abinghospital - Tumblr blog

[abinghospital]

maybe winning doesnt have to mean acing an argument or proving a point. maybe your win doesnt necessarily have to mirror the triumph of others. not their diplomas, not their promotions, certainly not their enduring relationships. maybe it doesnt always have to be so loud because not everyone needs to hear it. maybe there's a win meant to be just your own: the comfort of your bed, a steaming cup of coffee, a healthier diet, peeling the shame in doing things alone, celebrating a win that isnt exactly yours: the thriving small business of a long-time friend, your colleague's shift to a career they actually have passion for, the biting excitement of someone's first international trip, even as simple as a stranger finally securing her dream car.

there is victory in just being genuinely happy for the success of others, and i hope we find that feeling in ourselves everyday—

as we wait for our own win to arrive.

[abinghospital]

somewhere in the future, there is a version of you who survives this. and he’s as brave as you always hoped. as giving. as kind. even after going through what felt like the end. even after swimming through an ocean made of broken shards. he wont be as perfect, he’ll bare the damage that dogs back to the darkness. and there will still be times that he’ll be stifled with fear, where his skin will sing the songs of daggers— but he’ll sail through.

i think he’s exactly how he’s supposed to be. jaded, a little bit lost, but there a simmering hope in the glint of his eyes. you will look at him with awe. trace his scars and wonder how he's still alive and standing. think how wounds as deep as the the ones he had could mend into this strength. but it was always because of you. of what you've been through. how much you endured. the wars you won. your brand of bravery. your tenacious soul. so i beg you try to move forward. to persist until you meet him. and he'll be there, spanking new yet a little too familiar, waiting with a hero's welcome.

[abinghospital]

love, again, has eluded me. or an outline of it. ive never had a spark last that long for the fire to grow or for love to take shape. just the tiny burn of its wild potential, but never coming close to a full combustion. i once felt its delicate blaze and was met with an unrequited chill. now it rarely appears, as if an apparition sent by the divine to remind me of what i can only touch but never own. who would've thought even gods have their kinks? men have disrupted my peace bringing the promise of forever only to evaporate in a wink with no goodbye nor an apology. i cannot, however, blame their swift escape for i have my fair share of departure, bolting out at the first scarlet sight, carrying suitcases filled with my selfish reasons.

i thought i had made peace with the possibility that romance might never arrive, not fully anyway. maybe in fragments, shared glances that rot as easily as they blossomed, online forums where we barter our starving bodies for just the right flavor of passion, made to sustain but never to satisfy. despite my deference, sorrow still often knifes me with a vicious longing— to be held longer than a night, like im more than just flesh for offering; for my presence to take root, and my absence to pull weight; for a musk to seep deep into my dents and fill all my senses. independence has long been my battle cry, but even the strongest have moments of collapse. in my frailty, i am but a beggar, hungry for what unfairly comes naturally to some people. jealousy seldom consumes me, but it cuts right through every time i witness others going in and out of relationships, forging earnest attachments, as if in a miraculous sweep, and here i am, denied of even a fleeting experience.

there's a sanctuary in solitude, but there's magic in being wanted. i want to be wanted in a way that exceeds sheer charm because even in my desperation, i owe it to myself to never settle for what comes without substance. my soul yearns for a bond beyond the carnal. i want my mind unraveled to the core, for just being desired shrinks at the mere thought of being understood— in all my versions; every rift, every bruise, every damage, through the best triumphs and the worst defeats— equal parts adored. what i ache for is to find even a shred of what my mother shares with my father; a steadfast companionship, a connection unparalleled, certain to withstand the banalest of days to the most destructive tempest, even the inevitable strain of time. 

as my years burn without finding a twin flame, i've built a life accustomed to sole survival. ive read countless books and applied bits of advice from self-proclaimed experts, all to seek answers to why romance, all this time, has evaded my search. but all my efforts only led me to concrete walls. i find refuge in thinking perhaps destiny has a hand in my romantic misfortunes, that this tragedy was set in stone long before my birth, and my role is simply to live it. because who am i but dust if faced with fate in the grand scheme of life? all i can do is be grateful for everything else: for a family that unconditionally loves me, that i have true friends to call, and for an extensive time to spend chasing my dreams. some days, im strong enough to neglect this void, thinking the life ive built is bigger than the need to belong to someone. but its a lie to say im no longer plagued with somber hours, where i come home to shadows, and in folly, make an extra portion of food with no one to share it with; moments when i am bridled with the fear of dying without knowing how it feels to be truly desired. yet, through it, i continue to move onward; for life is of living, despite what we don't and cannot have.

