A Garden of Jade Flowers

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Photo by Henry Be via Unsplash

 

It’s written in the clouds
Carried by the arms of the people you love
And who loves you back
for someone who doesn’t believe in heaven
I’d like to believe you’re in the sky
Blissful as the memories we kept

It’s an ineffable turn of events
I saw you not too long ago
But even with such a few inches of space
It felt like you were years away
In our last few moments
All I said was hello
And you said my name
Exchanging smiles
Thinking I’d see you again

Few days, few weeks
And even a few years
Our last conversation was
A recollection of our lives
Since we last saw each other
Simple small talk between old friends

I still have the photographs of you
In our red and gray skirts
Smiling not knowing as days end
We would slowly drift apart
Becoming a familiar face
A “Who’s that” in a series of albums

Perhaps we’d reconnect
Have a coffee conversation
But all I can do now
Is stare at the sky
Thinking maybe heaven can exist
In the memories that I missed

Wandering Bar Lovers

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Photo by Jan Phoenix on Unsplash

 

I don’t know where you’re going
and I have no idea where I’m heading
might as well try to find a path together
While I spill the last drop of whiskey
I’m half way drunk but still sober enough
These rocky starts and winding roads
are hard for someone who can’t walk straight
my vision is kinda hazy for me to see the way
My words are slurred but my thoughts are coherent
With my common sense still on the tracks
even without a bottle I don’t trust my instincts
you’re probably lost and asking for directions
While I’m trapped in empty glasses and conversations
Waiting for morning to shake me
You’re patient and attached
And I cling unto you
Hoping you won’t walk into a fantasy

Paradox of a woman

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It is sad that it is universally acknowledged
That my whole being is set to be scrutinized
That woman equals sexualize

Society’s idea woman is a paradox
We are supposed to be clean and pure
By daintily making our hair fall over our breasts

Alluring but sweet and innocent
As we satisfy a man in bed
We might as well not exist

My body is not a man’s possession
I am not a prize to be won
To be displayed around your arm

I refuse to see it as gospel
That I am nothing but a man’s slut

Your knees get weak when I sigh
Your body squirms with every moan
It is exactly what you were begging for

When I am nothing but skin for pleasure
Nothing but your need of aesthetic
My purpose is no longer in the kitchen

My post is under your sheets
Between my legs is the validation for your manhood
Your breath reeks of desperation

Pinning your insecurity onto me
Calling me a whore, slander I say
Shouldering your defence with society’s opinions

To you I am only a fetish
A one night stand, someone’s wife
Dependent on owning a man’s last name

Dependent on being controlled
Because I was taught, woman equals a man
Not man and woman are equal

I am a woman and I deserve better
Than a man who only wants to fuck me
And I owe you nothing

I am human, flesh, bones and soul
My eyes, hands and legs are not an invitation
To your cavern of unjustified condemnation

I am a woman and you see me as nothing
Nothing but sweat and a mouth
To swallow your mistakes and narcissism

Your ideal woman is a paradox
You want her to exist
As we slowly fade into nothingness

God Forbid, I am Bi

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She laughed, it wasn’t sweet
Nor was she being funny
her next words stung
“You’re only confused”
“You’re a lesbian, trust me”
She said I should trust her instinct
But who is she
To define my sexuality?
God forbid I like
Both men and women
I cannot choose which I prefer
And no, there’s no schedule
No interchanging dates
pertaining to which gender I’d love
During a certain day, week or month
God forbid I can love both
Some people ask me just choose
They say my sexuality is confusing
Am I straight or am I gay?
Apparently, I can only choose one way
Even those who fought for love
disregard my sexuality
God forbid the love I’ve chosen
Why are they so perplexed
by my sexuality?
It’s not that hard to comprehend
It’s plain simple
I am speaking English
But still they can’t wrap
the idea around their heads
That I like both men and women
Instead of letting me be
they pin their confusion onto me
God forbid I like a man
they accuse me of walking back into the closet
God forbid I like a woman
then they say I am only experimenting
treating my sexuality as a guinea pig
Whom I love is an entry
for the science fair
Whom I love is to be dissected
My sexuality is a hypothesis
God forbid love wins
Because they ask me to compare
They ask me which I prefer
But in fact all they are asking
Whose skills in bed are better
As if I keep a scoresheet
Listing the names of every man
and woman I have ever been with
God forbid I am not straight
God forbid I am neither gay
Trying so hard to convince
Or push me out of a metaphorical closet
Telling me to come out
My sexuality is not an announcement
I do not need to explain my attraction
Because God forbid I like both right?

