Should’ve left her behind

Should’ve left her behind

this carefree spirit

that wanders

from place to place

with her heart out

for all to see

with her heart out

so easily.


Should’ve left her behind

midst the abandoned playground

swinging all alone

running after

no one

enchanted by

the sun.


Should’ve left her behind

with her



pig tails

and her bright orange

skip rope

and her notions

of hope.


Should’ve left her behind

before her innocence

met your lack of

before her smile

met your tears

before her dreams

became your fears.


Should’ve left her behind

but now  it’s too late

to abandon her

for you have grown

too attached

too much in love

with what she loved

with what she stood for

with love itself

at the very core.


Should’ve left her behind

but you knew too well

that you needed her

more than she needed you

and that she’ll always be

a part of your whole

and the part of your heart

that comprises your soul.


26 – Listening

I have always, always, been a good listener.

It has always been the matter of not having a person to listen to and not the matter of myself not being able to listen. I mean I’ve been alone for a lot of my life. Even as a kid. I became isolated from kindergarten onward. It took forever to sneak back into the status quo. I still don’t quite fit in, but I’m a whole lot more comfortable with who I am now.

And the Internet. Oh, I can’t even begin to describe my feelings and attitudes towards this global network. I have a lot of stories stored up in my head – stories of other people’s lives. The ones who trusted me enough to tell me a little more about themselves. Of course, these remain their stories and I’m not here to share them.

But instead I want to tell the story of my younger self and of the only person in my entire life who listened unconditionally. He did. I told him everything, every single little thing. I doubt he even remembers me now, but I remember him. He made a difference in my life. He taught me to look past the tedious bits of life and see the happiness awaiting at the finish line. He taught me how to stay positive despite my constant fits of depression and loneliness. We stayed up late talking about me. Just me.

I don’t know a single fucking thing about him. Oh yes, I should probably mention that this is another one of my ‘online relationships’ – but it is more than that. It was more than just two strangers randomly chatting. He was family to me – as were others…but they never got so close.

So now the only thing I know about him is that he was studying in Florida, going through his second year of college, I believe. I was ten. He was probably around nineteen. And yet, everything felt so natural.

I feel like I had to grow up too fast.

Can I please, please be that four year old kid again?

The one that laughed on top of her father’s shoulders, the one that collected cute little Pokemon plushies, the one that used to be so sure of where she was going?

Oh life. You play with me.

—tumblr: I’m sorry.

24 – Dreaming; My Past; Who I Am.

I was going to put this as private…but the length of this post should scare away any readers that don’t care enough to read.


I’m crying as a I write this. Bitter nostalgia resurfacing to the top of my mind. I remember a lot of things that I really wish would just go away. I haven’t been able to cry lately – one of the side effects of being in love. But today, today it all comes out. No, nothing in particular happened today that triggered this burst of emotion…No, nothing at all. It’s simply something that has been bottling up for so long like a bomb set to explode at any moment.

Just for today, I’ll forget that I’m okay. That I’m no longer the person that I was. But traces of her remain inside. The girl I locked away, claimed to have pushed off a cliff – she’s still here. And she’s far more intelligent than I will ever be. This monster that lurks in the deepest corners of my mind – she’s me and not me.

But let me bring you back to my past. When I was six or seven years old. Still a growing child. Not that I’m not still a child now. I don’t suppose most sixteen year olds pour their emotions into a a written mess of a story. I’m not your typical teenager. I have never been. I was not the typical child either.

There are so many facts that I would like to bury – to hide from existence. But I think it’s time for me to let go a little and tell the world just what  was so afraid of. What I’m still afraid of now. Some facts, however, I will choose to keep hidden. Though I’m trying to let go, I don’t want to be judged. I don’t want to receive pity or the emotion you claim to be “sympathy”. I’m not an angry, lonely, teenager seeking attention. I’m writing this for myself. For my own self discoveries. Whether anyone reads or not is none of my concern.