[abinghospital]

this is me trying. in my restless pursuit to find a calling that resonates, skimming through day jobs hoping id find one that sings. god, my hands ache for a desire that can bring me to my knees. tug at my heartstrings and create a tune i can hum.

who am i? i am doubt personified. i am lost cause core. i am life devoid of purpose. what am i good at? trimming my character to fit the mold of what's ideal, but never quite doing it right that i end up less than what i started with and a little more rough around the edges. i was born with a soul yet i am more confused than human. the only thing im certain about is the comfort of my bed. what are my long-term plans? i am not sure but it definitely involves suitcases and plane rides. a self-discovery trip hoping salvation exists beyond the hollow. 

every crash hasnt prepared me for the burn. every burn will leave a bruise i havent learned how to remedy. will the scars i collect form a map of where i should be? life is a series of trial and error. vague is the criterion of how one wins. failure is a knife. i am wonderful but they're looking for something else, always looking for something better. one i can never be. i understand, i carry so much except anything useful. i wore my skin wrong today. if a flower sucks the life left in me, will it even bloom?

[abinghospital]

what a waste. i've given so much of my time trying to study the meaning of life but maybe it wasn't meant to be learned, it was only ever meant to be lived.

so live. love someone, love him hard. build a planet that revolves only in his orbit. if it ends, watch it burn. feel the pain. witness the ache explode into technicolor, a kaleidoscope vibrance even the galaxy can't rival. but that's supposedly part of this. you come out of it stronger. so be a beast. grow fangs sharp enough to bite. you were born different probably so you could have something to fight for. after all what a life lived only for yourself? so battle. be bruise and be blood. swallow enough punches to turn yourself into a hero.

and hold on longer. time will eventually reveal the secret behind life's riddles, the reason for every happenstance. but if years later you're still in the middle of the ocean, miles away from the nearest shore, hoping to find meaning in the waves yet every paddle seems like a stroke further from the answers, then maybe uncertain is the way to live this. perhaps not knowing what will become leaves a space for your choices, a destiny entirely of your own making, and what better reprieve there is?

move forward. think of this as a slow burn. life's excitement lies in finding out what happens exactly as it unfolds. 

[abinghospital]

am i prettier kept a secret? every guy who wanted me wanted me best behind closed doors, shackled in bed, with docile eyes, screaming only their names. you follow the same pattern. rarely do i ever escape your mouth, not even as a whisper. im merely a shelved conversation. depending on where the scale playfully tips— a foolish subject there's no need to talk about, perhaps a lapse in judgment you can never bring up in shame. i wonder if the qualities that make me interesting shrink at the mention of my lips if only to tell your friends i am the guy you desire to kiss. am i not worth a dinner in that dingy fast food you worship? dont you get the sharp urge to hold my hand under the gaze of the stars or the natural rush to pull me close just to challenge the prying eyes of curious strangers? tell me.

i have transformed myself into sheets. an unmade bed you come home to at night when the world has withered your bones into dust, crawling for comfort you swore i can only give. and still, i remain a shadow. a gossip sitting right at the tip of your tongue, yet you never dared to speak. a shirt you bought hung under your favorites, you never grew the confidence to wear. but i wasnt made for locks. i did not come out only to be forced inside another wardrobe again. im meant for park benches, long walks, and sunrise. so tell me, am i prettier kept a secret? will i forever stay as the spoon in your cupboard remembered only when used? or will i finally take the seat across from you in the coffee shop you frequent? 