Loveless Definition

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You told me she loved you
You reassured me that she loved you
But I can see the bruises on your skin
And don’t you dare say you like it rough
There’s a difference between love and violence
I know that you were screaming the night before
Then by morning all you give is silence
Darling that is not love
Love is a painful metaphor not to be taken literally

Love isn’t words that crack your spine
Love isn’t black and blue
Love wouldn’t twist your shoulder
Love wouldn’t threaten you with a knife
At three in the morning
Love will never create bullshit excuses
To justify the marks they left on your arms
Love will never give you unfair consequences
Love will never hurt you the way she does

You’re confusing an embrace with her grip
She’s choking you and I don’t want to lose you
I don’t want the air to suddenly fade
from your lungs, and your last breath is her name
please find the strength to walk away
sneak out in the middle of the night
be anywhere else as long as it is not by her side

leave before you can’t even stand
leave before she chains you through twisted words
her eyes lackluster as she apologizes
her promises were meant to be broken
she said she’d love you until days end
but does it have to be yours?

damaged goods of sweet nothings

 

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i havent written about love since i was nineteen
since i was nineteen, I was foolish
thinking love could be salvaged through Facebook
thinking love could be found in a few swipes
and as i scroll though sweet status updates
i have a bottle in my other hand
to cleanse my thoughts of love
rid the emotion completely
turn me into bitterness, make me numb

i was nineteen
too young to know how it feels
because love doesn’t knock on the door
or send me a message
so why bother with its existence?
they did say bliss comes from ignorance
until i met you all love was, was just a myth
a nice bed time story to tell children
to scare the monsters away
now i can’t believe
i’m comparing you to stupid love songs

you are that love poem i said I will never write
you are that cheesy love song i promised i’ll stop listening to
because love is an unfathomable emotion
good only for a midnight conversation
fingers interlock like a silent prayer of rejection
we turn to salty saps craving validation and affection
tove seemed to be a drunken thought and an unwilling muse
it’s uninspired and lazy writing
that’s what I thought love was
until I’ve kissed you

i thought to myself
scavenged through my memories
i’ve never been kissed like that before
i’ve never smiled in the middle of a kiss
i’ve never smiled like this
you are the poem I’ve set aside
thinking I’d never write it
inspired and tired, my wrist cramps
because this is all unexpected
scribbles of love filled lines
verses of dedication
you are worth every single amount of my emotion
this is more than mere words
this is my heart, metaphorical, so cliché

This was supposed to be an Americano

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I forgot what I was supposed to order. I know that it’s their job to smile but dammit his smile was charmingly distracting. So I ordered the first thing I saw on the menu, regretting it once it was served.

He called out my name, my heart jumped but sunk when I’ve tasted my mistake. What the fuck was a macchiato? This was supposed to be an Americano.

Well his smile was enough to wake me up; I didn’t need to fill my system with caffeine because I’ll be picturing his smile until I start dreaming. I sound perpetually cheesy and a tad bit creepy (as long as I wasn’t borderline cliché I’m doing fine) but I swear to God I’m not a stalker. But I do wish I knew his name.

Is it weird I’m writing so poetically about a stranger serving coffee? He’s behind the counter while I’m sitting a few feet away scribbling bad poetry.

Would it be too forward to strike a conversation? Maybe I should start with a friendly hello and ask for his name. Because here I am wondering who he is while he’s screaming out coffee order names.

People are now piling in and I’m jealous because he’s sharing his beautiful smile. I wish his smile was reserved for me, dammit this creamy drink was supposed to be an Americano I’d get a better order if it wasn’t for him.

Now I’m stealing glances hoping to catch an accidental smile. But if I did I’d awkwardly look away out of panic because I wouldn’t know my next move. Should I smile back? Or would that be too presumptuous? I could just continue with writing bad poetry on how he must smell like coffee. I cringe at the lines written on my notebook. The deafening murmurs and overplayed Christmas songs are not a great ambiance for writing yet his very presence was worth the inspiration.

How can everyone in this café be so preoccupied with their own business not realizing an angel smiled while handing out their coffee? Did I say angel?

I told myself not to be cliché but I ran out of metaphors and analogies. I blame early Christmas songs on loop in the background and this wrong coffee order for my minute of insanity. Dear Mariah Carey I love you but if I hear “All I Want for Christmas is You” one more time this early on October I will go mad.

And I did, my writing proves it.

I can tell you this though, God must be bragging in the clouds when he created him. Lining up his angels only to praise his creation, high fiving and cussing to show his enthusiasm. Oh for crying out loud I have written something almost blasphemous calling him almost holy.

Ugh, this overpriced drink should’ve been an Americano. Its bitterness matched with my skepticism would reduce this light headed feeling from a stranger’s smile. This is ridiculous.  What is a macchiato anyway? Its sweetness is rubbing off on my paragraphs; these words are meant for a generic pop song that would be this cafe’s everyday soundtrack.

Dear barista with a captivating smile, can I get a refund? This was supposed to be an Americano.