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[subtlyalluring]

The cashier at the nearest shop to my place probably thought I just got back from a typical college student shenanigans at night, clubbing—or mayhaps they knew how depressed I was, from the way they would see me more at this kind of ungodly hour—it is four in the morning as I write this.

With my shorts and jacket on, I would go for a walk from my place to the nearest shop to buy whatever my eyes glance at first. Crackers that I don’t really like, cheese-filled bread that I only eat whenever I lose my appetite, or two canned coffee that would definitely amplify the volume of my anxieties.

In fact, I wasn’t there to buy stuff or goods. It was an impulsive act of mine, whenever I got so occupied with lots of heavy thoughts at night. Whenever I sensed that it started to suffocate me, I would grab my jacket and put my wallet in the pocket. Airpods are stuffing both my right and left ear so I can feel detached from the world.

I had no fear, as if I lived in a whole alternate universe where women are safe enough to walk at night. Oftentimes I would walk to the nearest shop from my place at 3 AM just to romanticize the misery, anxiety, and the desperation that I had to escape the prison of my mind that had been plaguing me on and off for years.

I would hit a puff or sit in front of the shop and glance over the empty street. The street lights are dim and sometimes it flickers, my guess it needs to be replaced with a new one. Then again, after a few milliseconds, I figured out that not everything old or worn-out should be replaced, sometimes fixing it up would be suffice to work it out.

It was my state of peace. I always hated crowds, noises, and people in general. But most people I’ve met have portrayed me as an obsessive blabbermouth, always knocking on people’s door, and looking for any excuse to talk. But truthfully, I would nag about how crowded the shop near my place was during the day, hence I only visit at night. The presence of people in the room were only the cashier and me. I could only hear my light footsteps and the sound of the keyboard tuts stomped by the cashier’s fingers.

We would exchange a brief glance and I would say “thankyou” in a soft, barely audible, voice. Then I would light a tobie, and sit there all by myself as if I’m a typical frustrated Japanese middle-aged man who just got back from my boring day-to-day job.

During my walk back to the place I lived in, my mind would be swarmed with doubts like whether life was worth living, was everything just a figment of my imagination, or what kind of coping mechanism worth to shoot a try (for my own sake, I am willing to try anything as long as it won’t cost me any form of destruction). If I am not sane enough, I would ask my mom to prescribe me sleeping pills or tranquilizers which she definitely would refuse because “It’s not my field of specialization nor do I have the right to prescribe you these”.

And her refusal would make me grab my rarely used pen and a piece of paper reeks of dust. I would pour anything, everything, words I didn’t get to deliver that have radicalized the way I behave. And I would simply leave my excerpt of thoughts unfinished, hanging, long-forgotten,

either like this one I’m currently writing, or much the same with how people have left me long-forgotten.

[subtlyalluring]

i’m everything and its opposite, a conflicted contradiction, the epitome of Persephone; a floral maiden and the ruler of underworld.

[subtlyalluring]

Suffering feels religious to me, perhaps I got too comfortable in my own misery, and romanticizing the death of me would always be my forte.

[subtlyalluring]

Throughout my whole life, I have always been taught to be faithful and to wholly devote my self to the Almighty God. Never have I ever forgotten to chant His name and prayer—not even for a single day. I live to serve for the Almighty God. I am a wholly devotee of the God. I am faithfully His.

All my prayers have always been about Him. His name could be heard throughout the corner. A lot of prayers and holy words were enchanted from my lips. God is watching. God is watching. God is watching. And the thrill vibrates to my whole body.

God I ask for your forgiven for every sins I have done. God I am a wholly devotee of yours. God I am faithfully yours.

But am I worthy enough to be a devotee of the Almighty God?

Perhaps even God himself is unable to lend me His hand. Even God himself can not withhold the enchanting existence of Hers—the Devil incarnate.

I called her the Devil incarnate. Everything about her reminds me of the burning flames of hell.

It is not God that I should be praying to.

"You're faithfully mine."

"Chant my name, I am your God."

It’s my own self I should be praying to. I am my own God.

[subtlyalluring]

Perhaps love isn't really my forte. Growing up, I never had the chance to feel the warmth of love. Neither being able to familiarize myself with the term itself.

I find myself questioning about its truth. Is love, real? Is it really a thing? If it is real, would it last for an eternity? If not, then why bother trap yourself in such momentary illusion?

Love did not last for an eternity. The term of forever, in context of love, did not exist. Forever is a mirage—just like love itself. If it does exist, how long is forever?

Love has never been genuine. Love is faux.

But even if it is real, love is a mere façade of betrayal.

[subtlyalluring]

O Holy God, I commit a murder.

I am indeed a murderer. But I plead for nothing. Not even forgiveness. Even when it dies. Even when half of my soul died.