[abinghospital]

so we grow a kind of love the world isn't ready for, and now we're supposed to just hold it in our hands or keep it in drawers?! how many years have we hung our flags inside closets as if the colors we bring paint a picture of a bloodbath? i dream of a future where our identities are no longer reduced to a month-long celebration, where our love is not only beautiful for a numbered days. because we are more than the banners we wave. we are more than the rainbow-printed shirts you put on. we are more than capitalist propaganda.

we are stories often left to rot on unread pages. we are kids kicked out of our homes because we wear our real skin with pride. we are restricted hospital visits even after a decade of companionship. we are sinful names you cant find in your holy book. we are equality bill unreasonably dragged on for too long in congress. we are unheard voices of labor malpractices. we are lives at stake because of differing beliefs. we are exposed wounds susceptible to more damage. we are kisses still shared in dimly-lit corners. we are love only legal within the safety of our rooms.

why does it feel like a crime to want to have something they own? what we demand isn't privilege but the possession of our birthright. i dream of freedom unbound by mediocre motives like what we have between our legs. i dream of streets that dont carry hate. i dream of a future that holds a love we can be proud of. 

happy pride my beautiful queers, may our dreams soon turn into reality 🏳️‍🌈

[abinghospital]

i just think its cruel

that there’s a home in my mind

i can only visit in daydreams,

because my parents reside

in a city too far

for my wallet to cross.

and my siblings have outgrown

the cradle that housed

our childhood wonders

and the kids they once were.

now, busy raising kids of their own.

no longer the playmates i once had.

with partners who, thankfully

understand their tempers

and endure their jokes.

and one step closer

to their golden dreams,

(i’d like to believe)

i was once a part of.

dreams ive also kept

hidden in the ridges of my spine

just in case they forget.

and i, too, have grown

older in age, shorter in patience,

non-the-wiser overall

and apparently, just a tad bit

taller to still nimbly fit

in their family beds

and hectic schedules.

so i unpack my bags, cancel the taxi

tear off the ticket going one-way to nowhere

take off my socks

hang my clothes back to where they were

to where they will always be

for a long long time

[abinghospital]

dying comes in faces we don't always expect to drop by. yesterday, a sharp longing for what we can't have. tomorrow, regrets inside caskets we can't seem to bury. sometimes, a grief we’ll never learn to unwear. today, however, is terrible teeth and the harrowing hunger to feel like a child again, held in my mother’s cradle. i wanna be the letters in all her poems. i wanna be the concrete below her feet. i wanna be the coffee in her slow mornings. i wanna be all things. her foggy glasses, her worn-out sweater, and her remittance receipts. her favorite pen, her box of chocolates, and her unblemished sheets. i wanna be the book she has read but can't seem to discard. i wanna be all things, except— 8,734 miles apart.

but the trigger has been pulled and the waves have crashed on shore. and through the crashing and pulling, and the feeling of drowning, i simply just m i s s her. for nothing calms chaos quite like her touch. and it rends my heart in half, knowing somewhere she sits with arms as empty as the hollow that divides us, on the other side of the world.

i made a list of all the blades that have left me with scars, but nothing rivals the gap that stretches from my hand to hers, and the distance that affirms how her embrace is a home i can't return to— when in this mess, it's all i need to feel okay. 

[abinghospital]

i hope my poem makes you feel

makes you want to feel

makes you want to want to feel

even if it's a feeling as fleeting

as a millisecond,

even if it's a feeling as little 

as a mere dot…

it's not my intention to pry

or try to heal what's broken 

my words, as much as i want to,

don't have enough potential to remedy

if only to bring news

that in your undoing

i left a blanket / for you /

to make a shelter out of 

im not saying 

i know of the damage you hold 

just that i once held a dagger 

with a sharpness as lethal

as the one in your hands 

im not saying

i know of a way out

in contrast,  i have absolutely no idea 

but maybe there is comfort

in knowing you are not lost at sea

alone

im not saying

it ends

that there’s a limit to the ache

you carry around your arms

just that i have hands

you can fold  into wheels,

into wings, into whatever

you might need

im saying

i hope my poem makes you feel

makes you want to feel

makes you want to want to feel

if only the tiniest of currents

just enough to keep your heart 

b e a t i n g

….

[abinghospital]

revisiting unfinished poems hoping it brings a dead feeling back to life. it was one of those days spent scrounging for scraps having survived yet another carnage. trying to mend what the storm tore off, never quite knowing how to piece the parts together, emerging from the chaos just a little less myself. it is what it is and that kind of is the problem, yet we do what we can when we don't have the answers.

how many more of these, before toppled furniture begins to turn this place unfamiliar. before broken frames open up wounds i cannot close. before the shattered mirror bears a figure i no longer recognize.

it is what it is and what it is is fucked up, yet we do what we can, with who we are, with what we're left with…

