literarygoof

[literarygoof]

A body is a memorial to things we never dare forget. From the expanse of the shoulders to the intricacies of the thighs, to rearrange its bones and make it a pyre of something holy. In the crooks of our bodies, we build our own temples. On the lips of our beloved, we exchange a hundred prayers.

[literarygoof]

here in the fathomless black, you plead all the litanies your heart can pull: for there to be hope in the light of distant worlds, for tenderness to be waiting on the morrow. to sleep and wake as no more than a fistful of dust, to live no more like a prey ravishing on sorrow.

[literarygoof]

In a dream, I am laughing with you under the kindness of the afternoon sun. We hold hands and you talk to me about your wonders and your joys, and I do not hesitate to tell you that you are one of mine.

In that dream we are both honest and brave, tender and unafraid. In that dream, I love you, and I am loved back without shame. In a world beyond this one, we defy everything we have ever known. I do not plead for any litanies except for a world where I don't have to worry about missing you for I am always with you.

In that dream I love you, and in this life I really do.

In that dream, you tell me you love me, but in this life, you never do.

[literarygoof]

There are some things that are too raw to be surrendered into admission. To be vulnerable is to invite the witnessing of a monumental breaking–a near act of summoning another's scrutiny to the wreckage. Old wounds do not take the face of a freshly cut flesh but it nonetheless indicates the pouring of a blood that was once there. We do not dare speak of how hard it is to mourn alone for things that most people consider as alive, or to yearn for a touch that is just a few breaths away. I craft eulogies for people who have never been dead; my longing makes the brain funny that way. The shame eventually crawls but you cannot outrun it even in its slowness; it is the price you pay for being honest.

In the weight of pain, we vow to preserve what is left of our secrecy, but love has always made honest men out of us. Watch how the words fall from the gates of your tongue, both the hesitance and the slow surrender. Watch how they tumble and flow from the safety of the stream and into the waiting arms of the ocean. You could only hope you do not lose what you cherish. You could only hope you do not drown what you love.

Sometimes I am told by the poets that hope is found by looking at the sun, and I find comfort in believing them. But sometimes, the sun is just the sun, and hope is a thing buried in the marrow. I have never been good at unearthing what refuses to be shown, but I may have honed patience in the art of waiting for them to unravel. I have lived long enough to know that the calloused palms can sometimes be the gentlest, and those with immaculate hands can have the most evil hold. I know that a whole life can fade into dreams that become half-remembered–how the absence of something is proof that it existed because we long for it. There are certain truths that we all share but they are lodged in the silence of the waning light, and we do not dare speak of it. Still we rise. Still we remain.

Tonight is for falling asleep, and we fall asleep, not knowing.

[literarygoof]

just beyond the jagged lines of the horizon, the sun, ever so full and bright, gazes at us in perpetual light. what irony is there when we are two-legged mortals sitting in front of a seemingly immortal sun? what beauty could heaven hold that cannot be found on the palm of your hands? what litanies are left to plead when salvation is found in love? when the little joys in mellow mornings gently nudge away the atrocities of the dark?

there are questions that linger, and there are hurts that dwell but there are also a thousand suns to chase, and a hundred moons to gaze at. many are the moments when the anger rises up and the sorrow swells, but the heart understands that it was meant to feel and not to flee. you have laid enough punishment for yourself; you have made one slave out of misery, but the terror is enough and there is no more need to be cruel, no more need to keep hurting. you do not have to be a saint in order to be loved. even sins give birth to hope and redemption. you are hurt but you can still be kind. the world can be cruel but it can be beautiful.

[literarygoof]

More than anything else in my entire life, I want to have the privilege to understand you.

