blrrblog

[blrrblog]

I take it back I wouldn’t have sex at all I would probably just sit there and accept my fate bc what else can I do

if we were getting blown up soon how would you spend your last days on earth

have as much sex as possible, then watch my last ever sunset as I die on the most beautiful beach in the world

[blrrblog]

if we were getting blown up soon how would you spend your last days on earth

have as much sex as possible, then watch my last ever sunset as I die on the most beautiful beach in the world

[blrrblog]

On Children

I don’t believe children are evil.

I had finished a shift at work—a very smooth, speedy photoshoot with jewellery—so my day was to a great start. I hopped on my bus and rode home.

I couldn’t focus because a child was crying for the entire 20 minutes. He kept calling for his mother, struggling to even articulate what he wanted, but I have concluded from his cries that

1. he didn’t feel safe

2. this isn’t the first time it’s happened

3. he wanted to get her attention, and this was the only way he knew, even though it wouldn’t work

I sat at the upper bunk, but I could hear him all the way from the bottom. The way he cried made me want to cry too.

The only time his mother spoke was when she told him to shut up. This was followed by an even louder cry, that eventually got drowned out by laugher and chatter of adults, in which he eventually did, shut up.

Every child deserves a parent, but not every parent deserves a child.

I did realise one day when I was 15 that my parents, and many adults around me are just grown up children (in both good and bad ways). Even now, I am not so different from a child, or the child I once was. Your inner child is with you all the time, you just forget that she’s there because you see a grownup in the mirror.

When you master the art of noticing, you learn to see past the skin of a grownup and see their inner child.

You stand in the train and shyly glance into the eyes of a man you just met, only to be greeted with a genuine softness that has now unconsciously curled into a sweet smile—a glimpse of the soft and gentle child he once was before he realised he had to harden himself for the world.

You take in the fleeting moment when your client innocently gushes about how much she loves chocolate, and you realise she is the reason why there is always a little tray of nicely arranged chocolates on every desk of the office.

We’re all still children. The only difference between a child and an adult is that children don’t pretend. I’m tired! I’m tired of pretending when all I want is to frolic in a lush grass bed, climb trees, stop to smell the flowers, scribble on walls, laugh in the sand, fall asleep in the sun, play with cats and bunnies, sing and dance and eat pasta. I do not want to think about adult things like taxes, KPIs and investments.

I’m tired of pretending, but I am awfully good at it. When my clients (older than 30) realise I’m not even twenty, they get so very surprised.

“But you’re so mature!”

“I thought you were older!”

Do I hide my childlike wonder that well? It’s probably a protective measure—to protect my lovely childishness from being tainted by the harsh world. That’s probably it. That’s precisely why I have a garden. Now I don’t feel so bad.

I don’t know what im writing anymore, and I don’t care. Nothing is that deep. Shut up and scroll or keep reading. I could want to kiss you and have it not mean anything other than just wanting to kiss you, because your lips look very soft and very lovely. All of this conversation is so complicated and adult, it comes to a point where I don’t care to understand anymore—I distance myself because I don’t believe you would understand, like how adults misunderstand children. If I just kissed you like that it probably isn’t fair, because in the adult world we expect things from one another; relationships are transactional at some point. You give something and you take something. You have meshed into your adult skin too much—all this pretence has gotten to you, what happened to the child you once were?

I’m tired. Why do we pretend? No one asked us to! The Little Prince is my favourite book for a reason.

Chloe Rosario, June 2025

[blrrblog]

Pretence and Presence

The two never go together.

I find myself bitterly aware of how I’m pretending to be something I’m not, sat at a table with a person I barely care about, talking about things I wholeheartedly disagree with; I no longer have the energy to even argue for my truth, I don’t have to when I know who I am and what I stand for.

There is a comical feeling when you realise you do not care, when you utterly do not care. Now, instead of leaving a bitter wrinkle, it tickles my funny bone and I almost have to hide my grin.

One must abandon a certain part of their ego to surrender to connection. The more selfish I become, the more I enjoy being single, the less I want a relationship. You cannot be complete with another person when you are already whole. I grow bigger than I could ever imagine; I have become so whole I no longer need the admiration of a million friends. Self preservation is a double edged sword, one can crave romance yet repel it.

