giandnt

[giandnt]

[giandnt]

[giandnt]

[giandnt]

There's a part of me that always craves assurance.

Not. In. A. Jealous. Type. Of. Way.

But with a gentle hold around my throat while I hear the words that he's mine. All mine. In a way that not only filled the gaps between my fingers but rather opened the gaps through my upper thigh, filling my guts. A thrust I can trust. And a naked truth beneath his eyes that worships the deepest layer of my insecure skin. This is not about sex and never not about sex either. It is rather the art of making and creating love embodying intimacy, adoration, and devotion. I crave assurance. I crave him.

[giandnt]

—Question. Was I sensitive when a random touch in a bus gave an ick all over my body? Was I self-centered when I took the last piece of pizza after I starved myself the whole afternoon? Was I abusive when I told him never to raise his voice when I speak with anger? Was it the trauma talking when I could figure out the danger by the sound of things? Also, am I unknowingly in deep despair when I feel like the world is against me as March comes since my first cry happened in the same month of 2002?

If so, may I still be forgiven if I took over my skin and began to bow my knees in a quiet plea? Must I bleed with every stroke of my pen, bearing the growing thorn in my spine to finally swallow all the guilt? Will I find solace in verses of broken chains as they seek of peace, of healing and struggle, of rising from hell?—

[giandnt]

/ Writers have so much to write. Sometimes, it's just too much to be in words. /

There was a time when uncertainty chained me to an iron chair. With no way to run, to escape, I didn't even call for mercy or cry for forgiveness. It was as if darkness was lonely prison, and I was an amused captive who was excited to find the switch—or light up a torch. I create flame when there's fuel. The scent of burning paper on a rainy afternoon gives me a different kind of pleasure. Every silence means violent screams. Every piece is a malevolent reaction. Thus, when uncertainty chained me, I sat with it and thought it was for the best. I had no idea what to write as I swallowed metaphors. I didn't know if I could ever write again before the thorn in my spine grew to be my death. I didn't ask where I got it wrong or what the last word in my dictionary was. I was just going with the flow until I no longer had control over my limbs, and there, I found myself cursing in cursive of different dialects.

IG: giandnt

[giandnt]

I've recently heard about the “valley of death” and wondered whether a place called the valley of love exists. Perhaps, a place for all the romantics who died with love? Or, where do the poets' souls go when they reach the last drop of ink on their pen and can no longer speak for love? Do they die without the red roses or blue violets? With their names remain only as a monument of death and no sign of their dedication for love? Is it possible for them to leave this land with their pens, or must they leave things unwritten?

Must I be forgotten too once I make it to the end of a round clock?

Maybe, just maybe, could you keep all my words and forever let me live inside you so then our love would be the heavenly place I'd die in?

[giandnt]

Like a flame in a perfect shade of blue that would burn one's skin is a kind of affection I want that leaves marks and insanity.

[giandnt]

Look, I'm scared to tell him the way I want love and attention must be with great possessiveness and desperation. It doesn't have to be only me or I would unalive one of us (—although I might). It's in a way I want my silence to be heard or the way I take my breath, and it moves him like a string puppet. He should be dancing to every rhythm. To dance and dance until my breathing stops. Then he must not move—not even a twitch. And I know I’m far from being a deity. Not even a great woman would bow to me. But he must worship me. From head to toe. From skin to flesh to soul. A kind of deep affection with grace and faithfulness. Yet, I wasn't asking for a love that would save me when the ocean wanted to devour me. Neither a kind that will help me keep my head above the water. Instead, I want a kind that would go down with me exploring the ocean with wonder—and if we can’t, he must drown with me.