[abinghospital]

there’s a violence that preys in the lurid silence, its hunting claws piercing through my skin in a vicious attempt to hurt. its brutal grip mars my delicate bones, shattering the joints that hold my useless body. my tears flow without intent as if a machine run only by the pain that throbs behind my ribcage. all this, in the dead silence. an ear-shattering pin-drop of soundless screams. darkness engulfs as i unlit the lights in desperate hopes that the shadows would form a familiar glint of my childhood refuge. where every face is a friendly ghost. where pavements are painted with blooming delight and the scent of home endures.

outside the still blackness of my dying prison, where the rot cant reach flesh, where the gloom cant pale the souls that wander, the city roars in wild movement. vehicles sifting through the wind, light dancing in gleaming colors, streets shrouded with people holding purpose in their pockets and dreams in their eyes. the world is perpetually in motion, a cycle of never-ending toil. bones grinding against inertia, bodies forced to function for modest coins, rigid calluses taking shape on gentle hands. when did existence turn into a need to survive rather than the desire to experience? are we ever allowed to take time if only to muse at the beauty of the stars when even in solitude, there’s a war that wont dissipate? and the uproar never ends, not to nurture the wounds from my hounding thoughts brought by the prick of existential woe, not to tender the ache of the sick loneliness that has long plagued my wounded spirit. in my somber seclusion, as if to mock my trivial being, i was humbled by the absolute truth that tomorrow is promised, even without me. 

i’ve learned of life’s hostility in the way it has punished me for crimes i have yet to discern. it lights a raging ember to my fading hope, only to take it back leaving not even a flicker but a fear in my throat that knows only of consuming. luck i was told, was the rarest of lightnings i had the privilege to catch. i’ve lived my youth not with the greatest luxuries but one free of deprivation and contempt. there was always food on the table, warm clothes to wear, and enough love to fill an ocean. yet this did not come without its share of penance, for in my moments of perish, there was no embrace to fall back to. a penalty im still paying for even at present. when anguish, like poison, trickles its way through my veins, but distance, with its powerful expanse, holds me back from the antidote. luck it turns out was a chance at ease priced with a hefty bargain. 

life at its most hostile, is an esoteric irony, a drop of bliss followed by an outpour of ceaseless dread. 

life is a spineless joke, one i was dying to hear only to uncover that i am the eventual punchline. 

life is a striking serpent, rearing its venomous head with only the intent to maim. 

what am i supposed to defend myself with when all i have are meager words, scattered sentences, and fervent pleas for clemency, all addressed to a god im uncertain is even there?

there’s cruelty in digging a grave once you’re already dying. in my most tragic days, i still seek for ways to sink deeper into uncharted depths even my demons fear to tread. insanity, according to einstein, is a mindless repetition expecting different results. is there a map to flee the downward loop of this inescapable madhouse? madness, in experience, is an endless free fall. the ultimate torture is the absence of landing with the constant concern knowing despite the burn, a hotter hell awaits. and there’s no ceasing this continuous collapse for i intentionally elude all attempts at salvation. there is sadness in my refusal to expose my need for comfort as much as there’s merit for my fake resonance of strength. how does one bring back the will to withdraw his walls when ridicule laces his every oversight and his worries are reduced to meaningless whims? in my pondering, i discovered how to fold my bleeding chaos into tiny caricatures, tuck them in the cracks of my ruptured heart, and corrupt me in secrecy. 

life, at its most hostile, is a crashing trajectory. and the endless wonder if there is a way out. 

[abinghospital]

in reality, i deprive myself of vulnerability. in writing, im hopefully allowed a pinch of melodrama.

[abinghospital]

one day, ill be able to write 

in a manner of which im easily understood

learn how to use words just as they are, 

uncoat them in sugar

unmove them around so the story sounds

a little less hideous

without pretense, without holding back

without fear of unearthing whats left of the 

bloodbath

name my demons by their spite, 

call them as they are

godless and vicious, ill-favored scars

ill leave no monster behind,

ill tell it how it is 

one day, ill do it. 

ill do it, i promise

[abinghospital]

as i get older, the more i find less importance in proving to anyone that i made it. that i lead a perfect a life, that i found retribution for all the things i went through; the failed attempts, the dreadful almosts, how i was at precipice of something great and just fell short to deserve it. because what exactly is making it? life after 40? number of places traveled? romance straight out from a novel? riches beyond compare? being at the top of your career path? for the longest time, these things have been undefined in my mind that they course into each other, their obscure frames sinking like dead bodies into the sea. untraceable. is there actually a way to measure if youve lived well enough?

