| techno |
[04/26/06] |
the humming of the car is incessant, the honking of horns unbearable, the smiling has all faded into what can no longer be called anything other than fake. you are crying weeping screaming but all are done in silence and all that they can see is a smile; you yourself fading into something inexistant but your smile remains. you are perhaps the cheshire cat, grinning forevermore and asking yourself, 'this way or that-a-way?'
"this kind of music," he says as if he were talking about politics instead, "needs to be listened to more than once." but you cannot possibly imagine how anyone could bear that kind of music more than once. the constant drumming and crashing and throaty vocals are far than pleasant.
you smile, "i see."
he turns toward the stereo again; now and then chatting with his two other friends also in the car. you turn toward the window and drop your smile as it gets very tiring. you listen in on their conversation and are glad that they seem to have forgotten you; staring at the window the whole way is much better than pointless babbling, after all.
but your hopes are shattered as you feel a finger tap your shoulder.
"mirielle? even if this is the last day of school and we'll be apart after this, i want you to know..." he has a distant look on his face and a smile is on your face again. "i want you to know that if you ever need someone to talk to, about anything at all, you can call me, okay?"
you smile wider, noticing his sincerety but not noticing any of your own, "thank you."
"anything at all, okay?" and he makes you wonder if you would cry tears of joy if he had said it. you think back on how he was so worried about you crying yesterday and for just a moment, your smile is sincere. you nod in reply.
he smiles toothily at you and then turns to the stereo, messing with the equalizer while exchanging words with his friends about bass and treble and all the things you never heard before. you stare at the stereo's display, the graphic display jumping up and down like something crazed.
you force your eyes shut, swallowing down a scream while imagining a hesitant piano sound way in the distance.
|
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| now-life |
[04/22/06] |
there are many things she wishes she never did; like trusting axel or dying. but they are done and there is not much she can do about it and larxene is not one to regret. regret is for wussies after all. she finds herself wondering, however, at times when she is not so caught up with Marquis de Sade or killing innocents or whining, that the Organization is really based on regret and nothing else.
all of them had not guarded their hearts well enough and they regret losing them and now they want them back. they are idiots for regretting because she knows they know a heart is not something you can gain back through petty experiments. they are merely a lifetime too late and all the research and experiments and projects they do will only ever let them imagine what it might have been like.
but larxene is never one to regret. she can regret but she will not. there are tears still but she will not cry.
there is no one here in the endless darkness and she does not even know if she is shooting upwards or plunging downwards or just floating around in the middle of nothingness. and it renders her weak because there is nothingness within and without and it is just too much.
so she stays curled up in a fetal position; a posture she would not let anyone see herself in. she is crouching on air on nothing on water on everything and she feels as empty as the space she occupies in the vacuum.
she does not think she can stand because there is no ground no thing for her to step on. she chokes on oxygen or on nothing and she knows she will cry soon. but she clenches her eyes shut and she is strong and she will not cry.
but she cries anyway.
"hey,"
larxene glances upward but finds the voice coming from below so she looks down and realizes she is looking up at the lanky man with gravity-defying scarlet hair. she blinks her tears away and puts on her smirk so that he will see that she is strong and that she was not crying, "axel."
he is looking down at her looking up at him and she is looking down at him looking up at her and he returns her smirk, "larxene."
"long time no see."
he crosses his arms in front of him, "'bet you feel like pommeling me to death."
she cannot think of a witty retort to give so she just maintains her smirk.
"you were crying," his smirk noticeably widens.
"no,"
he uncrosses his arms and looks away, "no need to pretend to be strong here anymore, pal," he looks down and up at her, "this is the end-- no, this is after the end."
"afterlife?" the word sounds foreign on her tongue; how can she be in afterlife when she was never in life? she snorts, "good one."
the man lets out a chuckle and extends a hand toward her, "c'mon."
"yeah right," she looks away from him, "you expect me to come with you after what you've done?"
axel laughs and something stirs in the hollow in her chest, "you're stuck with us forever, better get used to it."
"...us?"
"yeah, us."
she chuckles, "can't believe i'm still stuck with you guys."
he does not reply but keeps his hand extended; he waits patiently for her but time does not pass and so he waits for her a second a minute an hour an eternity and she finally looks down and up. she smiles (not smirk) and there is something in her chest that grows warm as she places her hand on his.
