Category Archives: Prose

Impossible Year: Caramel

(Okay, so I was originally supposed to post a really intense and serious shitty creepypasta-esque story that I wrote about a year back, but since it’s in my computer and it’s being a complete arse that won’t let up, here, have one of the parts from a Panic! At The Disco fic that I’ve been working on for a while now instead. Since all of the past halloweek stuff I posted have been nothing but morbidly dark and really gruesome, we’ll have something stupidly wholesome to end the spooky month instead. Boom, plot twist, happy Halloween fuckers!!! 🎃)

OCTOBER 31ST, HALLOWEEN.

Every house in the block and beyond displayed scary decorations on their front lawn; of plastic skeletons, fake cobwebs, carved pumpkins and other usual novelty spooky items. Squealing kids rounded the streets with their friends and parents, donning various colourful and monstrous costumes as they knocked on doors and yelled a cheerful “trick or treat!”, and teenagers held their own parties and dared each other to do crazy horror-related things that either sent them running away screaming, or laughing, or in most cases, both.

It was a festive night as usual, perhaps even more festive and rowdy than he’d ever witnessed in his entire life, but Jon Walker simply felt like he was getting too old for this shit.

He had just dropped a couple of fun-sized Snickers on the bag of a kid dressed up as a vampire slayer (“points to him for being a notch above cliche,” Jon wanly mused) and was heading back to his living room, a cup of store-bought coffee in one hand and the TV remote in another.

Nursing a headache, Jon tightened his shabby red bathrobe and sipped on his drink, grimacing slightly at the strange taste of…what was it that kids these days called it? Pumpkin spice? Yeah. Whatever the hell that meant.

He groaned as he unceremoniously plopped back down on the couch to continue watching a random B-list horror movie he found on Netflix. As soon as he pressed the play button, the TV immediately died and all the lights in the house flickered off.

“Great, just my luck.” Jon dryly thought, scratching absently at his unkempt beard. “This is so textbook cliche. Next thing you know, I’m going to fetch my flashlight in the kitchen and there’s going to be an axe murderer waiting behind the fridge to hack me into pieces.

Fortunately for him, there wasn’t anything of the sort.

Although, there was a translucent little girl calmly sitting on his kitchen counter, which definitely was not there before.

Jon recoiled back in shock, nearly spilling his lukewarm drink all over himself in the process. He blinked a few times, rubbed his eyes furiously, and determinedly pinched himself on the arm, all before cautiously glancing back at the apparition.

But instead of being gone, the ghostly child was still there, and this time, she was staring straight back at him.

“Oh.” She piped up as she waved softly, making Jon deliriously laugh. “Hullo.”

“Oh yeah no cool, how’s it going? Oh nothing much, just TALKING TO A GODDAMN GHOST.” He rambled on senselessly in reply. The small phantom, however, seemed mostly unfazed by his reaction, probably already used to seeing that sort of thing. She’d seen worse.

“Are you okay, mister?” She asked innocently, stubby legs swinging back and forth and occasionally passing through the closed cabinets. Jon paused for a moment to think about what he was going to do next, and sighed out as he finally decided to give in to the sheer insanity of it all.

“I’m sorry. I overreacted. Let’s start afresh.” He said, clearing his throat extravagantly. “So. What’s your name, kid?”

“…Nic.” The ghost replied hesitantly.

“Nic, sure, yeah, that’s a nice name.” Jon pleasantly appeased. “So. Nic. Why are you haunting my house?”

She blinked a few times before limply shrugging. “…Dunno. I’m bored. And I think I’m supposed to, I guess.”

“That makes sense.” Jon nodded sagely. “Do you like scaring people?”

All he got was the same blink-blink-shrug routine in reply. “Dunno. I guess. I know I’m not very good at it yet.” Nic pouted sourly. “The older ghosts keep telling me to practice some more and if I don’t, some dumb priest or whatever’s gonna send me back to hell or afterlife or something, like they even know if that’s a real thing, they’ve never been. But I just wanna go outside and play with the other scary-looking kids, honestly. I only ever get to do that once a year, and I’m not even allowed to.”

Her eyes began welling up with tears and she turned away stubbornly, trying to hide them from Jon’s view.