[literarygoof]

i know I haven't always been faithful to God but sometimes I want to ask for his forgiveness because my tongue only knows how to plead. I want to hold his hand and apologize for failing to thank him for the trees and the rivers, for the giant mountains and the tiny hills that he has meticulously carved on different corners of the earth. I want to thank him for blessing my evening with the lunar gaze of that silver platter in the cosmic space above, for making my mother laugh yesterday, and for the little rain that has kissed the deep brown soil. I want to tell him that when the sky weeps and lays itself on the bosom of the earth, I can almost hear it sigh in relief. I want to say thank you to the ancient sun who never rests from the celestial duty of illuminating the lands. I want to talk with god without asking something from him for once. I want him to know that sometimes my desperation gnaws on my bones that I sometimes become blind to the creation that slips from the cracks of my greedy hands.

[literarygoof]

i wish to speak of the hurt and the neverending sorrow that eats at my soul—to engrave it, make a name of it, to lay it bare so i can make sense of it. it always hides when i come to look for it, yet it never fails to remind me that it lingers. i think that's what makes it nearly maddening, to know that you are hurt but not be able to locate the very source that inflicts the hurt upon you. i think i am always in despair about everything. friendships, family, myself. i try so hard to be happy and strong and defiant, to not yield into despair so willingly, but i always find myself being succumbed by it. i feel like i have a missing limb, something that most people have except me. i feel very different in a very disparaging way, and i am most certain i can never be fully understood by people, and i do not think there will be anyone who would be willing enough to devote their time to understand me. it is ironic because i also don't want them to try because then they might come to find that maybe there really is nothing worth looking at deep within me. so i give the scraps without ever really showing the rot, but god, for once i just want to unfasten all the anger and sadness that have been buckled up upon me, reveal what i have always been in front of eyes that do not condemn me. i would like to have some hands to hold. it must be beautiful to be understood by someone who isn't always angry.

[literarygoof]

Anatomy of an Exile's Body

Time gushes from the unknown deep, and it is cunningly gentle, river-like, yet silently aching like crimson blood liberating itself from your young wound. It caresses us only to cut us open. It engraves longing into the sinews of our bones, only to make us an exile from the homeland inside our ribs.

It is much too difficult to be pittilessly torn without knowing how to put ourselves together again. We polish the incisions of our flesh with the pretense of normalcy; we possess ourselves with the light of a thousand small suns and only bare the nakedness of our truth under the ebony of the boundless sky.

A body is a memorial to things we never dare forget. From the expanse of the shoulders to the intricacies of the thighs, to rearrange its bones and make it a pyre of something holy. In the crooks of our bodies, we build our own temples. On the lips of our beloved, we exchange a hundred prayers.

The mouth is a cathedral where we take our communion, where the pastor asked us to spit out the wretchedness and to fold our hands to make tender worship out of our blackened fists.

Communions are quite simple: you just kneel despite the shame; you surrender to be loved despite being cruel.

The mind is a fire raging without knowing when to stop until it invades what lies untouched, until it devours the little good that is left. Delusion is a theft I commit from the drawers of borrowed time, a price I covet to exist in the world as a mortal dreamer. I confess the sin, but I do not offer the guilt. I pour without leaving it empty.

The teeth will carve roughness within the crevices of our skin, like the hand of a god sculpting his own sharp-edged stars, like merciless water ravaging the fissures of the earth. But I will remain tender, and beware, for mercy is a capricious thing. It is a luxury I cannot afford to give.

The tongues may pierce the blood with venom and intimidate my silence to sleep, but although hope is a bird that may descend, my courage will always try to rise up from the bottomless pit of wanting.

And look, the earth is spinning under the barrel of the watchful sun. I will lay target to its cosmic scrutiny, but I will not offer my fear nor submit the remnants of any shame. I have already ascended from the tiniest of deaths; I have resurrected into the heavens of my own making.

[literarygoof]

The earth lay still, battered under the barrel of the watchful sun. Rays of light shyly seeped through cracks of wood and marched across trampled hay, yet the soil bathed in dimness as the sky rained unforgiveness from the repetitiveness of days. Much is alive; much is not. Many of them breathe, and many of them do not. Even the red paint has forsaken its fate as it chips off into nothingness, and all that is left is the nakedness of walls and the shy eyes of wooden floors. And tomorrow, the sun will wake and a new dawn will follow. There will be no one to answer when the rooster calls.

