I Thought Of You Again

One day, you'll understand

My mind is a storm. Yet my words are drizzles, unnoticeable when they touch your skin. Not because you are numb, but because their metaphors are unsharpened. Because I don’t want to hurt you even if I can. I can drown you the way my demons drown me in whirlpools. But I wouldn’t, if you just run away from me.

My lips are shut like how my heart is. Because I don’t want to stab you with the pain you’ll hear from my voice. I don’t want to let you in and be a part of my dark and gloomy heart. I am a chaos. A walking disaster, ready to swallow and eat you up when you come near me, so you should just let me destroy myself.

My life is empty and dull as darkness is. I am nearly death. I can kill you. Please, just save yourself. Save yourself.

Save yourself from me.

(eusie.)

"She's not pregnant."

I remember when March whispered your name to my ears.

The sky is burning, and I’m beginning to think I’m going to die if I don’t go home already. But the wind hugs me tight, and it hugs me even tighter with every step I take; I keep going. The city is growing louder than usual as the day is starting to fall asleep. I begin talking to the afternoon lights as I pass by them, and I didn't worry about a thing.

That is, until I suddenly see someone we both know. She smiles as she laughs my name. Her voice resembles yours, I think. And the aroma of barbecue being sold nearby tickles my nose. I think of you again, and of our memories that the three of us have — memories of when we were still in high school.

We used to go home late, stay at the city park, and eat street foods. We used to laugh our heads off, and smile like every second was something to be proud of. We were glad, and even if the sky was on fire every time we were together, we knew we weren't. Each of us is our wings, and each of us taught each other how to fly. We were best friends. We are best friends. We just lost communication with each other after high school. But I know we still are.

I paste a smile on my lips — the one you particularly taught me — and ask her how her life had been. Even without saying that we missed each other, our voices are full of felicity that brings out the message for us instead. And the tears at the corner of our eyes catch them.

She says that she’s good while she answers back to the smile I give. Then I ask her about you. That’s when her face illuminates a bit disappointment, but all the while, a bit of concern. I wonder if should jokingly ask her why the long face. After a few seconds though, she smiles at me, and says just above a whisper, “Have you heard the rumors?”

I furrow my eyebrows at her question, and I swear the stars that are absent tonight explode in her eyes, like all at once. I want to ask you, what did you do to make her tear up like this? What did you do?

I mumble, “I think I know what you’re talking about, but I don’t believe it at all.” And I almost think that everything is now okay. Almost. Because she freezes, and I can feel the night getting colder with her smile hanging on her face like death has finally come for her and she’s still not ready.

“She’s not pregnant,” she says. “No, not like what everyone is saying.”

“Oh, that’s good then —”

“Because she already has a baby.”

“Oh.” Oh. And that is all that it took for my heart to squeeze itself. I don’t know what to feel exactly. Should I be mad at you? Should I pity you? Should I? What should I do? What should I feel? Tell me...

The night shows its sympathy with its howl serenading the fuck out of us. I hug her, just as I also want to hug you. Because I bet when you were lying on your bed, with the whole world judging you, you felt alone. So this is what I feel right now. I feel sorry, not because of what happened to you, but because you probably felt alone and sad and angry and maybe you cried yourself to sleep every night thinking you’re a disappointment. I’m sorry we weren't there.

This is when I promise myself, that I won’t be like the others. My heart didn't rip itself just to make you do the same when we’ll let you know that we know. I will still love you, and I will be here for you. This is what I remember that happened that night. And I will tell you this the next time we see each other. And I will make sure the universe will bow to smile on your face and claim that it’s what you deserve.

(eusie.)

“I know pretty much what I like and dislike; but please, don’t ask me who I am.” - Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

Could it be / that besides the moon, / there’s one planet / who also fell for the sun? / Could it be / that she was broken, / and because she cannot bleed, / she cried until she died / while her tears scattered across the Milky Way / and they’re the stars / we see in the evening sky?

April 21, 2014 (eusie.)

But I think you write great?

Oh. Hi. Thanks. IDK if this is how you meant to write this compliment(?). But with that question mark at the end, I think you’re even questioning yourself if I really write great. Lol. But if you really mean it, then thanks, like seriously. Good evening

sumesex naman ata di murder eh

// murder naman yata eh, hindi sex //

This is about Don’t even think about it, yes?

Hi. I’ll just be in the corner and contemplate about what I did wrong. And probably study about read between the lines? DUNNO. Good evening

@bookhay: “Nalibugan ka lang bes hahahaha”

It’s the first of September! The first day of spring, which is my least favourite season on account of its unpredictability.

Anyway, here’s a snippet of a fic request I’m currently filling for @stargazing-enby who submitted it two years ago aaaagh

The office is tucked away in the suburban sprawl of Bexley. It’s an old terrace townhouse; the original staircase, a hefty wooden beast, smells of furniture polish. The floorboards creak beneath Harry’s feet. The reception room is converted from the front parlour, and still has touches of the home that was once there: a lace doily over a dainty hall-table, and faded curtains framing the window. Harry glances at the wall, noticing the vintage brass light switch. This was once a Muggle home, then.

“May I help you?”

There’s an elderly witch he doesn’t recognise at the reception desk. She’s peering at him suspiciously over her spectacles, one hand resting on a typewriter which is furiously tapping out letters by itself.