Jon had never seen a ghost cry before, least of all a child ghost. For sure, he could definitely check that off his bucket list. Or just throw away the damn thing because for sure at this point, he’d seen it all.

He set down his coffee cup on the counter and carefully approached the quietly-trembling Nic.

“Well, Nic, if you don’t mind, let me tell you a secret.” He began. Nic still had her face buried in her hands and didn’t move even as he spoke to her, but Jon could sense that she was listening intently, so he carried on.

“Here’s the thing I’ve learned. Sometimes, you don’t have to listen to mean old adults. We’re just really cranky and tired from doing a lot of boring stuff. But you’re still a child after all, and you’ve got a lot to learn, and heck, maybe one day you’ll grow to be the best damn scarer in this cul-de-sac and scare those ancient naysayers back to their miserable graves. But hey, if you just wanna mess around, go wild. You won’t get a lot of chances to do that soon, and honestly—what have you got to lose?”

Nic finally rose from her hunched position and was seriously gazing at him now, a wistfully curious look etched on her pallid face.

“They can take you out of the fight, kid, but they can’t take the fight out of you.” Jon concluded with an assuring nod, finding even himself impressed with his whole speech. “Now go out there and trick or treat with all the other youngsters and show those creaky geezers that you’re made of more than goopy ectoplasm and boring boo noises.”

He shone his phone screen down as he fumbled with his ratty robe’s pocket, and managed to fish a piece of hard mint out of it. Secretly picking some lint off the old candy, Jon handed it to Nic.

“Here’s something for a start.” He said with a casual shrug, “I know it’s not much, but…”

But to the ghostly child, it didn’t seem to matter at all; as the bright grin that grew on her face could have lit up the entire house by itself. She excitedly swiped the candy out his hands (“Note to self,” Jon wondered absently, “ghosts can actually eat candy?”) with a shrill laugh and went in straight for an unexpected hug.

Jon shivered madly at Nic’s hold. The sensation was like getting dunked right into a vat of liquid nitrogen. But he tried his best not to show his utter discomfort as he awkwardly patted her on the back, careful not to let his hand completely pass through her.

“That’s, uh, that’s the spirit.” He stammered out with chattering teeth, chuckling at his own pun.

“Thank you, mister!” She gratefully squeaked.

“You’re welcome. Now git outta here kid, yer bothering me.” Jon replied with a playful wink.

Nic simply nodded fervently, visibly filled with a new excited energy. She waved back once again and smiled the biggest smile a ghost could possibly ever have, before finally running on ahead of Jon.

He silently watched the otherworldly child as her glowing ethereal outline passed through the kitchen walls, and faded away into nothing. At that very moment, the lights flickered back on, but Jon didn’t even notice, still deeply lost in his own thoughts.

“Trick or treat!”

A giggling chorus of childish voices outside finally startled Jon out of his trance. Picking up his cold pumpkin spice drink (which didn’t taste so strange anymore) and the half-filled candy bowl, he walked to the doorway, sighed once, smiled the biggest smile a person could possibly ever have, and opened the door.

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Elizabeth and the Zealot

His embittered smile proclaims of an innocently senile man, but his rancid breath reeks of irreparable psychological damage.

Outside, a group of children playing tag in the playground across the street, clambering across loose gravel and joyously shrieking as outstretched hands willingly grab for their shoulders, caught unaware and simply caught.

Inside his shirt, the old crucifix his long-deceased mother gave him on the brink of her deathbed, clasp half-broken and several priceless encrusted jewels missing; a toothless grin, unfaithful gaps. The tiny metal weighs heavily against his unwashed chest, the unpleasant sensation almost burning a hole through his heart. Sometimes, he mutters a memorised creed out of reflex, though no one believes in it anymore. Perhaps not even God Himself. But him?

Mindless gazes. The chipped, mouldy statue of a weeping wooden saint in one dark nook of the living room, rotting food and dusty candles its ever-resilient offering. The mirror, barely reflective, smudged with soot and cobwebs and his tuberculosis-infected saliva. The closed window beside him like a sleepy eye, tiringly wary as it occasionally betrays a resounding laugh or a glimpse of excitedly-billowing hair. He forgets so many things nowadays, but he always remembers. The children. He must watch the children.

Or else?