"so we're all dead?"
"if we were ever alive, we are dead now, yeah."
axel drags larxene down up through the nothingness but now she knows it is not nothing but everything. the darkness around seems just a little brighter somehow.
"can i call this heaven?"
he turns around and smirks but it is full of humor and joy and everything is just so full full full and larxene has to take in a deep breath to keep from choking in all she is drowning in. "no," and he points to the place they have all been dying to fill with something anything and now she knows that there is something in it now and axel is pointing at it; just like the way that Boy has done so many times. "that is heaven."
so she places a hand over it; there is a languid rhythmic beating that accelerates to a light pattering pounding against her chest. there is nothing but constant rhythm of the beating and there is something coursing through her that is warm and stirring and alive. there was void there was void there was void there is life. she chokes on her tears and larxene cries cries cries her heart out while axel holds her.
this is now-life.
Dedicated to Ann aka Prince-mun
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| languid |
[02/18/06] |
you wonder if a life is more meaningful when you have taken chances and lost it all but memories or is it more meaningful when you still have things to hold on to. you wonder if memories are better than the present, sometimes. but as you gaze at your own reflection on the polished wood of the piano, you stop wondering or thinking or pondering. you are simply being.
your left hand itches and maybe you should scratch it. yes, perhaps you should. but your right hand makes no move to do so and only your left twitches. both your hands are palm down on the leather seat of the piano, supporting either sides of you.
you think you hear footsteps, but there should be no one in the room and you did not hear any of the doors being opened. you think you heard footsteps but you hear nothing now.
"didn't you come here to play the piano?" you think you hear his voice, and you stop being and start wondering if you should reply or not. you wonder if you should turn around to greet him.
"i guess i did," you reply but you will not turn around.
"why aren't you playing then?" well, why are you not playing?
your right hand twitches but your body stays still. "maybe, i just want to be alone for awhile." you can see him shift his weight to his left on the shiny surface of the piano.
"are you telling me to leave?" a trick question; do you want him to leave? did you not come here to meet him? you certainly did not come here to play the piano.
you shrug, " do whatever you want." your hands are still pressed against the smooth leather, bent at either sides of your body.
"that's not answering my question," you smirk. he has not yet lost his wit.
"is your question really that important?" you have not lost your wit either.
he chuckles, "am i not important?"
you laugh at how direct he is being, "answer that yourself."
"i am, right? i am very important to you," you know he is grinning. "you think about me day and night and dawn and dusk. for everything you do you wonder if i would approve. i am important, because you love me." a victory grin. you chuckle, almost choking on your own acrid saliva.
"no, i hate you."
he is still smiling but it is sad now, "hate is merely the result of wounded love."
"well, i loved you then," you smile and it is bitter.
he lets out a dry laughter, "you still do." and it is a statement, a true one. you close your eyes, willing the tears to roll down your cheek and onto your lips so you can taste the saltiness of it and not the acrid taste of your own saliva. but there are no tears. you wish he would say something about that, anything, but you know he would never.
and so, slowly, ever so slowly, you open your eyes and place your hands upon the ebony and ivory keys. you wait, for something to happen and stop you from playing. and slowly, you turn around. only the languid ticking of the clock finds your ears. your eyes find only the empty auditorium. shafts of sunlight penetrates the high windows, the pools of light like laughter, swirling and glittering and beautiful.
|
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| loving. |
[02/10/06] |
|
they say that a boy who makes you cry does not deserve your tears, a boy who breaks your heart does not deserve your love. but really, it has nothing to do about whether he deserves it or not. all it is about is that i love him, and that is that. after all, is that not what love is? to be giving even when the other person does not deserve it. to keep loving even when it hurts you so much you would rather die.
|
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| butterfly |
[01/29/06] |
my calendar runs by the books and pages i read daily;
the day doesn't end until i'm satisfied.
but one day we'll emerge from our fantasies
with swollen lips aching loins throbbing heads
and some of us, still hearts,
from our chrysalis; wet and unable just yet to flutter away
so we dry our painted wings with dirty linen out in public for the world to see
and we'll be just how we want to be.
