buttoncupcakes

[buttoncupcakes]

Karma

“I want to call it off.”

“Vie? I couldn’t quite catch you,” he shouted.

“I said I want to call it off.”

There was a blank moment, a remote hesitation, allowing the loud chatters of men and the blaring clatters of china to take over the void. I held my breath, wary of the response he might give.

“What?”

I rubbed my temples. The noise on the other side of the phone was getting on my nerves; topped with his indifference, my agony level was peaking at its highest.

“Do you mind?”

“Mind what?” He slurred, puzzled; his question tinted with the sound of alcohol.

“Never mind.” I said flatly. “Just do me a favor and go screw yourself.”

* * *

“Choose a color.”

A rainbow of saris was hung on the side; from coral to cerulean, they were a vibrant arc stretching across the dimmed ceiling. It was a great juxtaposition, the radiant chromes against the dark concrete flaking off with paint in random corners.

I reached for the white fabric. It was plain, no ornaments, no nothing. Its naivety and purity lured me into its embrace; its blank simplicity scorned at the henna patterns on my hands. I had buds and flowers painted today.

“Fertility and femininity,” a smile had tugged at the corner of my mother’s mouth as she hovered above me, overlooking as my aunt finished her design with a last flick.

I pulled the silk down. The sheet of white ran down on my fingers. I marveled at the sight, at the sleek garment shining silver under the sunbeam, at the blank linen slipping off the hook and onto my hand freely. It was a cloth speaking of freedom.

“No, you know the rule, Vie!” Mother smacked my hand away. “No white! White is for widows.”

“But it’s pretty.” I argued.

“There’s no such thing as beautiful when something’s void of emotions. I only see somberness on that cloth.” She snatched the saris away, returning it to the hanger. “I believe your father would agree with me.”

I leaned on the door frame, watched as she paced before the textiles. The evening clouds casted over the sun, barring entry of the warm rays; without light, the saris merged with the insipid background. At the age of thirteen, there was only so much you could do; and endowed with bosoms, I was brought up knowing where I stood.

With a snap of fingers, she turned to me, grinning, a cardinal garment hooked on her elbow, “Now, that’s the one I was looking for.”

* * *

I shifted on the seat as their gaze singed my skin. I pinched a part of the dress, rubbing the rough fabric in between the fingers. It was a hand-me-down, a part torn from my sister’s wedding dress. The thick gold embroidery at the hem was now draped slant across my chest, a sea of canine swarm around it. It reminded me of how I took some of my sister’s felicity to render the blossom of mine. She would not be using it anyway, they said as their scissors slit across the Anarkali.

“So,” Father broke the silence. “He is not coming?”

“No, he is not. Just us.”

Quietude followed the brief denial once again. I listened to the swinging of the fan, how it reverberated around the hoary walls. Click-chick. Click-chick. The rhythm counted off beats for me, an unending string of pulses providing no answer for my questionable future. If only they could help me count myself out from this.

“What are we still concerning about?” Across the table, she looked at her husband, a smile stretching across her features. “I know a fertile woman when I see one. She is the one for him.”

The husband stood up, extending his palm to me, flashing his teeth. “Welcome to our family.”

* * *

“What does it say?” Mother prompted. “Do they promise to give us what we’ve asked for?”

They huddled around me, all staring blissfully at the letter. It was a white sheet scattered with black words, like bread contaminated with dots of mould. I smoothed it with the back my hand, wondering if the letters could be swept away, bringing back the plain paper.

“They do. Settlement. Education abroad. Everything.” I nodded softly. “As long as we’re betrothed.”

Yelps of ecstasy erupted from them: inter-caste marriage was out of expectation; but the provision of a heavy dowry was a genuine opulence. They would soon be riding their way out from poverty.

But, if only they knew, to render the blossom of their felicity, a part of mine was taken away. What was rapture when one had no choice?

It was Karma, as they had always said.

* * *

“I am sorry about last time.” He peered over the steam rising from the mug. “I didn’t realize you were being serious.”

A retort was ready to launch from my tongue when my subconscious reminded me I was conferring with my Indian brother. With five years of the British education, I sure was losing touch with my origin.

“It was alright. Hopefully you didn’t screw yourself.”

“Never mind. So what’s it? What’s so important that I have to spare a day from my trip to come to you?” He sank back into the velvet cushion chair, nursing the latte in his callused hand. “I seem to recall you saying about calling something off.”