Or else…

Grabbing his ragged coat from the settee, the man coughed into his fist once, twice, and absently wiped the offending knuckle onto his beige pants. He headed for the door and resolutely grabbed the tarnished doorknob with a shaky hand. The hinges squeaked. A child, perhaps the acting leader of the pack, called out for everyone’s attention as he insisted to play hide and seek.

A countdown, and the palpable air of small bodies scattering. The man decided musingly, that he would humour them and join in their little pastime. He’s always been good at hiding. Though, he sighed out in quiet lamentation, with his old age and raging rheumatism, it would not really make the job any easier for him.

But only one child would win the game that night.

No one would ever find her.

He’ll make sure of that.

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Dilettante

I just want to stop everything

I want to break all my pens and pencils and paintbrushes and throw away all my paints and burn all of my journals and sketchbooks and books and give away my instruments to someone else more deserving to play it

I want to exhaust every single word from my overthinking brain and let it spill out and completely leave my system without giving a damn, I want to gouge out my eyes and amputate my hands and rip out my vocal cords from my throat, I want to get a fucking lobotomy and be glad that I finally did

I want to stop pretending that I’m good at something, that I’m good at anything, that I’ll actually ever be good at the things that I like, if I try, if I TRY, if I try

I just want to stop trying too hard

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It’s a freshly brewed coffee, sweater weather, malevolent existential crisis kinda day today uwu

It’s strange. Sometimes I want to lay back on the migraine-inducing metaphors and write straightforward things about my prosaic life, but so often I find that there’s really nothing much happening in it. My continued existence is dull and uninteresting, which in turn renders me a dull and uninteresting person, and it’s honestly no wonder why I haven’t interacted with anyone outside my family and cat (who do as much as begrudgingly tolerate my presence and nothing more) for quite some time, now.

It’s all the same from here. Be alone, do things to stay busy, get burnt out from it and get sad, resent myself for being sad, be alone, do things to stay busy, bug the hell out of Artemis to distract myself, stupidly obsess over my current hyperfixations, throw some caffeine and metal music and a fuckload of manic anxiety into the mix, and rinse and repeat. Everything feels dry and weightless and my mouth is starting to fill up with revolting sand—but somehow I’m still talking, so maybe there’s some things left to be said. Not that anyone would care to listen to my incessant maundering, but just.

First off, I’m trying to write a slice of life novel (ah yes, the dreaded n-word for lazy writers such as I) for a specific important function and there’s an impending deadline, but I’m completely zeroed out and I honestly have no idea what direction to even take it in. Which is kinda dumb, considering that a great portion of the one-shot fics I tend to write are usually in that realm of genre more often than not, but an entire full-length book about it??? Nah, fam. How do you even begin. I must make a mental note to do my research which basically means binge-watching a lot of slice of life animes ooft. But I’m also going through another one of those inevitable upticks where everything that flows out of my pen is absolute horseshit and I’m starting to greatly doubt my writing skills once more and I hate myself all the more for it. The only fanciful hobby of mine that ever comes close to being even halfway considered a talent, and yet I’m still absolutely terrible at it. Ah.

The most exciting thing that’s really happening for me right now is me egregiously having a go at Inktober for the first time ever, when my art skills are still totally wack. And all that’s ever really done is stress my uncreative brain out and fuck up my sleep schedule entirely and make my entire back and right wrist hurt like a bitch for days at an end. But it’s alright, I suppose. I did get into this whole shebang without meaning to take it too seriously. And my works are nothing all too pretty nor remarkable, but I try to have my fun with creating them and that’s really the best I could do. Maybe when I finally get through the entire thing *crosses fingers*, I’ll put them somewhere on here for posterity’s sake. Or maybe I’ll do everyone a solid and spare their poor eyeballs that torture instead. Yeah.

On the subject of books (which I swear I’m getting back into and even ransacked my dusty luggage containing all my hidden books at 4 AM just to find some good ones to peruse), I’m finally reading Omerta by Mario Puzo. Well, reading is putting it lightly because son, I’m absolutely hooked and relentlessly devouring every page like it’s my last fucking meal. I’ve been a longtime chaser of his works ever since I got my hands on The Godfather (which I can’t ever stress enough is an amazing book, and the three-hour film is a world of its own entirely), and this is no exception to the case. I don’t quite know why, but there’s something so mystifying about reading fictional stories about old-time mafias and mob bosses and Italian gangsters that enamours me to just keep on reading. Hm, must all the engrossing upheld honour and vividly grotesque murders and pure bloodthirsty revenge. Seriously, every chapter or so is chock-full of many creative ways of dispatching filthy traitors. It’s always nice to get an idea or two.