So six years old and one word to perfectly describe this girl’s situation (I’d much prefer to talk about her in third person): lonely. She had people she liked to think of as friends. She went to her so called best friend’s home everyday after school to be babysat. She tried to be good. She was a good girl, really. I don’t think anyone could deny that. But this was the year when everything started to fall apart. The world she had tried so hard to fit into – it shunned her away. She never really got back into it. I’m still left out.

I don’t know if this had any significance…but she loved her dad. This was the year when her dad went back to Hong Kong in order to take care of things. She was the kind of girl that would send her daddy a birthday card every time it came around – Christmas cards in the winter. It stopped a few years later…when she became uncertain of who she was. Daddy’s back now. It’s not the same. He doesn’t treat me like he used to. He ignores my existence for the most part. I’m fine with that. I could delve into a whole mountainload of things such as love issues in my family…but I won’t. That’s not where I’m going with this.

But yes, she was very lonely. This six year old girl who felt like all the pillars supporting her had been shattered by some unfeeling storm. So what if she had no friends? So what? She made her own. She invented an entire fucking world. Yeah, I’m swearing again. Whatever.

So she made herself a princess in that world. A clichéd dream, but nonetheless, it was mine. Sintra, I believe, she named herself. When this princess took over, the entire world looked different. For the longest time, I suppose, I had a split personality. Sintra only came out when she was alone though. Or when things were silent. But she was a lonely girl so Sintra came out quite often.

There was this one summer afternoon when things were especially empty in the world. She went outside. Unsupervised of course. Her brother didn’t really pay much attention to it. Her mom was out at work. She’s always working. So stepped outside, exitting the house from the basement door. She liked to go in and out of the basement. Her own little hideout. She would pay her respects to the pear tree right outside – it’s been cut down now – and peruse around in the back yard. She liked to water – or rather, over water – the plants. She’d hop on her bike with the training wheels and ride around the yard. Not really feeling much of anything. But this was her world. She played with what she had. And she only had so much.

So that summer afternoon, she wanted to leave the yard. I can’t remember if she was allowed to, but regardless, it’s most probably unsafe to be let a six year old walk out on her own. But like I said, she was a good kid. A smart kid. She  would get home without too much trouble. So she left through the gate and walked out through the gate. She walked around the neighborhood for a bit and no one really paid much attention to her. She returned home without getting into any trouble. But she learned to be independent that day. She realized that she was alone.

Now let’s get back to Sintra. The princess. She controlled powers of the psych (the mind), of time, and of sheer power. She was powerful. She was sometimes evil. She was the cause of all the good things in her life. Good things came from magic. She dreamed up her own set of servants, her own palace and kingdom. Her mother, the Queen, was evil. Stupid. She controlled her mother too.

I can’t remember when I lost Sintra. It must’ve been sometime in seventh grade when I finally snapped out of everything I had imagined. When I realized that fantasies should remain fantasies and should not carry on in real life…and then, then’s when I turned to dreaming.o

Well, I suppose I’ve always had the craziest dreams. The most realistic…and unrealistic. The most surreal. I’ve always figured that since a third of lives was spent sleeping, it was a good idea to make use of that time. To dream well. To make my own dreams. At least there, I wasn’t alone. I dreamt a lot as a kid. To escape the loneliness. I didn’t know why back then though. I was so naive.

Let’s pull out of my past. I think I’ve shared enough for one day.

So dreaming. Why do I care so much about this concept? Because my dreams have never been normal. Never. When I dream, I’m usually not in this world anymore. I don’t dream of things, of possiblities, of chances in real life. I don’t. In my dreams, I go where I can’t go in real life and I’m usually empowered in some form or another. I’m stronger, I wield magic, I’m more intelligent, and I’m – as much as I hate being vain – more beautiful. I posess some kind of position that sets me aside from others.

If I could write out these dreams in the very detail I dream them in, I would leave you breathless. But I can’t and I’ll never be able to. There’s something beyond this world that exists in my dreams.