I scanned his face, in search for empathy. It was a face that resembled mine, that always morphed into an expression of support when I was a toppling roof in need of solid pillars. I wondered, profoundly, whether, this time, compassion would be too much of a luxury to beg for.

“Yes, I did. I want to call it off.”

“So you've said,” he nodded. “But call off what exactly?”

“The affiance.” I muttered, my fingers playing at the hem of my dress. Twist and turn. Twist and turn. The cloth spun back by itself each time I let loose, returning to its staid state. If only things were that simple.

“You know you can’t,” he put his mug back on the coffee table. “You know we can’t. That’s double on the payment we’re talking about—”

“I’m pregnant.” I blurted.

He slowly turned his head toward me, “You’re what?”

“I am pregnant.” Twice the confession rendered the thudding of my heart; the elation, long sank in the pit of my heart, rose. It was like the thick sludge of syrup found at the bottom of flavored coffees, not until you swirled it did it surface, did it allowed to be tasted.

I lifted my eyes to his, but they turned to the window. In his irises, I saw the reflection of the snow outside, the sallow sunless clouds of the sky, all packed in the small hazel rings. I saw everything. But warmth. Finally he broke the silence.

“Selfish. You are so selfish,” he gritted his teeth. “You can’t do this.”

His words shot me. They were bullets I had been averting, truth I was eluding, but now they were fired right at me. And for every puncture left on me, it meant being haunted by debts to repay my fiancé, by ridicules slammed from our neighbors, by contempt, by hatred, by other repercussions. I knew, sincerely, I would stain my family’s record. But I was desperate for love. I quenched for the attention I had never been granted. So I set myself free, for the first time. At home, I must chain my heart with commitment and marital duties; but here, I could let it be on the loose. As everyone else did.

“It’s my life.” I clenched my fist.

He snorted, “but not your money.” His eyes burned with an anguish hill fire, of which the closer you approached, the more unbearable it became.

I turned my head down. “I will bear the consequences.”

“As if we all will not,”

“Father shouldn’t have signed it then.”

“You shouldn’t have fucked another guy then,” He slammed his fist on the wood surface. “If we have not agreed to it, where would you be now? You would be down the road in the cemetery because you would’ve been starved to death. Would you end up here so poised and prim and all-so-well, huh? Would you even have the chance to get laid, huh? Why don’t you think about what have gotten you into this state before you told me what Father shouldn’t have done?”

A pregnant of pause, then he stood up abruptly. “I will pretend we didn’t meet today.”

I looked up. His sunglasses were put back on, blocking glimpses at the emotions swirling behind his pupils. I saw myself, only myself on the tinted panes; so small and shrewd with vain tears brimming over the eyes. I tried to hold them back, tried to bar the dam from collapsing like the time I tried to barricade my love from spilling over, but one crack and others followed. It was not long before the waterfalls roared on, before I found myself drowning without an idea of how to save myself, how to deal with all that I had caused.

“Get rid of it the next time I see you.” He walked away without turning back. At the door he halted.

“And please, keep those pants on. So no one gets under it.”

* * *

“Where are we going?” My eyes darted on his face.

“Somewhere.”

We drove past Magdalen Bridge. The current today was rocky, stumbling from wavelets to wavelets; white foam bubbled on the surface, the same kind the overdosed vomited when demising.

I realized where we were heading to.

“You are not doing this.”

“I have to see it done.” He tightened his grip on the wheel.

“Turn back now.” I demanded. “Now.”

He swerved into a narrow lane, one that I remembered when I first came, I was told to call the “sorrowful lane”. I had never set foot here. I could not approach a building that perpetrates manslaughter, feigning innocent with its pure appearance but disguised among the homey red-bricked houses

“Please,” I wailed. “Don’t do this. Please.”

He accelerated. The residences outside became a blur, a ripple of crimson raining on the car window. I shrieked. I begged. I sobbed. But beyond my protests, I heard the clear laugh of Death, mocking at my foolish attempts.

* * *

It was over.

I crouched, leaning against the brick wall; my fingers running on the pavement. The rough surface scratched my skin. I scraped my palm against it harder. I scuffed, I grooved and I grazed, until I saw red, until I saw the thick scarlet blood trickling out. They dribbled onto the ground, staining the pale concrete with their horrendous color. But I could feel no pain.