(Not really fun but kind-of-related fact: my youngest brother is actually named after the main character in The Sicilian; Salvatore Guiliano, who was basically an exiled bandit. Well, more like a noble, steal-from-rich-give-to-poor, Robin Hood-type bandit, but still. It’s fun to occasionally bring up just to chide my mother, seeing as how so drawn into all sorts of antics the eponymous brother is)

Since I’m already halfway through the book (this plot is going at a breakneck speed and I could barely keep up smh), I’m planning to read some fascinating award-winning novels written by Filipino authors next, courtesy of my older brother (who’s admittedly a whole lot more patriotic in these endeavours than I am ahah). Should be fun, that. Might learn a thing or two from my own culture. I’ve been meaning to get more into Filipino literature, anyhow, and this should be a start.

(Update: I actually finished Omerta before I got to post this and it got really satisfyingly gory and also wholesome at the end 10/10 would read again 👍)

As for music, no surprises here when I say it’s been a painfully slow burn, but I’m trying to lean more into divulging towards chromaticism and chord harmonisation. Perhaps the wildass guitar solos can come later, eh? (Some exhaustive indie riffs are finna fun asf to learn in the meantime, though) Progressional structure first. These are bordering more on what I consider the jazzier side of theory (e.g. kinda hella fucking weird and chaotically complex) but I’m just about desperate to break out of my impulsive mould of using the same basic, boring set of pop chords over and over and over again and actually learn how to build on notes, and this seems to be a good way to go about it. Or, at least, I hope so. My skull’s still too pathetically thick to fully comprehend most of it. But I’ve got sad words that need some sick tunes and I don’t know how else to do it. When will music ever love me back 🙃

Also I may or may not have practiced my false chord in like a month but hey let’s not talk about that shit 👀

But that’s pretty much it??? I do these dumb rants every now and again for catharses’ sake, and it’s always pretty much just the same old shit, with some minor adjustments and fiddled changes here and there. My life right now is nothing flashy, or spectacularly special, or anything out of the blue. It’s about as yawningly mundane as it gets. But I’m trying to make do.

Maybe that’s all I’ll ever really get to do.

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Synapses

My head’s like loopy strings and rubber bands, I try my best to keep it running smoothly but it tangles and snaps and that kinda gives me a migraine something awful, so I just stick pins and needles in my scalp and hope it will at least sew up a nice little embroidery for my dreams to enjoy tonight, or maybe pluck me a song I haven’t heard though these stretchy things aren’t really made for music but still, that would be quite nice now, wouldn’t it?

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A Tired Incoherent 2 AM Rambling, of Some Sorts

Headphones playing some hell grinding djent, tucked sloppily on my pallid cheeks. Chocolate flavoured coffee, swimming with drowned ants and turning stale on the corner table. Me, splattered with filthy liquid and desperately pulling an all-nighter on an ugly portrait painting, as the initial panic attack-induced mania that once fueled my motivation slowly wanes and quietly saunters away to Apollo’s Neverland, probably carrying along with it the remnants of pencil shavings and biscuit crumbs on the utter devastation I call my desk.

I think might be going insane.

Well, this is what I get for procrastinating too much, I suppose. My personal crippling folly—apart from being tardy without fail no matter the urgency at hand, and being unable to function normally around human society in general—is to stall on accomplishing a crucial task for hours until it turns to days and weeks and heaven forbid months and so on and so forth, while putting all my wasted faith on the completely false hope that I’ll be able to pull through at the very last minute, with the right amounts of heart-stopping caffeine and unbalanced brain cells kicking up a hurricane named anxiety in my thick skull involved. Even though I know it would never really work, and I’ll just inevitably end up with a lot of lowkey physical and emotional trauma and a below-subpar output that’s so far out from my initial expectations that it’s not even fit to be used as a local public loo arsewipe.