Oddly enough, I find inspiration in the imperfect moments in a relationship that is supposed to be perfect. Nothing is supposed to be perfect, so why do we keep striving for it? Regardless why would you want something that does not bring you value? Self preservation has taught me not to waste my time. Self awareness has also taught me to use self preservation as an excuse to deny myself pleasure.

I have become so comfortable in my own little garden which I have built for myself; it is full of beautiful art I have curated, lilies in pink and orange and white, cats and bunnies sipping water from a gilded fountain and chasing butterflies; no one permitted to enter but me, because I have built this garden for me and me only to enjoy. I don’t think I want anyone to enter.

For the friendships I treasure, we share a garden we grow and water which has stood the test of seasons and time, but you always have time for your own garden and it is never abandoned.

To those who have stolen my lilies and berries, your garden grows dishevelled for your soil do not meet the demands of my crop.

My name originates from the Greek goddess of fertility and agriculture. Demeter protects my garden, she has taught me that the Floribunda rose can only grow in the sunlight, just as I bloom and bask under the afternoon sun; my skin was graced by the sun the moment I was born, my first touch and first love had always been the sun.

I have such a beautiful garden, and I do not mean to be ungrateful to Demeter for everything I have been blessed with. Self help books don’t teach you that self love does not fill the void of romance; yet the best you can do is to tend to your garden, in hopes that one day you meet somebody who, you recognise the beauty of each others garden, whose soil meet the demand of your crop, who adores you so much they would like to build a garden just for you.

Until then I have my lilies in pink and orange and white, my cats and bunnies and my gilded fountain, the goddess Demeter and the afternoon sun, in a garden where freedom is found and no pretence is needed.

Chloe Rosario, June 2025

[blrrblog]

happy father’s day to the father

who never knew how to be one;

happy father’s day to your daughters

who would prefer a world without one

my misandry a reaction to your misogyny;

your alcoholism a reflection of your incompetency

your past dismissal comes in my present neglect;

my past promiscuity is payment of your infidelity

everything you ever hated

about yourself and my mother

I have arrived in place

as a mirror to your karma

for years you laid an empty vessel

without affection for his children

you brought me into this world

and left like it meant nothing

you can never step foot back into

a home that does not welcome you

I don’t even know

if you’re dead or alive

don’t think I could even

care for your demise

The heart you gave me

no longer holds space for you

too busy writing a poem

about how I feel nothing for you

happy father’s day to the father

who never know how to be one

happy father’s day to the daughter

who never knew what is a father

Chloe Rosario, June 2025

[blrrblog]

Untitled

In death or time,

Hands never lie;

In sickness or gold,

It is your hand I hold,

While death do us part,

We live on as art.

Chloe Rosario, 11 May 2025

[blrrblog]

Brave,

enough

I wish

I was brave enough to

love You

scared

that I’m wrong

this whole time

maybe

It’s better that way

The universe

puts me in situations,

I find myself

facing you

I still ache

for You

Eyes that

undress me

Creepily

you snuck up

On me,

discovered something

new

I have no name for

full of

poems and letters

never read,

words

unsaid

I wish it were that easy

good things never come

that Easy

All I could think of

how much I wanted to kiss you

how I wish you knew,

I wish

you Knew.

original poem by Chloe Rosario

[blrrblog]

A Letter to Myself 2033

Dear Chloe, you grew older

Now 8 years into the future

I’m not expecting you to have 

A stable job or a loving partner

A yacht or luxury clothes on hangers

You may be older, and maybe angrier

But you’re definitely not stupid, not stupider

The world is a shithole

But it’s my shithole, our shithole

And we’re going to take care of it, this shithole

Take it back from greedy capitalist goals

With their shitty spaceships and shitty sacks

Drilling shitholes into the ground for oil and gas

Draining water and selling it to us, feeding us crap

Destroying Mother Nature and our habitats

I hope you’re as angry as ever, as I am now

Keep turning that love for humanity into rage

Rage in your art, your writing, your community

For that rage is what creates change

As we wrote yesterday

With no rebellion comes no divinity

With no revolution comes no equality

With no resistance comes no change

With no love comes no rage

I hope you’re still

As full of love and full of rage

As I just was yesterday

And for forever, we may

written as a class exercise on 17 April, 2025.

