I’ve spend my entire life, afraid of people leaving me. So i always have one or two safety nets before people that i love throw me away. I leave people before they leave me. I betray people before they had a chance to betray me.
I saw too many time my mother begged him to stay. To stop hurting her. To be faithful.
But human can never control people’s feelings. They can’t even control their own feeling, let alone others. Not with marriage. Not with love, no matter how much you pour them with love, attention, sacrifice.
You can’t stop people from looking another home that isn’t yours.
I can smell lies trembling out of your tongue carelessly and I am picking them up with a wide smile.
You asked me what’s wrong, I laughed.
Darling, I am truly sorry for being a better liar than you.
This is an apology letter.
I’m sorry for everything I have done. I’m sorry for not seeing your beauty and for not realizing that I don’t need to coat you with ugly words for you are not a dry wall created to be painted with graffiti signs. I’m sorry for placing bookmarks on your past mistakes and regrets. I’m sorry for folding your edges and highlighting the instances when you fell down, rather than tracing those moments of triumphs, no matter how small or big they were. I’m sorry for keeping you up late at night with horrendous or lonely thoughts and for breaking your rib cage because I continue to shove and lock up those emotions inside you when they were meant to spill from your mouth in helpless cries and screams. I’m sorry for the bruises and scratches. I’m sorry for comparing you to other people and for forgetting your own worth. I’m sorry for the things I have thrown at your way. I’m sorry for slapping lies on your body and marking it with hate. I should have been kissing it and showering it with love. I’m sorry for suffocating your lungs with poisonous words and for wanting to stop the breaths from coming in and out. I’m sorry for saying sorry and for not doing anything to stop this madness. I’m sorry for giving up on you. I’m sorry for the memory lapse; I have forgotten what you meant to me years ago when you were just a young child I treasured dearly. I have forgotten how to love you and keep you safe from evil, including my own self.
You can spell sorry for so many times until you forget your own name, but you can not fix broken mirror with regrets. You have to do some remedial actions, because saying sorry is not enough, it never will, my princess.
Sometimes you actually have to change.
Write raw, punch-in-the-face kind of poetry. Don’t sugarcoat it. You’re given the right to pour your feelings… do not let that right go in to waste. Write freely. Write fiercely. Write bravely. Let the words bleed. Let it shout. Throw your words into the void. Let them scatter… scatter… scatter. Do not sugarcoat. Say what you feel and be proud of it. Let it be profane… gruesome.. harsh…evil. If that’s what you’re feeling then go. These are your words. These are yours. Go… write. Write the kind of poetry that will make other people feel things. Not just feel…. Let them cry. Let them shout. Make them feel like they want to rip off their hair because your words are too honest, too real. Let your poetry save them. Because you are a poet, son, and that’s what poets do. You save yourself by purging the poison inside of you by writing it out and you save others by making them feel like they are not alone. Write, son. Write.
Do not teach your daughters to be ‘pretty.’
Do not entomb her in a pretty pink tower
and insist that only the degree of her physical appeal
may set her free.
Teach her to fight her way out,
to consume books and spit knowledge
to lesser boys who insist she is just beautiful
and nothing more.
Teach her to love her body
not to manipulate and put a price tag on herself
as a defined worth
she shall be immeasurable
she shall be more than this.
Do not let her break herself down
when the boy in kindergarden hits her
because he likes her.
What are you really teaching her?
Pain and love are not synonymous
neither are pretty and perfection.
Teach her to be kind
to be harsh
to be demure
to be wild
to be sensitive
to be thick-skinned
But good god,
Do not teach your daughters to be ‘pretty.’
My mother would’ve killed me,
If she know I drink you whole again last night,
She might screaming another memory about the last time I let myself touching your poisonous skin,
Is the last time I died with your betrayal spilling from our glass,
I didn’t died because I didn’t spit your lies on time,
I died because your lips tasted like other girl’s mouth and it’s rotten my soul.
But I drink you whole again last night,
Your trembling lips tasted like an honest earthquake,
Welcome home, I said.
Tears, I forbid you to fall.
Stop it, you bunch of idiot salty water!
I command you to come back to my eyes.
Oh don’t even start with the sob.
There’s no more gravity to catch you,
For it’s looking for anything else but you,
don’t waste yourself for tearing out of my eyes,
Don’t! Just DON’T!
As always, my lips spells a dead wishes
on the same poetry every night and day,
and you pronounced each pray until it came back to life.
I want to be needed.
I want to be indispensable to you.
I want you to crave me, to beg my name, my shadow, my whisper, my linger touch upon the sad stars every single night in you entire life.