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the morning after pill

pull out! 

in an urban setting where high-rising buildings scaffold a person’s view from a candle-lit and mocha-scented bathroom, lies a relatively tired single mom. it’s her day-off. she is thinking of baking banana bread after her bubble bath for her loving son who loves her second to his nintendo switch. overlooking her succulents, looking like ants rummaging over cupcake crumbs: the slums. 

HERE lies no view other than piling garbages, appearing as hills, as if that makes it look any better. a couple sits on their makeshift table top, conscious of their actions. carefully striding not to disturb their six children sleeping soundlessly. no day-offs. they sip their coffee. they are thinking of what craps to sell today. strong smell, a cocktail of enourmous foul and leeching waft, covers a radius. the naive idea of surviving in their lifestyle thrives that they are purposely ignoring of the idea of living. 

it’s the twelfth of june. numbers are rising. economy, children-count, poverty rate, stock market, nintendo switch second-hand price, etc. it takes nine months to conceive a child. unlike the Philippine revolution that has been conceived for the longest time  — until the nation’s water bag ruptures.  push!

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eucharist

The minute I began living in this lauded world, I’ve been exposed to churches. Came with it are prayers, traditions, and a series of undaunted streak of intentions molded into hope that thrusts into beings I barely comprehend. Coined 2013, curated into a body on its own by 2014, the Black Lives Matter Movement paved its way to be the champion outcry of a minority. It spread like the word of God: revolutionary, controversial, but life-giving. It was a beacon of hope to secure human significance, like that of a wise proverb striding the indomitable capacity of one person to love oneself and his enemy, equally -- A laughable yet convincing motivation to live.

Should life matter? It is up to the Lord. They said. We do not dare depend on the Lord when the brutality makes the street gag with black bodies. Block per block, as if there’s a conveyor belt delivering this feast of bodies; sumptuous, mouthwatering, overflowing. All to satisfy the cravings and quench the thirsts of racism. It was a buffet made-in-heaven in exchange of the magnificent heyday of black men, women, and children. 

What happens next? It is up to the Lord. They said. Crowding the streets has never been proven to be as miraculous as Christ’s crowd was: It has never brought a life back. There and then, preachers scream empathy over a crowd and still not a single soul back. The hundred stones of supremacy threatens the value of insatiable reality of a person’s life. Close to the countless whiplashes on Jesus’ back, People of Color remain as fresh as a gallant wound, flowing with rich foul blood, flocked by pests; and like any other wound, we do not and should not poke it.

My prayers are always personal. More often than not, I earnestly kneel to embody a wish over a falling star, a soft blow on a dandelion to plucking petals for good luck. I take the communion. I witness the noble experience of belief. I will kneel again, maybe it will decrease my desperation for everything that I wish for. Is it up to Lord? They were quiet this time. 

I wonder what Derek Chauvin prayed for when he knelt on George Floyd’s neck. 

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dine in

the usual sriracha chicken, and honey waffles that i get is on the level of mild in terms of spice. not that it matters, but the amount of tingling that i get on my tongue (the certain r i g h t amount) is always a sensation that i will forever cherish. i’m not promising to get the low or high the next time i clamor through my wallet to indulge myself with greasy chicken bites, and sturdy waffles, but i pinky-swear to at least, for once, go overboard.

- 10 years from now, mild will get me the nostalgic sensation but will always remind me of my place (and how I badly want to go beyond it).

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😏 😏 😏

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& the sky is in love with the sea, but can never reach her either.

(via teacup13)

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What therapy is really like

Me: i wanna get hit by a car Her: what kind of car?

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This is too nice for my eyes

For @journaling-junkie‘s June 5 prompt: “How much sleep do you get a night?”

Besides “not even close to enough”??! I probably manage to get around 5.5 - 6 hours of sleep a night. I know that’s not much, and I definitely need more. But I am not a good sleeper - to manage even that amount of sleep, I sleep with earplugs and take prescription medication. Right now, my sleep is worse than ever - whatever regular pattern of sleep I used to have got obliterated in Nov-Dec 2016, when I was working 18 hours a day and sleeping at odd times while helping my company get back on track after a devastating malware attack. I never expected that my sleep would still be screwed up 6 months later - UGH.

Liquid watercolor blotted off a too-wet index card.

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"When will you come back?" Everything Everything by Nicola Yoon BRING ME THE MOVIE PLS BYE

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My fingers are swollen with the words I cannot write. These words will one day swallow me whole. -Rupali Jeganathan

@whisperinglillies (via whisperinglillies)

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When your soul is comprised of water

You hunger for its rhythms. The lapping sounds of waves. They echo inside and long for a compatriot in song. For the soul is lonely and in need of its kindred. I am a sister to the sea, and she calls me always back to fall within her dimpled skin, so quickly I unbraid these twisted thoughts and lay bare my heart to her solitude. And she listens. By god, I think she does. We speak through the tickling breeze blowing whimsically through my hair, the silence of melting sands dancing just for me.

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P A S S E R B Y 

subject: University of Santo Tomas People

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The reason why we can’t let go of someone is because deep inside we still hope.

(via exhaustedheart)

T A N G I N A

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Something about the stars will always remind me of you

Ten Word Story (via mypenleaksiridescence)

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#WE GOT THE WHOLE SET NOW

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