original poem by Chloe Rosario

[blrrblog]

7 hours

I’ve never truly wanted anything. Never truly felt desire. I mean, I’ve had whims, acted on them—I’ve wanted things—but never so strongly that they became obsessions. I usually desired what I knew would be beneficial. For example, wanting a good grade because I knew it would help me get ahead, even though, deep down, I didn’t care whether I passed or failed. None of it mattered to me. Even with sex—yes, I have experienced desire—but knowing it vanishes the moment I climax has ruined it for me. Because I know I’ll stop wanting and return to my usual indifference (the contrast leaves a bitter wrinkle in my frontal lobe), or worse, feel repulsed that I chose to satiate my urges with someone else’s flesh prison.

I feel immense pressure to want things, but in truth, I don’t want anything—nor do I want to be anything at all. I simply don’t want to be. I think having a brain is a curse: you ought to see things differently, yet you only feel indifferent. And to enjoy the only life you think you have is to pretend—to lose yourself in the good dopamine of material reality.

This shit sucks. I wish I were an atom with no thoughts. Better yet, a nothing. With the world as fucked as it is, sometimes I look out the window, hoping to see a mushroom cloud, a bright flash. Then we could all be nothing.

The closest I’ve ever come to desire—pure, irrational wanting—was romantic desire. Wanting someone for no logical reason, just feeling it consume me. But is that truly desire, or merely obsession? What’s the difference between the two anyway? What does any of this mean?

It’s hard for me to experience this because I know that, eventually, that wanting will die—and with it, some part of me will wither away.

If the world were ending in seven hours, maybe I’d have a reason to go after that someone.

Or maybe I wouldn’t. Maybe I’d realise you never mattered at all—that I clung to you only because you were the sole proof I ever had desire.

Maybe if you broke the expected timeline and kissed me in those seven hours, it would immediately trigger catastrophe—the mushroom cloud, the bright flash outside your bedroom window.

Everyone who ever knew us would be turned to ash, and this time, my ash would remain as proof of your desire. No one would ever know. No one would ever remember us as the pair who ended the entire world.

[blrrblog]

i still think of you, now

blocked you in february—cold hands, cold heart.

you saw me, saw everything! even the mess,

even the sins. even the parts i regret.

did you love me? i don’t trust you now.

ride or die, my dearest friend.

we were two parts of a whole now.

three years. one year silent.

still hear you whisper.

still taste the static.

still feel your prayers.

you never judged, never flinched.

loved me like i was bright,

like i was gold-plated.

when the other ones failed me,

you were still there.

do i miss you, or miss the idea?

you wanted a housewife, saw that in me.

i wanted safety, wanted your big arms and security,

but never your gospel, never the songs on your piano.

what you wrote back then, was it just for me?

jesus judges us both now.

i still think you’re a misogynist.

i still think you cared.

i still think we almost worked.

did i love you? did i lie?

doesn’t matter now.

you didn’t predict this, didn’t see me leaving now.

i did the right thing now.

i don’t miss you now.

i won’t miss you now.

we would’ve wrecked each other.

but part of me thinks you were soft,

part of me thinks you were lost.

almost booked the flight. almost ran to you.

almost made it right.

i still think of you.

i still think of you.

i still think of you now.

how?

we were doomed from the start,

i had to burn this to ash.

i dont understand you now.

why did you love me, now?

[blrrblog]