Ladies and gents and everyone in between, there is no mystery left to solve in the unbaffling case of the stupid college dropout, is there?

I mean, I swear I actually do want to finish this (if not for myself, then for the damn person I’m breaking my strained neck for because they’re awesome and deserve this much at least, they really do) but hell, why do I even try at all? Fuck’s sake, I’m not an artist. I don’t know how to actually properly draw or do cool mindblowing artsy things for shit. I’m just too fucking unskilled for that jazz. Pretending, that’s what I’m talented at. Pretending to be pretentious. Fake it till you still fake it. And now look where it’s gotten me.

👏 Absolutely! 👏 Nowhere! 👏

God, I honestly wish I could trade places with my cat right now. Or any cat, really. Lazy bastards, doing nothing but eating your chonky hearts out and scratching at things and oversleeping all the time and being a dumb bitch and looking cute and snobbing everyone out and living a luxurious life for it. Career goals right there, let me tell you. Why can’t I just be one of y’all.

But I digress. It’s time for a time check, no phun intended (okay, that second pun was. if you catch my emo drift, ahah). 2:57 AM. It’s been roughly more than three hours since I first embarked on this personal little project, and while I’ve barely made a dent on the soggy watercolour paper resiliently taped down in front of me, I have spent maybe a quarter or so of the aforementioned hours typing this…whatever this is, down on my phone like a sad, lonely sack of slowly-rotting flesh. More than ever, the familiar, almost comforting sensation of self-resentment weighs in heavily again; on my sandpaper tongue, down my badly-crooked and aching spine, on the perpetually unfading dark circles under my exhausted eyes that make me look like a wasted panda and an actual roadkill raccoon fucked around with each other and threw hands (or paws?? idk) in a nearby dumpster and I’m the end result of their bad night. Fun times.

Wait, hold on a second. Idly slacking off, hating myself severely, and quickly losing grasp of my humanity and better sense…all three of them simultaneously? Awesome. Right on schedule. It’s time to get back to work.

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Noontime Naps

After breakfast. Lukewarm coffee. Leftover splatters of gouache on the messy desk. Slow internet connection. Haunting melodies resonating from twisted headphones. A yawning kitten resting on a restless lap.

Pauses. Outside, a chirpy radio jingle. Wooden sticks hitting against billiard balls. Idle street chatter of unfamiliar passersby, falling against the grind of tyres on concrete. Drenched in drizzling showers, a hazy town on Sunday morn.

Breathing in. It’s okay, the afternoon promises you. It’s okay.

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Pariah


“What doesn’t kill you
Makes you wish you were dead.”


I had a dream last night. A nightmare? Perhaps so. It was exactly like normal reality—except a little grittier and everyone was sort of…angrier, somehow. Directed at me. And no one really bothered to hide it. My entire family. My mother and siblings. My aunts and cousins. Even my usually gentle and caring grandmother now carried a derisive and wary attitude towards me. It was a very strange feeling to have.

Venomous whispers were chanted around like taunting mantras whenever I happened to pass by:

Waste of space, slithered one

Followed by absolutely fucking useless, and

Get a job, you stupid dropout

In one detached scene, I vividly remember absently murmuring I want to kill myself in front of my chastising mother, and she misheard it and simply laughed at me; a bitterly arrogant simper that lacked any humour. My brother though, he heard it perfectly correct, eyes glinting purple in quiet recognition. But he simply stared me down without blinking as I resolutely left the room, my mother’s shouting and insults still trailing behind me.

He knows. He knew. He knew and he didn’t care.

Well, good for him. I don’t, either.

A meeting was held in the living room. Tell us about yourself, a faceless jury commanded. Other people my age surrounded the table alongside me, mostly girls and some friends, though far more beautiful and more successful in their endeavours than I. And they were fully aware of it. Every underhanded glance from their pretty porcelain irises felt like it fucking stung like hell. These people talked it out smoothly, crooning and preening with flowers spilling out of their mouths, the unseen jury’s nods of approval palpably neck-breaking as they spoke about themselves. Their education. Their work. Their stability. Their social circle. Their payoff. Their lovely, sterile, and sweet suburban lives. They played their part, and they did it well.

This is what you’re supposed to be.

Do you understand?

Ha, of course not. What an idiot.