“Dammnit.” The bells jingled merrily, signalling his emergence from the clinic. He rushed to my side, picking up my wrist. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Don’t. Touch. Me.” I yanked my arm off him. “Don’t. You. Dare. Pretend. You. Care.”

I closed my eyes and cradled my hands closer to my stomach, clutching it harder. I tried to feel around. I smoothed the skin from the end of the midriff to where the bump had been, rubbing it softly with the tad of my fingertips. I followed the pattern I used to map out when I wanted to affirm its presence. It was our Morse code, the baby’s and mine. It would stick out its foot, jutting out its tiny toes against my belly; I would marvel at them as I tap slightly on the shape. This was my act of gratitude; how, for twenty-four weeks, its heart had pulsed, my far gone joy was reborn.

But no matter how hard I pressed, how long I traced, there was no response. It was quiet. It was a deathly silence. It was gone.

I felt the map removed, I felt the marks faded, but I did not want to let go. I grasped tightly on the flesh. Anything physical, anything reminded me of my baby, I had to retain it.

“Stop it.” He grabbed at my hand. “You are hurting yourself.”

I swallowed hard. I tried to catch my breath. But a surge of pain began to scorch me from the inside. My shoulders trembled, my lips quivered. My lungs collapsed. I gasped for air.

I remembered when I was four, I drowned in the pool. I remembered the fear of dying. I remembered flailing my arms. I remembered the water strangling and swallowing me as I fought for air and survival.

I also remembered when I was seven, my mother hit me with a bamboo stick. I remembered looking for bandages to wrap up the wound. I remembered the salt cellar I knocked over, the accentuated torture by the seemingly benign white crystals.

Those were nothing. When you had a part of you removed, the bane was a mixture of burning and drowning. When you registered that your inaction forced the killing, you became a murderer of your own child. Even when that concoction of grief, of self-hatred ate you alive, you could not pity yourself; because you were among the wicked.

A drop of rain slid down my cheek. It burnt a trail of sorrow, a smudge of shame. Then another. And another. Until it intermixed with those teeming from my eyes.

“It will be okay.” He rocked my fragmented body in his arms. “It will be okay.”

[buttoncupcakes]

08.11.2021

[buttoncupcakes]

05.02.2020

It feels too natural

It feels too safe

But in this world of chaos There shouldn't be such sense of serenity

You look like whims and whirls

But you're actually just soft winds

I've been to places of thunders

That’s why you as a shelter feels unfamiliar.

Be however passionate

Be however cold

I can go with my own pace

And walk however slow

I did not need to play catch

For you to still be attached.

Maybe you are feigning

Maybe you are not

But I still can't make any promises

I still can’t make any big commitment

Cause I still need a room for my dignity

In case I was wrong

[buttoncupcakes]

03.05.2021

Messed up, heartbeats. They are choking me.

Where are the pills at? Said they would kill

All things I feel.

How would they see me, scars on my wrist.

But blood drips, flesh burns, that is all I thirst.

Spinning on a roller coaster

Dropping to the pitch black monster—

But I rise to the top and holler

It should be fine. Fine. I guess.

Were the route not change

Every quarter of an hour.

[buttoncupcakes]

20190422

Somehow after a week or two of dreamless nights, you returned last night.

I saw us on the roadside, sauntering down the street, talking about some nonsense that made me laugh so hard. And there was the thumping of my heart, dancing in the rib cage with steps so ecstatic that I genuinely felt the rain of rapture showering on me. I was doused in joy.

 It was a mere moment of intrepidity that I slipped my hand through yours, only that it was not enough for me stare to at you for a response. It was as though the world had halted its arduousness; only the faint sounds of the breeze ruffling the leaves and the distant music of the birds could be heard. And I remembered I tilted my head up to the trees hovering above, the beam scattering between the lush fronds were in the form of blinding white, and it was so idyllic; so, so idyllic.

 It was until you suddenly pulled away from me that a wave of rejection and dejection slammed against me from the side. I regretted my rash decision instantly, and my mind, in unison with my repentance, ridiculed the ridiculousness of my action. I should have known I was incomparable to her. But then your hand enwrapped mine again, and your thumb, tenderly rubbing over my purlicue, instilled warmth back into the anxious frigid system. There was the current of elation spreading across my body, powered from the heart to the limbs; I felt the sparkles of electricity of bliss flickering along the nerve. Both internally and externally, I was lit up none the less.