there are no monuments built for me. my name isnt plastered across the cover of a best-selling book. not a single song is made on my behalf. there's not enough dime in my account to fill a jar. but today i told my mom i love her. with all my heart. her way with words. the way she knows exactly what to say to ease my worries. i answer in the few times my brothers call me in need. a few extra bucks, to clean a massive set of toys, some punchlines for an online show; a hidden purpose in moments when i feel colosally insignificant. i took photos of my sister and told her she looked pretty, but what i meant is how her spirit echoes joy, the kind she only weilds. my dad once taught me how to clean my bathroom, with meticulous precision and a sense of passion i still follow until this very day. i fondly look back to wild revelries with treasured friends, euphoria hanging in the air like its the only thing we can breathe. see, i protect these memories in a bulletproof glass. some kind of box where they can never escape me. bring them like a charm; a reminder of beautiful moments when i felt absolutely alive. tiny specks of time in this vast universe that have made my existence truly worth it.

dare i say, i’ve lived. in these simple joys, every shared laughter, bonds made tighter with bared emotions. so lost in the mundanity, most often overlooked, yet here lies life. in these familiar corners; a quiet sunday spent together with the people that matter the most, amusing games once upon a christmas evening, dining table filled not only with food but healthy conversations, the warmest of hugs in the busy new york airport. i made it. and at 26, is there anything more valuable?

[abinghospital]

where will i be in 5 years? i dont know. maybe still alive. and hopefully, absolutely happy. 5 years ago, i didnt know id end up right here. alive. working on being happy. racking my brain for a roadmap of my future. how do people just know what to do with their lives?

i used to wanna be a writer, only cause they told me i was excellent with words. but i also wanted to be a doctor. when i was way younger, i thought i could be a spy. i sometimes wish someone couldve just told me, "you were born to be— THIS." life would have been less bewildering. now, i just want to be alive. does it make me less of a human if my ambition isnt as regal? if i only wanna live, is my entire survival a loss when 2 years ago i wanted to end it? despite feeling like the odds were completely against me, i found a few reasons to persist;

i want a tiny space by the beach, with a perfect view of the sepia sky on quiet afternoons. i want an easy cookbook and the latest coffee maker. i want to come home to soft music and a cat waiting on the sofa. i want kitchen arguments about which cereal to make for dinner. i want wine bottles and late night films. i want random roadtrips to god-knows-where. i wanna be summer vacation for my nephews and nieces. to just feel like home and be happy. and if life would allow me a little more joy, be happy with someone. travel. see the world. bring my parents with me. and in a few years, gradually settle down. be illuminated with the warm glow of love and living.

and of course i dont know how ill get there. i didnt stay in school long enough to learn how to read my palms. the tarot card said, take risks and do something new. but what i actually wanna do is to fall in love with life. dwell inside beautiful books. try a stronger cocktail. get in touch with my friends. and to stay kind. when reality throws me the hardest punch, i hope ill carry the same grace i only see from my mother.

i turn 26 this year. my 5 year plan is to never get jaded. maybe laugh a little harder. to never run out of inspiration to create. and isnt this being ambitious? my 2024 horoscope is to be grateful. i definitely am today. when this year ends, i hope i can still say that i am and honestly mean it.

[abinghospital]

it may be that im hard to love. the thought fills my bucket head like a broken faucet. my fault. maybe its because i can never tell when i talk too much or say so little. or the way i disappear when everything feels wrong because i assume im the problem. i assume the problem before theres even a problem so there's no problem to begin with. my fault. i think too much. my thoughts are enormous, its more of a person than i am, hones an aggression i couldnt quite tame. he busts in my room and breaks all my mirrors, leaves the shards so ill remember his name. my fault.

it may be that im hard to love. a truth so loud it feels like a gut punch. hard to love but easy to make love to. a mistake that harbors no guilt. a quick escape with not much of an afterthought. some kind of flavor you can wash off with water. some nights, i empty my closet hoping to find out where i always go wrong? maybe my fault lies in between my folded skeletons, my flaws hanged in a corner i couldnt see; an answer to why im difficult to love when love is supposed to be easy.

i try sometimes, but i can never get it right. i fail profoundly, i question why i even bother?