To (all of) you

Devour my lips, but don’t trust the words that come from it. I am good with words. Like a spider, intricately spinning its web, with no other purpose but to catch a prey.

(Just because I’ve been on several dates lately. And I’m still afraid of what I’m capable/incapable of. *cue Robyn’s Hang With Me*)

Futile

In the early hours of the year, I told myself I will not salivate over unopened boxes of condom or envy the boy who tossed himself off to every man on the street. I said I will seek more meaningful sex; an adieu to the constant bullshit to seek attention through grinding with no single man.

It lasted for more than a month.

The night was majestic in Zambales. All the surfers were dead tired and the tourists drunk but the scent of the wind is inviting- salty from the waves pounding the shore, calming from the absence of pollution in the air. We were drunk, probably high. He grabbed me in the communal bathroom. I almost caved in only to be saved, thankfully, by a guy who only wanted to embrace the banality of the bathroom.

The drinking continued in the shore, where campers blissfully basked at the roundness of the moon; the heat that emanated from their bonfires only quelled by the more intense and parching craving of our bodies as he attempted to lure me with his boy-next-door charm. I refused to be sucked in. I told him we should probably wake a drunk friend so he can move to his bed and get a better sleep.

I diverted my attention further; joining, instead, a group of fresh college graduates playing cards. He was just sitting there, in the corner of the common room, pretending to tinkle with his phone even though he knew, and he knew that I knew, that he had no chance of getting a decent cellular connection in the area. After a few more games, I bid the night off.

At two in the morning, probably three, he was already at the foot of my bed. Resistance was futile. Only covered by cheap mosquito net and thin fabric to serve as curtain while I pretend to end the day with a sober sleep, I was too transparent.

That is how the year ended. Another crooked one.  Or maybe, it's another start; another chance to forge a make believe shift to the good side when all I along I cradle the darkness of the night.

Reflections after dawn

It's five in the morning. I have been in my phone for hours now, stuck in a loop of aimlessly playing songs that got me through the lowest points in my life. It's scary how clearly I can remember the moments when I sought solace from them. Now, I mostly find comfort in their familiarity, how they make me feel like I'm back in 2009- erratic, illogical, as if my life was not in the verge of collapsing before my eyes- yet still conscious of the solitude of my current detachment from the world knowing that I already took the wrong turns though with a clearer understanding of the disasters that still lie ahead. But, god, there are nights, like tonight, when I am just unconsolably sad and these songs just tug me back to a place I find peaceful; when it hits me that the best days of my life were defined by melancholia and mindlessly playing on loop songs that instill an illusion that I am still alive.

A metaphor

The other night, I was cleaning my closet when my younger sister pointed out the obvious-all my shirts look the same and my closet only has three colors- as if I was never aware of it or took some late night reflection to question my choices. She, coming from a date, wearing some sunny dress inappropriate for the cold weather, thinks I should wear a different shade for once.

The thing is, I never wear print. I cannot remember the last time I wore something with a bold color on it. When I go shopping, to the disgust of my younger siblings, my feet would march straight to the section where the store displays its plain, mono-toned shirt. Stripes are okay, as long as it's still blue, black, or white(or maroon, because, yeah, school pride). But always the bland style, the same boring color that already permeates every corner of my closet. I never entertained the idea of wearing anything other than the colors and hues that I have now.

But once in a while, when I have the time to spare or the sweet scent of capitalism takes over me, I take a trip to the other aisles- where the colors flow, the prints cheer in zest, and the bold makes a statement. Most of the time, I like what I see. I'd think of my friend Andy who would look great, in his own flamboyant way, in a bright pink shirt while strutting the streets of Taguig on the way to his work. Or Jan just chilling by the beach with a button down with print of coconut trees and the sun. Or Louis and his penchant for hipster prints and bright shorts. In my head, it will fit them, or some other friends or that random guy I met on a social networking app who wears floral cap; the boldness of the print and the mania of the colors would fit the array of hues and images they collect for themselves, proper for their personalities or whoever they pretend to be. It would look great on them.

But not for me. I cannot even remember the last time I consciously bought a shirt with color outside my usual spectrum. Loud colors and print don't drape me the way I want to be clothed. Once, I took a chance and tried a yellow shirt with prints in some clothing store's dressing room. In a second, it's back in its rack, ruffled and unappreciated. The intense hue and daring print and I don't complement each other well.

Keep your hands to yourself when you follow me home.


Sex has turned into a chore lately, a forced combustion of two heated bodies, desperate for a five-second release to fill some vapid void in time. The aftermath- the constant ringing of my phone from random hook-ups who, for some reasons I cannot fathom, think I might be interested in whatever dreamy and starry-eyed episode might come after orgasm- has left me dog-tired the only recourse left is to block them from my phone and forget they never existed. Except I cannot get myself to do that. I need the validation, the gratifying satisfaction of knowing that someone out there yearns for me and seeks for my solicitude- whether it's just for another quickie or a cup of coffee.

Maybe its envy, or just some evanescent pang of want to be needed, like the curves of  your body craving the fit of my hands, but I look at people holding hands in the gym , the park, the inconspicuous alleys of Malate, and think of all possibilities.

But no. I cannot get myself yet to enter another passage of early morning texts and irresolute caring where I am stuck in some maze constantly trying not to sate myself from all the dissatisfaction of this world. This is the biggest crack in this plastered and self-bandaged persona I construe as my self. I can hold your hand when we fuck, whisper breathy incomprehensible words in your ears while I caress your back, look you in the eyes when your tongue explores all the nerves and edges of my dick, smile at you when I know I hit some banal spot which your moans cite. But no, I cannot, I am not able, not now, maybe never, find myself satisfied with this fleeting moment and be compelled to bottle the woes and discontent intrinsic in my fucked-up mind just so I can have the pleasure of being affirmed by this society as whole, as normal.

It's no longer a constant tug-of-war between black and white. The greyscale does not even seem to be a perfect spectrum to stay. I don't know what I want anymore.