 “Better huh?”

 And I jolted awake.

 So much for the mellow sweetness of the dream.

 But still, up to today, after the heavy dismal days, I wonder if it would true.

[buttoncupcakes]

20190409

I remembered that day; I stood behind her, the cerulean ocean spread before us, a pane of blue marble with hints of grey glimmering from the sallow sunless sky. The wind came by, brushing her slightly hazel locks, setting her hoary cardigan flying at her back. She leaned forward on the stone balustrade, her arms folded atop. I could not read her expression, and I did not know her too well, it was unbeknownst to me what was on her mind. Rather, I felt the tension, I felt the uncertainty, I felt the fear, all wafting around her like haunting specter lingering in the mortal world. 

 She held out a jar, a glass jar with scraps of paper in varying hues, though those in crimson and pitch black were of the majority. 

 This bottle, I knew, was from previous years, but, out of unknown reason, was obscured, suddenly, in the dark from the eyes of the mass for several years; perhaps in fear of the contents be revealed and mocked. In earlier years, they were put in the container in rapture; though soon a lid was screwed atop, and it was not open since. I saw all that done. I was behind her. 

 It was just a second before the pieces scattered in the air, an arc of fragmented rainbow freed from their tedious imprisonment. They rippled in the air, across the bay and along further with the breeze, as though a dragon with scales speaking of vibrancy through their chromes. And, out of the blue, flew the ashen lid that soon landed the waters, being pushed to the edge of the horizon by the tumbling currents. It was not so much of a dynamic sight, but rather of intense emotions. 

 “You won't regret it?” I questioned.

 “It would be safe, I believe.” She ran her hand through her long curls. 

 “You still have half of the bottle anyway.”

 “It's not them that matter; it's the freeing of the lid that renders it a risk,”

 I nodded, though perplexed.

 “But only by doing so can I have new to fill.”

 //

 The next time I saw her, I stood behind her. She looked different, but familiar, like she did that year; but there was much more exhaustion, much more despair. She was much more beaten.

 Her hair was trimmed, just an inch below her ear. It was sleeker, straighter too, unlike the unruly strands she used to have. There was a kind of stiffness, sternness that seemed to relay her present attitude, how she now squared her shoulders towards the howling wind as if a sliver of futility would shatter her completely.

 She was crouching on the sand, having climbed across the stone rampart. The lidless bottle was clutched in her hand. Snips of paper had stacked to the top, about to overfill the glass. The old vivid ones settled neatly at the bottom, but it was those above that were haunting. Scarlet, like blood, as they were and black, like hell, as they appeared to be; the concoction of them aroused the allusion of demons, of the abyss, of the land of the dead. And it was all I could do not to avert gazing them.

 She walked to and fro, her eyes frantic, in search for something pivotal, I reckoned. The sky was already masked by a mist of gloom, shades of grey intermixed with each other as the clouds hung like corpses in midair. The wind growled harder, roared louder, hurling the debris and dust on the ground into trivial storms. It was like the wail of a woman bitter for her unrequited love.

 I pushed myself onto the railing. A drop of water hit the back of my hand. I tilted my head up, another droplet hit my forehead. It was cool, with a tinge of warmth. It was the crying of the sky.

 “What are you finding?”

 The rain, in no time, became waves in the upheaval of the restless weather, washing the earth with no mercy. The shore was dampened, the golden sand was morphed into a land of rust; the rocks paving the way to the beach from the balustrade glistered under the rainwater, as though proud of the glitters on the moist surface, unknown to the frustrated tears falling from above.

My question was drowned, devoured and wolfed down by the monstrous torrents.

 “What are you finding?” I shouted over the cascades of rain.

 She eventually caught my voice, eventually turned to face me. And I was stunned by the weathered features carved on her face. Her eyes that once had a flickering fire of wonder was put off by the inundation of pain, and below that were bags black speaking of exhaustion. Her face was washed over by waves of fatigue, no longer flushed with elation. I wanted to ask her what had happened; I had so many questions, but the blend of fury and misery on her profile forced them down to my throat.

 “You know what I am finding.” She screamed. “You fucking know that.”

 “No, I don’t.” Dumbfounded at her infuriation, I shook my head gently.

 Or, do I?

 She scoffed, “Yes, you do.”