A famous prompt: Describe a barn as seen by a man whose son has just been killed in a war. Do not mention the son, or war, or death. Do not mention the man who does the seeing.

[literarygoof]

exile

in this world, wretched and unforgiving, i hold on to the idea… the haunting idea that to leave may be a survival instinct, a weapon against the inevitable sting of abandonment. because the vulnerability of remaining and letting my roots root deeply couldn’t stop the echoes of uncertainty of being left behind… there’s also this persistent fear of the wounds that others might inflict upon me. and i’m afraid that i’ll never find forgiveness, and i’ll find peace in casting blame upon them until my final exhale.

so, the ties once deemed tight and unbreakable unravel at my fingers. i mercilessly burned houses i thought i’ll live forever. and the ring in my finger that bears the weight of a life intended for happiness and peace, now marked by the barbed edges of self-inflicted pain--- a tight knot reminding me of my stupidity, fears, and vices.

so, i become the architect of my own wounds.. i created the potential pain that others could inflict upon me. because it is my desperate idea of control in a world where certainty is not certain… it is my twisted idea of power, that i, alone, hold the brush that paints my scars. the marks on me are inscribed by my hand alone, and the blood that stains is caused by me. no one else can do that.

it's a wretched idea, i know, and i don’t even plan on forgiving myself.

and so, i walk the path into the woods, with no one to blame but me. i walk the path to a solitary pilgrimage… to a self-imposed exile.

[literarygoof]

here i find myself again, clinging to portions of a simpler past. in the damp earth, we were once barefooted children, whimsical and untethered by the vigor of the punishing world. we used to feast in the taste of ordinary things--we never once hungered for a more glorious life.

yet time flies and flies, and it never shows us any mercy, not even when we kneel and beg for the end of its passing. we have long outgrowned the sleeves of childhood; we are strangers before the weathered walls of our old bedroom, a collection of limbs uprooted from yesterday's soil.

i can bury this childlike fondness but it always resurrects into a form of ceaseless longing. i mourn in secrecy for the little joys that were once carved within the sinews of my bones; i become prey to my own fallible gods.

i do not yearn to leave again for fear that i might come back different. please let me be the same child once more.

[literarygoof]

My lips carry the weight of your name, and the sweetness of it lingers on the roof of my tongue. I have never known how to separate devotion from religion, but you are everything I believe in. I speak of you in eulogies as though you have once been mine for the taking; I mourn you in ways that can never be. My soul glistens at the sight of you; everything sings with the melody of your breath. The trees dance when you laugh; even the sun sits on your shoulder, and everything you touch becomes golden. I stick you into the crevices no one can see, but the enormity of your beauty isn't one sculpted for hiding. You leak from me like splinters of sunlight from a forest of leaves, like a ballad on the tip of my tongue. You become the point of my existence; you burn alive in everything I see. You are reason beyond comprehension, an endless wonder, a tapestry I would not tire of stitching.

Dearest, how much longer will I bear the weight of pretense when my mouth speaks of your name like a prayer?

[literarygoof]

the sky cries power and the soil catches it like a slave, ever silent but unforgiving. the leash may no longer dangle but are you ever truly freed? the blood dries and the hands may cradle the apology, but the flesh never forgets the sharpness of the knife that has touched it.

[literarygoof]

anger lodges itself between my teeth

like copper coins rusting --

odious and burning, like drugs seeping into veins.

the taste lingers so i swallow my prayers.

i rinse my sinful mouth with water,

knowing i will never wipe it clean.

[literarygoof]

silver-tongued woman staring at the bathroom floor,

do you dare look at yourself in the mirror?

you have your father's skin and his temper too,

your mother's frown and your eyes glazed blue.

lonesome woman, what is it that you bear?

you spill out apologies like a clawed animal

revolting to leave its lair.

tell me, woman, why do you keep bowing down?

you allow regret to eat you from the inside out.

[literarygoof]

i love being friends with bitches who won’t shut up. i never know what to talk about. please tell me your whole life story and then infodump to me about warrior cats or greek history