I write, I write, suicide

my hand my pen, my blood my ink

for the people I bleed, for this world I cry

this blood will run out, I’m barely alive

the more I write, the faster I die

as I bleed I urge, there is no surprise

these systems work as perfectly designed

by those with billions in power and pride

who deny our rights and genocide

like rats we turn to homicide

how can society be with no love inside

the west has fallen, community has died

the only way out is suicide

I am a product that is well-designed

to conform to the rat race high and dry

I give my lifetime away and reside

in a small room that can barely suffice

with food that poisons my insides

so I pay for pills, my symptoms hide

in my body so long as I don’t die

as long as I am kept alive, but barely survive

the apocalypse I’m in, the hell they drive

the only way out is suicide

they tell me my head needs a check inside

for mental health is a problem of the mind

and definitely not the capitalist crimes

that built their wealth on children’s cries

I pay for a therapist who nods and smiles

who pretends to care and tells me to try

better and harder to stay alive

I start to think I’m surrounded by lies

the only way out is suicide

one must imagine Sisyphus gratified

Camus, I think you fucking lied

it makes it hard to be satisfied

when this hell we live in was built on cries,

lies, greed and genocide

I’m left out in the cold still high and dry

the only way out is suicide

they say my pessimism is bad for the mind

I think pessimists and realists coincide

just wait till you marry and create life

maybe, you’ll finally find purpose in life

but how can I want a child of mine

to be born into hell just to die

conforming to the rat race high and dry

passing down a line of generational cries

the only way out is suicide,

the only way out is suicide.

original poem by Chloe Rosario

[blrrblog]

Love and Rage

I am full of love and full of rage

and we are all modern slaves

the worst form of slavery is the land of the free

we think we’re free but really, are we?

make us work 9-5 like we have 9 lives

make us chase wealth with no end in sight

dreaming of vacations yachts and luxury

but how can we, turn a blind eye

to those whose alarms are explosions

to those with no roof or shelter

to the wildlife that grows endangered

we are not underdeveloped but overexploited

for what is man-made can be dismantled

the patriarchy and capitalism is artificial

so cheers to those who made our lives unliveable

on a planet that has given us so much to live for

for destroying the ecosystems that keep us alive

whether rich or poor, the same we die

I am full of love and full of rage

and we are all modern slaves

with no rebellion comes no divinity

with no revolution comes no equality

with no resistance comes no change

with no love comes no rage

Original poem by Chloe Rosario

[blrrblog]

The 5-5-5 rule

I like to think the best way to understand someone is to go through their tumblr page. Lucky for me, no one else I know uses this platform. Barely anyone does these days.

When i used to date around, guys would ask me, “So, what are you into? What do you do?” And I would say, as per usual, “I do art. But I also write, and I post them on tumblr.”

Now here’s where it gets funny. 9 times out of 10 they’d respond with, “Tumblr? People still use that?” Or something along the lines of that.

At this point I don’t know what to answer, and I never knew how to. Because in a very literal sense, yes, Lukas, people still use Tumblr. Or else it wouldn’t exist anymore. And no, I don’t care if you think it’s old. You’re not half as intellectual as I am and that’s the very reason why I agreed to this date so it wouldn’t trigger my debilitating fear of commitment and control issues. Neither of us give that much of a shit about what we like, don’t get so ahead of yourself.

Now, while that’s all happening inside my head, I’m just blindly staring at him with a half-smile as a response. And before I even realise I look as autistic as I feel on the inside, Lukas is already mansplaining the aerodynamics of a Boeing and how tough his physics major is.

1 out of 10 Lukas’s would actually ask for my Tumblr page so he could read it and understand how to better manipulate me as I find another blonde Spaniard to get re-colonised by.

From that, there is also a 1 out of 10 chance that Lukas actually does appreciate literature and artistic expression, and sees it as a way to understand the overall human condition in whatever ass-fuck the year 2025 is. But I wouldn’t know, because one of us would’ve been out of the picture by then.

It’s not all that extreme of course. Lukas doesn’t even exist and you’re reading words off of your screen typed by a young adult woman at the ass crack of dawn, who lies for the fun of it because of her stubborn philosophy that ‘reality is what you decide is real’ — some fuck ass one-liner she came up with to justify lying for one sentence of poetic beauty. And I decide that this is a very real narrative with real emotions and real words, and fictional people and over-exaggerated experiences. If we didn’t feel the need to over-explain art forms because of whatever genius came up with “cancel culture”, the world would arguably be a much better place. Maybe not better, but with slightly higher media literacy.

Maybe the whole point is to do what you want to do, enjoy it (and actually enjoy it), and look good doing it. And even if you don’t enjoy it at the moment, stay knowing that you will in 5 minutes when he pays the bill and you just got your 5th free dinner of the week, and it’s only Friday.

[blrrblog]

If I died in your arms tonight

If I died in your arms tonight,

There would be no soft sighs,

No whispered goodbyes.