 “You can pretend that you don’t; you can lie to yourself that you don’t; you can obscure yourself from the truth as long as you desire it. But I can see through you and your deceitful acting.”

 The word tumbled out of her gritted her teeth. Her face was twisted in hatred, a snarling dog, a yapping hyena, a ferocious beast condescending its nugatory prey. She grasped the bottle harder until her knuckles turned white. Abruptly, she pitched the container at the far end of the coast; the pieces of paper were poured out, gliding in the air, as though a splattering rain of rainbow. She threw her head in the air, a raw animalistic yell erupted from her; the beast inside her had finally escaped from its chained dungeon. But, eventually, she knelt to the ground; her knees landed the gnarled land with a thud. She bowed her head, her shoulders trembled, and, soon, anguished sobs were let out.

 “You know how I feel. You might have detached yourself from me, but you are just fucking me. You know I need the lid. You know we need the lid.”

 “Just find me the lid. Just. Find. Me. The. Lid.” She howled, raising her head up, and hot, angry tears undulated from her eyes, intermixing with the raindrops sliding on her face. “I. Am. Done. It’s over. It’s damn hell over. I don’t want any of these anymore.”

 She swatted the intermixed vermilion and black paper scraps near her away, entombed them further into the dirt, distanced herself from them, as though she was scorched by them.

 “They burned me, singed me, torn me apart; and I can’t do this anymore. Just find me the lid. Just bottle all these up. We’ll pretend nothing has happened this year. We’ll pretend nothing has happened that year. We are all blissful, we’ve been all euphoric.”

 “Just please,” She choked.

 “Please, I am begging you. Please.”

 I turned my back towards her. Her abjected behavior was now hateful, atrocious, disgusting, she reminded me of those heinous rodents I so longed to crush. If she had not rooted up the wretched sentiments I had buried deep in the earth, there would have been a gap of sympathy, of pity, of solace for her. But she had to plow them all up. She had to. So she could not blame me for the rise of my disdain.

 “I am sorry. I know nothing about it.”

 And in the still bellowing tempest, I strode back to my calm, barricaded home.

[buttoncupcakes]

20190404

It was suffocating. The silence was suffocating, so suffocating that she needed to crane her neck, drink a big gulp of air and submerge back to the crowd.

“Next station, Diamond Hill.”

She cringed at the blaring announcement, a blade that sliced the still air out of the blue; but without any counterparts, her sole cringing felt too dramatic, like an exaggeration, like an outcast.

The morning train was the terrific, if not the worst, part of the day.

The surroundings were static; static as in that the insignificant humming of the ventilation system was the only sound heard.

She fidgeted, shrugged her unease shoulders against the dull ambiance, bumping into those tensed nearby, earning her obnoxious side glares, sirens for any of her further restless behaviors. The corner of mouth turned down at those malicious glances, an eminent movement when juxtaposed with the stoic expressions besides her. It was such a profound sight, how all of their faces except hers were blank sheets of papers reflecting against the blinding light of the illuminating devices on their palms; they were the same despite their dissimilar features, as contradicting as it might sound.

She deemed herself different. She could feel the symphony in her blood boiling in dynamics, variations, that could not wait to override the prominence of Beethoven, or more like simply to exhibit the joy of being a person; unlike those living corpses looming around her, submerged in morning blues when commuting to destinations that they apparently were scornful of but were still held responsible to show up. It was strongly against her will to be concocted into the bland blend of the stale.

She might have been lucid, but not anymore. She might have tried to bar her pristine aspirations, hope, and dreams from the merciless reality, but that was exploited as she merged into the lethargic mass every morning.

It worth a moment of grief for she was unbeknownst to the happening. As she endeavored to remind herself of the pride to have retained a benign heart, the need to guard it had slipped her mind; her inept in remembering such had fused the infusing of pragmatism into the slivers towards her undiscovered heart. It was akin to diseases rived with malicious plans, glorifying their contagiousness, taking over the victims’ health system in quietude; and when the subjects were known to it, all had been settled.

“Next station, Wong Tai Sin.”

Signaled to depart, she weaved through the crowds of carcasses towards the door; apologies stumbling out of her mouths as she tumbled away from them. The panes slid apart eventually, she hopped off the train with ecstasy blooming within her. Rapture had enclosed her into an embrace as she was exposed to the open air again.