Obviously, when my turn came around, I was simply floored and at a loss for words. A coalescing stammer of anxiety and panic roared in my ears as I struggled to speak out. Who was I? Invisible eyes condescendingly glared from every corner, from every wall, from every space in the claustrophobic room that my shrinking body didn’t take up. 19, and already a pathetic failure. 19, and already completely deadbeat. 19, you’re already an adult, goddamn it. 19, what have you done with your life? God, what the hell have you done with your life? Why? Why? W h y ?

Who are you?

You’re no one.

I couldn’t stand it any longer. Shaky and almost delirious, I ran for my life, blindly pushing away the looming shadows with weak arms and managing to escape them, somehow. But stubborn silhouettes flickered resiliently past my skin, viscid tendrils willing to break my spine, and the vicious and abusive admonitions stayed echoing just as loud in my mind as if I was still trapped in that damned place. I found my way to my room—a complete mess, as if someone had been ransacking it prior to my arrival—and finally locked myself up in it.

Deep breaths. Inhale. Exhale.

One, two, three…

Tired. My torn-up journal was half-open on the bed, every space on the paper filled with dirty ink and manic scribbles, and nothing written in it ever made sense. Tired. I collapsed by the bedside and tried to to pick it up, and a used sharpener blade fell out between the pages and landed right into my bruised palms, a curiously perfect fit. Tired. I failed you all. I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry. Blood. Where did all this blood come from?

I think it’s mine…

My cat’s incessant mewling suddenly jolted me into rousing, soft meows intertwining alongside the sounds of my two younger siblings getting ready for school and my mother ironing their uniforms. 7 AM. On my bed. Heaviness. I was just dying. Was that real? Was any of it real? Shit, I was just dying.

For a hazy, panicked moment, I was unreasonably mad for being woken up. Mad at them. But mad at myself, more so. I just desperately wanted to find out. About nothing. About everything. Maybe they are all really pissed at me that way. Maybe the dream didn’t end there. Maybe I could actually pass away in my subconscious. Maybe I still wanted to have even a sliver of the absolute courage my imagined self had, to finish what I always inevitably screwed up doing. There’s always some form of truth to every elucidating dream, after all. Maybe this was just the one I had to swallow.

But I’m still alive and miserably kicking, so I guess it didn’t fucking matter anymore.

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EXCUSE MY TANTRUM.

I hate seeing red.

It’s a torturously slow and succinct boil, the unpleasant sensation creeping up my spine. It never extravagantly drags me away in a spontaneous giant tidal wave; instead, it simply latches its needlelike claws underneath my heart like a phantom itch and allows the suppressed pressure to build up, lead me on, and choke me down. Bit by bit by bit.

Not too much. But just enough.

Until enough is enough.

And when my temples are visibly throbbing, my teeth start to gnash and grind against my own accord, and my bloated veins feel like they’re about to erupt, well, that’s when my frail inhibitions completely give way beneath my feet and I find myself submerged under scalding anger; haplessly clamouring against the troubled dilemma in my warring brain and desperately seeking to bruise some bodies and open some scars without a second thought. No holds barred.

Please. Just this once.

Maybe for a moment, I want to hurt people. Maybe for a moment, I want to shatter my own knuckles just for that temporary thrill, just before the imminent pain sets in and I end up wildly writhing on the floor with regret, with guilt, with disbelief. And maybe I want to do it all over again and draw more blood and break a few more bones and lose a lot more brain cells until my concussed head finally grows completely numb to empathy. It’s not that I do it because I necessarily enjoy and bask in the feeling of pain—giving or receiving per se—like some psychopathic, sadistic cunt or whatnot, but somehow it just gives me something to do. It viciously takes my mind off everything else. It’s a fucked-up distraction with the worst possible kind of pyrrhic payoff.

I don’t really seem like the violent type. And I never fully am, honestly. Thank the stars, I still have my ever-prevailing anxiety and whatever’s left of my logical rationality and self-preservation to keep me from going mad postal and terrorising anyone who ever so much as slightly crosses me—from irksome strangers who breathed in my general direction, to the very ones that I love. I’ve never really physically fought anyone, I reckon. Not outside of the usual sibling experience and playful friendship bickering, that is. Even if I’m highly tempted to do so many times over already. But for what it’s worth, I do always seem to find myself interlocked in some manipulative form of mind games when the going gets tough with many people I closely encounter, clashing horns and goring down the other’s sanity until the dust clears and only remnants of cold flesh and unfulfilled promises are left on the ground. But one overdramatic mental hangup at a time, so I suppose that’s a story for another day.