A recurring theme in a lot of my dreams is running – fleeing from some enemy. My dreams are never still, never full of idle chatter. They move along fast. There was this one dream of a zombie apocalypse – yes, not very original – that I remember so well. I can almost taste the green, grungy texture of zombie blood on my lips. I slaughtered hundreds. Thousands. With a sword sharper than anything that exists today. I blew entire buildings up. I manipulated my powers so that I could use magic. No, this is not some grotesque RPG gone wrong that has somehow drifted into my mind – though it may possibly be influenced by one – but a different reality. I put myself into these places and I do so for a reason.

I suppose that reason would most likely be the fact that I just want to be needed by someone.

I’m crying again. I’m so fucking soft.

But I suppose that’s what I’m ultimately getting at. I’ve always, I suppose, just wanted to become a presence which people would actually miss if it disappeared. Dreaming lets me do that. It lets me be that someone who is loved. Loved. I suppose I’ve always just wanted that too. I hate to appear weak, as if I actually need others to help me stand on my feet. I hate being useless.

But life has never tried to make things easy for me. Dreaming has. Guess which one I love more.

And to think, to think I was so close to never being born. I don’t suppose that many people would miss me if I disappeared. The world is so cold, so unconnected. People don’t care enough. I try to. To care, that is. To make someone else feel wanted. Because I know how it feels like to not be wanted, to be so perfectly alone.

Tonight, I will dream.

Rewind, pause, and fast forward.

Six years old, still naive, still makes the same mistake twice.

She plays life like a game of monopoly, tossing up the dice.

She’s washed away in her own little world, a dreamer at her best,

Untouched, untainted, immaculate – hidden in the nest.


Stop time now, stop it before she grows old,

Trap her innocence into a neat little mould,

Forget maturity, let her stay pure,

For when it comes to wisdom, there is no cure.


She believed in guardian angels – in spirits of brilliant light,

She believed that the “good guys” would always win the fight,

She believed she was strong enough to stand against the evil,

But her beliefs, her beliefs were lost in great upheaval.


Sixteen now with every year weighing on her shoulders,

She has locked up the pieces of her childhood into a hundred different folders,

She looks into the mirror at the monster she has become,

And lets the harshness of the world turn her anima numb,

Older now, but she’s still far too young,

A thousand melodies of her life have yet still to be sung.

I was a different soul.

Years ago, I was a different soul,

Unbound by aging’s wretched toll,

Years ago, hope was in the stars,

Not behind a school’s gray bars.


I used to hang out on the balcony,

Captivated by astronomy,

Minutes in the winter spent,

Hours under summer’s tent.


I no longer appreciate

What I did in that wistful state,

I’ve forgotten the wishes I have made,

Forgotten the prayers that I have prayed.


Extract from me a decade’s worth,

Allow my soul a child’s rebirth,

Remove the harshness of this realm

Plug in innocence, overwhelm.


Look around you, it’s never been gone,

Just hiding, just lost, just self-withdrawn,

Set it free, let it run and feel the freshness of the sea,

Set it free, uncover it from the city’s cruel debris.


Why, why, why, am I playing this game?

Open myself, open my eyes, to nature’s acclaim.


Would you forgive me if I knocked you to the ground

like he did while turning my world upside down?

What if I diffused our relationship into nothing more

than deception: a hoax, a lie, a closed door?

Would you forgive me then?

Draw me a heart with your pretty plush pen?

You’re still a child and I love you for that,

I hope you never find yourself in the claws of the cat

that ruined my life and vowed to ruin yours

that lurks in the deepest corners of your drawers.

Darkness closes in with every ticking second,

For your soul, a ghost in the shadows will beckon.

Don’t go to them, my dear,

There’s too much pain, too much fear.

If I could protect – act as your shield – I would,

But I’m no longer able to stand where I stood.

Little Red Riding Hood

she looks in the mirror, her hair still unmade

she ties it up tightly, not a strand strayed

Little Red and her cute little braid.


she looks through her closet with a frown on her face,

seeking an outfit at a hurried pace,

Riding Hood and her gown etched in lace.


she removes her cloak from the hook on the door,

pulls the hood over – satisfied once more,

What is dear Little Red all dressed up for?


the sun’s shining bright and the sky a dull gray,

she walks with her basket and out on her way,

Little Red Riding Hood perfect as prey.