I followed her, falling into her footsteps without her being aware of such. I knew her, but not too well, but still I knew she would realize there would soon be no disparity between them. Her pale cerulean dress had already been stained with a film of grey, and she would, one day, be hooked on an ashen outfit, be nudged along with the specters without a hint of despair; because by then, she would have become one of them.

(@aninharotili)

[buttoncupcakes]

Trolltunga, Norway | heykelseyj

[buttoncupcakes]

20190325

Karma is a female dog.

But not much as a female dog as I am.

At least, it barks and lashes out at those who deserve the assault.

But I, unjustly, take pain out on the innocent.

It was a matter of mere affection, a whirlwind of moved feelings that I, clearly, know are unsustainable. Nonetheless, when he pressed on, I confessed about my remote, next to none, fondness.

To rid myself of the guilt, I could simply argue I have never rendered any solid promises. But, truth be told, I knew what I was doing. I was morphing his love into a temporary bandage to cover the wounds when, eminently, dressings do not heal; at one point, it still has to be wrestled away. I was aware of that; I was, also, well aware of any maintenance of contact would only hurl him further into hell fire for the more we talk, the more he would be drowning in the Styx until Charon picks him up, transports him directly to the abyss.

We might have agreed to keep a neutral relationship; but “neutral”, ostensibly, is only a superficial labeling, a vain title that would not stop his aspirations from surging to the top of the Himalayas, that would not sow his intense passion further on my heart, that would not help the growth of my slight budding but wilting endearment for him. I was highly conscious of such; but out of a moment of desperation and selfishness, I held him back from the freedom he deserves.

Some say it would be fair to, at least, give him a chance, when some insist on how it, manifestly, would not work out. It, on the surface, might appear to be a struggle; but deep down, a solution has already sprouted. No matter how, it would not end up pretty; his heart would be disfigured into a heap of a bloody mess for, in the end, it would still be an answer he never wants to receive.

So my dear, please, run as far from me as you can, for the sake of yourself, for the sake of your heart. Forget about me, though as much as it would pain me to lose a friend, let me be the sacrifice. I have marred you enough. And do be brave, there are better people with not a dark heart like mine to embrace your crumpled body, to pepper you with affection, to hold you with care in their palms; they would dry your tears, soothe the aches and mend your scarred heart with needles tender and threads soft. 

But, I know, you would refuse to go, so let me be the one who leaves; one day you would understand, this is how you have room to heal.    

[buttoncupcakes]

20190327

Maybe I will just stay single.

Or maybe I just will not fall at all.

Or maybe I would leave the pieces shattered for this last time so that nothing could mar it any further.

And some days after, I might retire in some small town unknown to many people, like Rye, like Burford, like Oxford, just places that no one travels to and settle down. Perhaps open a café of mere size; by mere, I mean neither too large nor too little. It is, certainly, not of my interest to be enclosed in a spatial hollow room; by all means, that is overly lonesome. But at the same time, I would not enjoy being confined in a tiny space; that would simply render myself a victim of those passionate. Arm-length distance is something that I would favor. I might even change my name, Chantol, or Concord or any that means and sounds tranquil. A new life, though still within my control, could then spiral out.

I would live in a bungalow, beige in color. There would be a trivial front yard, encircled by fences in canary; it would neither be a spotlight nor an eyesore, simply something within expectation. It would be ordinary. The grass, shamrock, would be cut neatly; flowers like dandelions and daffodils would blossom in corners of the square; I might even scatter pots of homegrown tomatoes, basils and aloe vera in the garden. The yard, anytime when I am not in the café, would be my next resort to labor my body, to toil my mentality; but such labor is one kind of bliss, I would say. Sometimes, on some cheat days, I might sit at the steps of the door, my feet stretched before me on the soft grass, watching in silence, in serenity as the idyllic lives of the neighborhood unfold in front of me ; or maybe I would spread a romantic fiction across my lap, that somehow gives me a taste of the sweetness of love without me risking to be engaged in a bitter one.

