Halfway Through
Maybe it has to be this way.
All these griefs passing through just to make a sharp left turn or even a sudden stop. We just keep on wheeling and pushing each other away just for it to come back again—now,
a little closer—No one really wants to leave without packing or checking twice or to simply leave a tip just to make themselves feel good for moving. No one really knows how to close
a passenger door and the driver’s door seems stuck. No one’s really driving. We’re just sitting several inches away each time it comes back hoping for a slight effortless movement; a sigh, maybe with a smile, and then it’s either leaving or holding, but things
might not be the same again. And it has to be this way,
where I’m only halfway through the trip,
but always, cherish.
I Am a Tree, I Am Not
I just want to live / like speaking with trees / I just want to stand tall like a pine tree / I want people to admire me / use me / when they needed it so badly / I just want to be still / I just want to be here / I just want to bleed as I breathe / I just want it still / like don’t let it in with no intention to keep it / I just want silence / I know who I am when I’m alone / I just want softness / I want to drown in your hands / fill myself with waters / nourish myself / then embrace / Embrace it / And when somebody came to notice / I am a hundred years old pine tree / I want someone to cut me in half / count the rings inside the bark / name each of them as if naming their own child / like faking my own death / Everything seems beautiful in covers / but I don’t want to be speaking with trees / I don’t want to be faking my death / I just want to be here / every day / knowing I’ll make it / to midnight.
Outside, Searching
There is beauty in the little lights of bulbs
when you finish gardening the garden
and you walk home heavily,
but all you see are the little lights—
hanging across each tree leading you towards the exit.
You can always go back.
But always remember to come home,
they said it’s not always safe to be outside.
Although I doubt it.
I have courage for the eternal.
I want it,
deeply.
Anyone Can Hurt Anyone
I am a woman born not knowing I was born.
A woman who writes poetry, who speaks through complicated metaphors because I can’t seem to have everything wrapped up accordingly. I wanted it messy, it helps me feel like I’m more, like not alone, like something else, like I’m more than just a mess.
I write about things, like how everyone just wanted to be everything they are not because society is space. They wanted everything, they wanted cupboard, clock, chairs, and window. They wanted a queen size bed, not anything lesser than that. They wanted all the blank spaces. They wanted to rule everything, fill every corner of this earth with space. This society isn’t my kind of space. Space can’t seem to fill itself with me, but I guess it's fine. Because I’ve learned to lay myself barefoot down in the grass and look up. I see myself, inherited by the moon and stars and the sun. You could not even imagine the rain
I managed to carry without letting society know. Now you know why weather prediction is not always accurate, why space
should stop predicting and expect something when they haven’t even learned how to stare at the sky. Because what is sky
without a silhouette? What’s earth without the rain,
the sun? What’s food without one to eat, and chair without one to
sit? Let's just stop pretending to be anything. Let's just stop expecting it to happen. Because it hurts you, it hurts me.
Anyone can hurt
anyone.
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