As my heartbeat reaches its final notes,

You wonder why you even bothered,

Why you held on to fragile hopes.

Maybe you'd curse fate or the stars,

Or maybe you'd silently move on,

As do you tend old wounds of the heart.

If I died in your arms tonight,

I’d still be everywhere you look,

But nowhere in sight.

All that's left is the taste of regret,

The bitter residue of what could have been,

If only you'd held me tighter, loved me yet.

If I died in your arms tonight,

It’d be messy, ugly, raw—

A story cut short, a poem with a flaw.

A tragic fate, a heart torn and irate,

As yours still beats against mine,

Missing the rhythm it once knew late.

Until darkness swallows me whole,

And until I’m nothing but dust,

Please, don’t mourn, just remember:

I died in your arms tonight,

It wasn’t beautiful like the stories,

But it was real, and that’s all that we had.

Chloe Rosario, 2024

[blrrblog]

Oh, you foolish child

Who said you haven’t found love?

Who said you don’t have it already?

Just look around,

Look at those in your life.

You are so full of love,

As is what surrounds you.

For love has never left your side.

Chloe Rosario, 2024

[blrrblog]

I Pray for Women

I pray for the women, my mothers, my sisters,

Lift them from abuse, ill treatment and crumbs,

Grant them the strength to rise above.

I pray for the women, my mothers, my sisters,

Release them from roles forced upon their days,

To perform, submit, and blindly obey.

I pray for the women, my mothers, my sisters,

Their worth transcends lust; they dream and breathe,

Beings with hearts and minds that fiercely seethe.

I pray for the women, my mothers, my sisters,

Free them from girlhood's storm and rain,

From womanhood's rage and silent pain.

I pray for the women, my mothers, my sisters,

Our love is authentic, no pretence or charade,

A wildfire burning, unyielding, unafraid.

To my mothers and my sisters, I declare:

Love is our truth, no veil or disguise,

Ink on paper, bleeding each day.

For Sylvia, Marilyn, Anne, Diana, Joan,

And countless others who paved the way,

They didn't die for us to falter or sway.

Chloe Rosario, 2024

[blrrblog]

Dissonance

The city sprawled before me, a soulless landscape of concrete and glass moulded by indifferent hands. I, an 18-year-old girl with the weariness of a 40-year-old, wandered its streets seeking solace. My steps echoed, each footfall eminent with my incongruity.

No lover—met through meet cute encounters or digital matchmaking—seemed to share my temporal dissonance. They revel in their youthful hedonism, their laughter punctuated by clinking glasses and the acrid scent of cigarettes and weed. Their eyes always lacked depth, devoid of any sign of life, as if this hedonistic lifestyle was all they had. Mine held a library of musings, thoughts, ideas and poems unspoken. But I’m just being pessimistic here, I don’t blame them. I, too, was a hedonist. Or maybe I still am, because this hedonistic lifestyle is all I that I have.

The club doors swung open, spilling neon light onto the grease-stained pavement. Bodies gyrated, lost in the rhythm of their simple, drunken existence. I stood at the threshold, an observer of their bacchanalian rites. I was still too casual for academia, too frivolous for the corporate, too mainstream for fellow artists. My intellect was a misfit, a puzzle piece trying to jam into the wrong jigsaw.

And so, I walked. Long, aimless strides that carried me to the seaside. An elongated bench awaited, its wooden slats worn smooth, perhaps by countless souls seeking respite, just like me. I sat, the salt-laden breeze tugging at my unkempt hair, and surveyed the emptiness beside me. The bench had emptied, as if the universe conspired to grant me solitude.

The ocean stretched to the city skyline, as if not letting it go beyond sight. And there I sat, a paradox—a girl who craved connection yet repelled it. My phone lay dormant, silent, guarding unread messages to friends.

What the actual fuck is my life right now?

Maybe life was a cosmic joke, a riddle with no answer. Or maybe I was the punchline, a misfit yearning for belonging in a world that spun on its axis, indifferent to my musings. Sometimes I think of myself as a concept, an idea, just an observer of human living. Yet I often forget that I am human, too.

And so, I sat—an 18-year-old with the weight of millennia, seeking meaning in a sea of noise, typing into my Notes App.

Chloe Rosario, 2024