While inside the house would be a remote sense of disarray, the kind that arouses a homey and cozy feeling. There would be books bookmarked with fluorescent plastic strips lying in piles and stacks across the floor. The most recent read would guard at the foot of the bean bags flumped in the middle of the room, where a fleecy rug would spread at their bottoms. At the back would sprawl a thick mattress with a thick duvet, probably even my laptop, earphones, pajamas and teddies. On the left of it would be a small bathroom, transparent, though installed with curtains in case of any unanticipated visits. A kitchenette would be at the front of the bathroom and right next to the bean bags, where the stove, the oven, the coffee machines and all sorts of utensils would be slung into a heap of a mess with recipes, both failed and in progress, scattered on the counter. The eventual part of the house would be the extended work table on the right of the futon chairs. On the pale wood would books and poems and composing stories be lay opened flat, waiting to be indulged and savored once again. There might even be coffee stained mugs and plates with cookies crumbs and toast crumbs abandoned for days if their owner has been mesmerized and allured by the literary horizon.

Anyhow, it would, basically, be a house for one, in which furniture fitted just right; almost no space would be left for as long as it is stuffed, there would be no room for unnecessary items, unnecessary reminders of unnecessary sentiments.  

So maybe I will just stay single.

Maybe I just will not fall at all.

Or maybe I would leave the pieces shattered for this last time so that nothing could mar it any further.

And for the rest of my life, I would heal, though more like despair, in solitude.

[buttoncupcakes]

[buttoncupcakes]

love, simon ❤️✨

[buttoncupcakes]

[buttoncupcakes]

20190323

I never knew it could get any worse.

I thought having the heart torn apart was already enough.

But that was mild, frankly speaking. At least, that could be stifled by any voluntary attempt. It is, rather, something involuntary that kills; something that sounds innocent, something that appears harmless, something that is lulling, like dreams.

The unending strings of nightmares, nightmares filled with your shadows, are what follows the third breakdown. Trifling as they are, the scenarios in the dreams, for the sole fact that you appear in them, they are haunting enough. I was sauntering through the progress, I was suppressing the heartaches; but they all vanish into the misty dreamy illusion, leaving me feeble back to square one.

They told me to forget about it, they told me to leave; it is my study that should be the priority. I tried, I did fucking try, but what am I supposed to do when you turn up as a form of a specter that I cannot shove away? I tried to distance myself, physically, mentally, but I could not, I can never do that, because I am stupid enough to tell you I will never leave. Once a promise, it is forever a promise; but, to tell the truth, how is this vow different from binding myself down on the railway and be run over by the same train over and over again?

It is not the ones with rejection, with the sight of you and her, that feel the most dejecting; rather, it is the ones saccharine, saccharine like ripen honeydew sweet to the core that leaves me waking up breathless. Had it been the former, it is at least within expectation, within the torment I have been submerged in; but it has to be dulcet like the idyllic wavelets of the summer ocean that remind me of my inability in retaining the retreating ripples when I come to consciousness.

 As contradicting as it sounds, I trust you, just not the fact that you would not hurt me again. It probably would do you an injustice if I blame you; after all, it has been me who let my hopes soar with the stars when clearly they are not potent enough to sustain in the infinite universe. Nonetheless, I have stopped picking up the pieces and gluing them back into a discernable shape for it would just be a vain attempt when, ostensibly, you would crush me again in no time. But what renders this even more pathetic is, however, my willingness in staying; or rather, my vanity in departing. 

I love you. I have always loved you. From that year, that year when we were still ingenious, rapturous, blissful before the malicious storm commanded its obliteration, it has never ceased. I might have been able to deceive my mind, but I can never cheat my heart. 

As much as my psyche has washed away its sinful fraud from its bare body, it is still bathed in futility with dried tears on its porcelain cheeks, somehow wondering it might have been less piercing if it has been camouflaged in the dirt of dispassion.

[buttoncupcakes]

“Some things are better left unsaid, you know?” “Like what?” He asked, without slowing down his pace. I watched as his back getting far away. “Like goodbye..” Like I love you.

mExcerpt from the book I’ll never write #45 (via hereliesmybrokenheart)

Is it you that kill me? Or are my expectations the murderer? I have gambled my love, my life and my courage for thrice but the prize delivered right before me is your affection for her. I want a title more than a friend, but from the first day I know, the crown has been granted to her. How can I blame you for that? For it has always been my foolishness that breeds my anticipations.

[buttoncupcakes]

From VSCO

[buttoncupcakes]

I don’t know if I have anything poetic left for you—

No more rhymes, no more metaphors, and no more allegories,

Because if they wrong the prose

With flaws and faults and fouls

The poet’s pain of her failed piece would cast doom on her pen

That it may refuse to write

Ever again.