Anyway, missing track record for multiple counts of battery and assault or not, I still feel like I’m a foolhardy danger all the same. And yeah, fuck it, whatever, I know that sounds cringey and like I’m trying to come across as “edgy” and “badass”, but the unfortunate truth of the matter is that this impatience and obstinately short temper is an absolutely shitty thing to have and by god, does it have the eager penchant to make me feel like I’m such a terrible person. Hell, I didn’t ask for this. I don’t want to hurt and be hurt just because I can’t man up enough to control my wild impulses. We certainly don’t need any more overaggressive dickheads to further ruin life for us, and I don’t want to add to that problem any more than I already have.

There are the rarest times where I stupidly let my guard down and start to somehow think that hey, I’m not quite all that bad and that I might be alright, but then some crazy shit like this goes down and gets way out hand and it mockingly reminds me of all my pathetic issues and just how truly messed beyond repair I am, and why I should try to stay away from people and keep to myself instead.

I don’t know. Maybe I was really built to end up alone for a good reason. And if that’s the case, then no hard feelings because I suppose it’s all for the best. I just hope that soon, this stubborn red will be drying off to a duller brown so I could finally wash it off my aching hands.

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Shades of You

Grey, that’s all there is now.

I used to be the brightest iteration of alizarin crimson, and I wore my lustrous colours proudly on my chest to disguise the bloody cancer secretly tearing irreparable holes inside my slowly-withering system. So bold and reckless I was, that soon I found myself losing full control and suddenly careening headfirst onto your blue brick wall, and well…the collision was more violent, more radiant, more spectacular than you and I and anyone else could ever begin to imagine. No freshest shade of unhealing bruise nor deepest sour of aged wine could ever compare to the stunning explosion of blinding indigo we left on the scene of the accident, that day. The perfect way your incandescent glows and mine contrasted together and exquisitely showered the atmosphere, it was rather exhilarating.

But like everything that’s been left out under the sun just a little too long, the vibrant hues we initially adored and reverently shared started to quietly fade; akin to a rampant disease viciously working its way past our frail bodies, fingertips first. We could do naught but weep dull stardust as we held ourselves together in the tightest embrace, in the desperate yet ultimately futile hopes that we could still preserve our deteriorating youth—that if we hid away well enough, we could keep even just a sliver, even just a sleepless teardrop, of the resplendent spectrum we once thought we would carry along with the siren songs of this universe forever.

But in the end, it was all for nothing.

Soon enough, you had strangely turned into a serpentine shade of lucid green, and my hazy eyes began to see nothing else but charcoal wastelands and bleeding ash. Oh, how we’ve both drastically changed. And maybe not quite for the better. Still, I don’t wish to stain your newfound emerald gleam with my obscene tenebrescence, so as much as it caused a solemn ache to my soulful bones, I decided to completely detach myself and stay away from you for the time being. Instead, I’ll simply attempt to completely capture your eternal likeness onto pure cotton canvas—resolutely translating all of those clashing galaxies and kaleidoscopic tones into softer stencils and lifeless monochrome.

Perhaps someday, if I blink the awaiting future away and press on my eyelids hard enough, it might conjure back even a stray phantom of the forgotten iridescence that your dull, graphite-sketched countenance used to boast; gentle pastels warmly seeping in and bringing back the dusky ochre in your hair, the cloudless afternoon horizons back in your irises, perhaps even reviving the blushing cosmos of your clever lips, boyish and lazily smug as it twists into an elegant sunflower smile. The worst kind. The kind I somehow find myself missing the most these days.

But for now, grey is the only undertone I unfortunately possess. And it’s the only way I could captivate your ephemeral memory to return home within my gossamer dreams night after night after night, until my tiring lungs finally let go of my last saved breath and I inevitably coalesce into a sepulchral heaven—a bleak, distorted paradise where I’ll be doomed to roam with fellow spirits of black and white, for deathless infinities to come.

And after then, after then…who will be left to remember your name?

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