yet it wasn't enough wasn't enough wasn't enough
for me. and i guess now
it's a little late it's a little late it's a little late
to be free.
a butterfly; just a bluff on a broken string.
but if i do not love, i am nothing.
|
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| he ran. |
[01/22/06] |
it's the littlest things that break you the hardest. it isn't the big things, the obvious moments when you see him walking with her, holding hands. it isn't that people tease him about his girlfriend, but the fact that he smells so different that it makes you heave and choke and sob and want to just die.
it isn't that you cannot call him whenever you want to anymore, it's that his voice sounds so uninterested whenever you called that makes you want to drop the phone and curl into a tiny ball, close your eyes and ears and never open them. but the worst, for you, the worst thing of all the little hints and reminders that remind you of the million cuts that keep bleeding --the worst is the piano in the old music room of the school.
it is there all day, every day, a small, constant, piercing reminder that he is not interested in you anymore. it's that soft pedal of the piano that keeps getting stuck so he always has to fix it before playing --but it's stuck now and you're not strong enough to fix it. you wonder where he is but then you remember that he isn't anywhere you can find unless you believe that that guy walking with that girl over there is him.
you miss his beautiful smile he throws at you whenever you walk into the room, the smell of his cologne that makes you high with glee, the absence of his poor performance on the piano. and yet nothing reduces you to a small, pathetic, sniveling version of yourself more than that piano does. the seat is covered by a thick layer of dust because you dare not touch it --because it is a piece of him, it has touched him and therefore should not be breathed upon.
you feel a sharp pain in your stomach at the sight of his car in front of your house and then realize that it is not his, just your neighbor's. you stare into the car anyway and your heart slows as though it will stop and you can almost see his form, tuning to his favorite radio station, or concentrating on the road ahead...
and yet everyday your eyes find that piano and your head begins to spin, your heart speeds up, and you begin to shake. because there is a seat that is unsat, is empty, is where he belongs but will never be again. it has always been a bad sounding piano, but he insisted that if he could make it sound good then it means that he is truly talented. it's the fact that the background music to your conversations with your friends just outside the old music room is the awful noise of his playing, but lately all we hear is silence when we aren't speaking.
you stare at it from where you stand. if you squint hard enough you can almost imagine him sitting there with a confused look on his face as he tries to figure out the next notes. and you look around at your friends, his friends, and notice most eyes are stuck on the piano as well --and you realize you're not the only one imagining the boy with beautiful dimples.
it's the small things that gets you, after all.
but it is also the little things that set your heart free. it isn't that people tell you he would be better off with you or that you know him more than she ever would, but the fact that he cries in front of you and not in front of her.
it isn't that he is still nice to you, still caring, but that when you said you will be waiting at the cinema, he ran. he ran as fast as he could to meet you because he didn't want to keep you waiting --it makes you soar so high, smile so wide your cheeks feel sore. but the best, for you, the best thing of all the little hints and reminders that he really does care and wants you to be happy --the best is the way your friends tell you he treats you so well.
it plays in your head, every moment, a small, constant reminder that he is still your best friend and he truly cares. it's those calls at two am when you really needed someone to talk to, and he was there even when you tried to push him away. you wonder why but then you remember that he is your friend after all, and that's what friends are for.
and yet everyday your mind will replay the words his best friend told you and your heart beats slower and louder and you remember: dia sayang banget sama kamu, dith. if only you told him how you feel, he would've broken up with his girlfriend and be with you.
you know it's not true, but you also know that it's the little little things that make you love him, in the end.
|
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| everything i should forget |
[12/14/05] |
i tried to find a way to make it easier:
on second thought that's fine.
you're so strong that you don't need me.
i'm so tough that i don't mind.
if this is how you want to end it, then
you can hold your breath and i'll hold mine too,
the last one standing will be the winner;
the first to give up is divine.
you left some stuff behind, by the way,
a David Benoit CD i never got to return,
a drawing of daydreaming me you forced me to keep
and a stack of music scores with every note memorized.
but then a thought came over me:
on second thought it's all alright.
i took a box and labeled it "everything i should forget"
and made it all fit.
darn it. I'm losing my touch; I can't even write proper poetry anymore. This is not poetry, it's just a formatted ranting.
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