[giandnt]

He asked me why I wrote prose the way I wrote it with sadness and rage, and I was silenced. I feel the dagger that had been stuck in my chest since the time I started stabbing it with sharp and pointed words was carefully pulled out. The boiling temper settles. The impatience calms. The wailing lost its sound. It is as if the moment stops because someone finally heard my silent screams when, in fact, I wasn't even screaming. I feel heard yet misunderstood. I know I write sadness and rage, but I wasn't writing it—I write with it. From emotions to letters, from letters into words, and words after words—drafting the untold pictures of my thoughts. It is the unknown part of me that allows me to feel the strong emotions we only feel when we are living, and so I breathe it like an air that keeps people sane. And even though I wasn't sure why I had it, with sadness and rage, I felt more human. I feel more alive. I feel more of myself every time, so that’s how I write the way I write proses. He didn't know any of that. I didn't tell him, or maybe I tried. And I'm sure he still probably thinks I’m too young to feel it. But I think I’m just a person who needs to write with sadness to feel herself, to write with rage to keep herself sane, and to put down her silly words in little pages to satisfy the craving desire inside her.

[giandnt]

I tell him about love.

And I write love about him.

It's kind of ironic because I can't give any good advice when it comes to love, and I can't even tell the ways on how to keep him.

I don't know everything about love.

I don't know everything about him either.

But I know him enough to love him.

[giandnt]

All I wanted was to be a reader until he built me a library. So then I wished to become a writer as pages on the shelves became words to fulfill. Greater things come, and I found myself lost in prose, romanticizing rhymes, and love in the moonlight. His name softly transformed into sacred poetry, while each breath created an honor to his poet. And suddenly, I was where I belonged—a place where poet and lover meet.

[giandnt]

I've always admired the complexity of love and how it is fulfillingly hard. So, despite being worlds away, I still chose to love you. Deeper this time.

| IG: @giandnt

[giandnt]

THE THING IN BETWEEN

-

One asked me the question, “If you were a word, what word would you be?” Without hesitation, I uttered the word 'almost'. This exactly describes the reason I was born—to be alive and not living, to die without actually dying. But isn't it a beautiful yet sad word to say to anyone? To describe yourself as neither good nor bad, never losing or winning, always learning but never learned. A word with a definite meaning with an unresolved outcome. The moment of uncertainty, complexity, and the sense of being always in between. I’ve always known I'm always the ‘almost’. I wasn't exactly lacking, yet I wasn't the best. It was just right and was never enough.

[giandnt]

The Rage

-

There's a rage within me I can not stop. Nor ease. Nor silence. It is kept inside like a calm water waiting to explode as it goes past its boiling point. I had no power to control it, and I never once asked myself if I ever wanted to surpass the feeling.

No, I don't.

For I want the feeling of being insanely sane. It holds me down my spine, poisoning every vein and consciousness, so leniency has no chance to disappointment, disagreement, lies, even the truth. The rage becomes my gut, and thus, everyone disgusted me. So then I tear my skin as it was touched by unfaithfulness. I fractured my own bone so no one would. And drained my blood, for it is said to be the river of life. I wanted everything to leave, so I took steps away. Yet, I know the rage inside doesn't like me. It wanted to be released. But it is the remaining desire that keeps me sane, so I know I have to tightly hold it. Even if it drowns me. Even if it is the same desire that has become a torment of my existence.

-

[giandnt]

It's been days since the unending rain started. Everything’s gray. The pale leaves are showering, while the roofs are howling. No people are walking outside, nor are you by my side. It has been gray, and I can't help but feel alone as the cold breeze abruptly enters the window. I knew it would last long. I knew the rain won’t stop, and loneliness was a response. I lit a fire and took a sip of the coffee that’s been left for an hour now. Of course, it is now cold. It can no longer hurt my tongue nor warm me at least. The coffee I used to like adds to the dullness of my surroundings. It has been gray, cold, and lonely. I feel gray, cold, and lonely. But still, no amount of coldness can compare with this new season without you.

[giandnt]

There's a sense of melancholy in his beautiful hazel eyes that drowns me in. A kind in which disconsolate overtook greatness, whilst his furiousness somehow smolders the decades of resentment. He is a new breath of life, the comfort in sadness, the gentleness within rage. Like a perfect mixture of good and bad, which I needed as my sentiment for existence. It pulls me in. As if I was being devoured by a bottomless pit and still admire how dimness hides every insecurity, bruise, and scar as darkness crawls into my skin. He is never the earth nor heaven, neither happiness nor purely sadness, and not even black or white. He embodies the bittersweet ache of melancholia, and I am a sucker for the comforting embrace of solitude.