s leaving fingertips on your heart. It’s crazy how when you’re just with him you feel safe and secured, euphoric, giddy, lightheaded and most especially, loved.
Love is when you look at someone and your world stops when your gazes meet. It is when your heart beats faster and harder as if it’s pushing you to come closer to him and be enveloped into his steady arms, the one place where you feel safe and secure. It is when you do not forget that he has one too many flaws and yet you accept him because you know he’s not perfect, but he’s enough for you. It is when you dream of a future together and wake up to his smiles and kisses. It is when you look at him in the eyes and know he feels exactly the same.
Yet no one ever mentions the sheer, unadulterated violence of the thing. Love, for all its connotations, feels like you’ve been smashed in the head with a nine-iron then smothered, slowly, with a pillow.
Being in love is one of the greatest things in life, people say that a lot. And maybe it is because for once in your entire existence there is someone who is willing to stay beside you even after you screw everything up, who accepts who you are even if you’re a secret psycho killer who feeds on hearts of little babies, who says sweet words, pepper you with kisses that singes your lips and keeps you up all night and covers your body with his affection. It is great, after all.
Yet it hurts because your hormones and emotions do not get along very well. You get jealous and mad and hurt because of some girl he’s with even after he has told you a million times that they are just friends. You feel suffocated with different kinds of emotions you haven’t felt before and you’re just dying to break through and breathe and breathe and breathe because you feel trapped with your own feelings and no, you don’t want to do this anymore.
Love: noun, verb, adjective, metaphor. Synonyms: ‘Doomed from the start’.
But you still keep going. Because love has something in it that makes people want to pursue it. Because it is beautiful albeit it causes too many heartbreaks and too many tear streaks on your cheeks. Because giving up just ain’t in your vocabulary.
Her name is Blue. The quiet girl sitting at the back of the class, an aura of calmness surrounding her. Her smile is gentle and her eyes are steady and clear. Her movements are careful and mellow and her grace is cat-like, fluid.
The loud one is Yellow, always the party animal. She is loud and cheerful. Bright. She shines in whatever she does, and people tend to like her because of her sunny disposition and blinding smile.
Violet is at the corner, looking down at everyone. She is proud and condescending. A rich girl with the feeling of authority. Her face is all sharp and angles and her gaze is cold, a thin ice that will slice you to the core.
Black is the popular goth. He comes to school with a new slit across his arm everyday, a cigarette on his lips and an unapproachable aura. An enigma. He looks at everyone and thinks to himself why can’t he be happy? His life is built on pain and he releases it by cutting himself and drowning in booze and cigarettes. All he wants is happiness. All he wants is a man.
The prettiest girl is Pink, with her incomparable beauty and perfection. The one with the cute smile and mellow voice. No one knows how much pretending she does everyday though, how much pounds of make-up she puts on her face to cover up her flaws. She hates herself and the only thing that keeps her sane is the love she keeps on getting from people she doesn’t even care about.
Brown is down-to-earth. The only girl who doesn’t use plastics and hoards on paper bags instead. The weird one because her deep love of nature. She’s a simple girl who only wants even a sliver of love and attention from the one she loves.
Red has been suspended again, for punching his teacher in the face after telling him to get a life. He is a ball of rage, the bully. The one people are afraid of. They don’t know though, how much passionate he is and how he can be caring for the people he cares about, especially Blue.
The girl at the middle is called Green. Known for being the epitome of envy. She’s jealous of every people she meets and wishes she can be like them. She’s best friends with Pink but also envies her.
The purest of them all is White. Pure at whatever she does, she’s known for being innocent and virginal. The plainest but the most significant. She completes everything just by her presence. She’s secretly in love with Black and wishes she could help him overcome his pain. The only problem is, she’s scared of the taint that she might get from being with him.
Colors. Colors everywhere.
She’s the type of girl who easily falls. And she falls hard and fast.
She falls for any guy who shows a sign of interest towards her and she can’t help it, she falls for people who falls for her too. She falls for guys who doesn’t know she exist and she falls for guys who knows she exist and manipulates her. She falls for guys who cares for her, who makes her laugh, who makes her feel comfortable with whatever they’re doing; having long talks, having dates, kissing, having sex. She falls for the bad boys, the ones with the rugged look, the ones with the foul language. She falls for every type of guy and she can’t help it.
Her heart is bruised from all the falls she’s been through. It always break every time she takes a leap and falls but she always manages to put it back together; with tears and ice cream and lame romantic comedy movies at night. She knows though, that even though she managed to put it back together and the bruises and cracks have healed over time, she’s never going to be what she was before.
And then, she falls again. And again. She couldn’t help it and maybe that’s her problem. She keeps falling because a part of her knows that she can fall.
It was the perfect time to say something. And yet, she just stood there, her eyes looking anywhere but in his direction, biting her lips to keep them from opening and from spilling something that she might regret later. She was afraid to tell him her true feelings. She just couldn’t. She feared that it may destroy their friendship and there was so much more to risk. She didn’t want things to get awkward between them and lose him in the process if ever he did not reciprocate. Her stomach was a cage of raging butterflies and her heart seemed to pump out the words and let them flow through her veins and light up her body, the confession was already gathered behind her lower lip, just waiting to be spilled. But she bit her lips. And the inability to say anything made her feel hollow, as if her heart and soul and veins were withering from her body and she was just a life-size mannequin. She turned her back on him and walked away.
She hated it, not ever saying what you really feel. Not ever saying the truth. Because she knows that if you can’t tell the truth to the people you care about the most, eventually you stop being able to tell the truth to yourself.