I am a murderer of my own. I murder half of my self away.

And I am being imprisoned in my own hell, for I committed a murder. I will turn this despair, madness, and misery into something beautiful. Something that smells like bloodshed and death.

[subtlyalluring]

Living as a girl, being feminine, is like going through a lifetime journey in seven layers of heaven-like hell. It is maddening, frustrating, and yet addicting. As a woman, I always feel the need to be pretty, to look good, to be so beautiful that others would yearn to death. These are what I’ve always desired, and every desire takes something to sacrifice.

What is it that you sacrifice? Myself. I offer myself as the sacrifice. To whom? To God, to the Universe, the Deities, the Devil, and every celestial being—to whoever could grant me the beauty. I am willing to do anything that it would take to be pretty.

I look beautiful when I cry? I will bawl my eyes out until there are no tears left. I look much better when I weigh less? I will starve myself to death. Heck, I will even bleed myself for it, if the crimson red blood running through my skin looks pretty to anyone. Oh, or you would rather think that I look pretty when I look like I am dead? I will kill myself; would that be enough?

Do I look prettier after I go for such length as destructing myself? Ironically, it does. People tend to like me more when I am devastated. However, these efforts would not be enough for people to love me. I am still not enough. People still crave more from me, I am still not bleeding enough. I am still rotten, not yet beautifully blooming like a wildflower that bloom in the darkest winter.

Being a woman is prone to destruction. We will eventually destruct ourselves only to be validated by others; to be seen as a woman, to be seen pretty; quite an irony, as there are sayings that every woman is beautiful in their own way.

[subtlyalluring]

i was never convinced of what i believed in, anyway. i even second-guessed everything; was it real? did it really happen? or was it just a play made entirely on my subconscious state of mind? none of it happened: the filthy touch that left seven years old me dirty, the unwanted grope that left twelve years old me questioning my dignity; all the unfinished, unsolved, undisclosed traumas,

“it was just a nightmare”

oh how i wish i could say that to past me.

[subtlyalluring]

if i stopped pathetically trying to find you in every person i met, mayhaps the ache will stop. if i stopped desperately trying to find a familiar face in every foreign crowd, mayhaps the universe would be willing to cross our path once again.

if i stopped.

what if i don’t want to stop? neither wants to be stopped.

what if i kept trying to have a piece of you in someone else? what if i kept strolling around this city just to look for your traces? would i bleed so much to the point death freed me from the ache? would i get lost in the path and has no way to get back to the way it was?

[subtlyalluring]

🎧 listen to my self-curated songs on:

[subtlyalluring]

I never knew I could feel this much. I’m getting scared of my own feelings. Everything about you is intoxicating. I’ve never found someone as enchanting as you. Never in a million years. This is not a poem nor an excerpt. This is an expression of frustration that I felt towards you. I could write about you until my hands bleed. Using my own blood as the ink. Painting your name in crimson red color, would you love that one? I bet you would. You sparked rage and chaos you’re like the epitome of the color crimson red, you’re a whole flame, a hell of its own. A heaven-like hell of my own. I wouldn’t mind being burned away with you. I would gladly give up the heaven for you I’ll burn in hell with you. Screw it, I’ll even find a way, even if it’s a sinful one, just to hold your hands. Sinning feels religious if I do it with you anyway.

[subtlyalluring]

I’ve lost once when you held me in your arms, twice when I’m holding onto your words.

Still, I treasure all of your sugar-coated lies and promises like a solemn prayer.

[subtlyalluring]

Most people think I would write about you in a beautifully written or the most poetic way. They were right about it, though. My excerpts of you were all beautifully written, not in a poetic way, but in a pathetic, obsessive, destructive, and romanticizing-the-toxicity kind of way.

[subtlyalluring]

A piece of you in someone else.

I hate how the smell of your minty perfume always scented the atmosphere around me. I hate how I found my boyfriend’s hoodie looking so similar to yours. I hate the fact that I am still looking for a piece of you in someone else. I hate that everything that resembles yours can genuinely remind me of you.

[subtlyalluring]

“Why can’t I get over him?”

Looking pathetically devastated, I asked my reflection in the mirror.

She laughed.

“It’s because he reminds us of our childhood wounds. He is intoxicating. And we keep romanticizing the pain, the trauma; it is what keeps us sane.”

[subtlyalluring]

I want to write about you, one paragraph is not long enough.

I want to write about you, until my hands are bleeding.

I want to write about you, using every non-sense metaphors and messed-up syntaxes.

I want to write about you, and paint you with black and gold.

[subtlyalluring]

there was a time when blue feel like the warmest out of all colors, and yet feel like the saddest color of all. there was a time when you sparked vivid colors into my monochrome palette, and now these colors are fading. ‬