Harry looks away from the typewriter. “Harry Potter. Here to see Malfoy.” It’s a little petty, he knows, but he won’t use Malfoy’s full title. Cursebreakers love that. They love the showmanship of it. The little flourishes of their wand (completely gratuitous), the dramatic pauses (unnecessary) and of course, their amazed and grateful customers (audiences; the only thing missing is the applause). It’s why Harry won’t see Levinson any more, or Sheldrake, or Vittily. It’s why he ditched Fromer after just one appointment, and why he left Clarkson’s office without even beginning the appointment. One glance into Clarkson’s delighted face — ooh, the great Harry Potter! What fantastic publicity for my little agency — and Harry had turned around and walked wordlessly out the door.

Now he waits for the usual reactions. But the witch doesn’t widen her eyes, or glance at his scar, or nervously smooth her robes. She just keeps squinting at him, and then she says, “Henry Potter…”

“Harry.”

“Harry.” She frowns. “Potter with a P?”

Harry can’t imagine what other letter Potter might begin with: he pauses, then says, “Erm. Yes.”

She picks slowly through a little wooden box filled with small white cards. “Ah. Here you are. Eleven o’clock?”

“That’s right.”

She puts a neat little tick onto the card and then moves it to another box. “Take a seat. Tea and coffee’s across the hallway.”

He sits down on one of the straight-backed wooden chairs next to the dainty hall table. There’s a little magazine rack nearby, with very well-worn copies of Cosy Homes for Country Witches and Enchanting Gardens of Magical Britain. Once Harry thumbs through them and then finds a copy of Knitting Patterns for Thrifty Witches, he begins suspecting the collection has been generously donated by the elderly receptionist. He glances up at her, then at the grandfather clock standing ponderously by the door. It’s only been fifteen minutes, but perhaps Malfoy is sitting somewhere in a comfortable office, laughing at the fact he’s keeping Harry waiting.

The receptionist speaks then, as if sensing his thoughts. “Mr Potter? Mr Malfoy will see you now. Directly up the stairs, second door on the left.”

Harry dutifully goes upstairs. There’s a narrow hallway with a window at the end of it, showing a rather unspectacular view over the grey rooftops of Bexley. He passes by the first door, which looks like a cleaning closet, and then stops at the second.

D. Malfoy

5th Order HCJ (DefM)

Cert HM (C. II)

It’s a faded set of letters printed upon the frosted glass pane. The dark-blue paint of the door is beginning to slowly flake away. Harry’s annoyed, though he can’t pinpoint why. All the other cursebreakers he’s visited have had their name, bright and glossy, upon their doors, with CURSEBREAKER emblazoned in large letters below. They love that word. It’s exciting. Full of action and danger. Curse, and breaker. Destruction and glittering shards. Smashing spells to pieces and then getting called a hero for it. Of course Malfoy would love to call himself cursebreaker.

But instead Harry’s left to decipher 5th Order HCJ (DefM) and Cert. HM, C. II.

The door swings open suddenly, leaving Harry blinking at Draco Malfoy’s face. He’s seen him around in the years following the war — it’s hard not to, really, with the magic community as small as it is — but always a distant glimpse of a blond-haired man disappearing into a shop, or waiting for one of the elevators at the Ministry (and despite Harry firmly telling himself he’d outgrown schoolyard scuffles, he’d always elected to choose a different elevator instead).

Now, however, an awkward meeting seems inevitable.

Malfoy looks down his long nose at Harry and says, “Take a seat.”

Harry won’t give him the satisfaction of pausing. He walks into the office and sits down in the nearest chair; a squeaky relic from the seventies, by the look of the avocado-coloured vinyl and slightly rusted metal legs.

Malfoy closes the door and then sits at his desk, ignoring Harry and picking up a file instead. Harry had expected the cold shoulder, and anyway, it gives him time to look around. He’s been in plenty of cursebreaker offices. Large and grand affairs, with ceiling-length windows and bookcases lined with rare tomes, and little gold name-plates on solid-oak desks. And the trophies, of course. Cursed jewellery glittering in the sunlight. Beautiful dresses stained with unicorn blood. Portraits of subjects which whisper just too quietly to decipher the words.

But Malfoy’s office is small and neat and efficient as a Ministry cubicle. There’s two framed certificates on the wall, which give Harry his answer to the riddle on the door — Fifth Order of Defensive Magic specialising in Hexes, Curses, and Jinxes, and Certificate of Healing Magic, Class II. There’s no grand bookcase, but instead a simple row of tattered texts on a shelf above the desk. A filing cabinet, grey and mildly threatening, sits in the corner.

Malfoy says, without looking up from the file, “You’re here today because…” He turns a page, “…you’re not very good at your job.”

“What?” Harry asks incredulously.

Malfoy does look up then. His expression is blandly polite, which somehow only makes Harry more angry. “You don’t currently fill the criteria of your role as an Auror. Is that correct?”

“No, that’s not correct. I’m a fully qualified Auror — ”

“Says here,” Malfoy says, looking down at the page again, “That your supervisor has referred you here on the basis that…” He taps his finger against a line of spindly writing. “Let’s see… ‘Auror Potter requires further training in sensing areas of concentrated magic.’ Says last December, you walked directly into a ward and set off a Caterwauling Charm, which compromised the entire operation.”

“What? Well - what it doesn’t mention is that the ward was very well-hidden in a staircase — ”

“And in February, you tripped a jinx when you opened a door during another operation, which resulted in several minor injuries.”

“Yes, but it was — ”

Malfoy turns a page, somehow managing to do it loudly. The rasp of paper cuts through the air. “February again. Declared a room cleared when in fact it was still armed with a Severing Curse. Your partner suffered a significant injury.”

Harry looks away. That had been a particularly difficult incident, and the guilt still lingers. “I could’ve sworn that room was — ”

“March. Picked up a cursed wand, resulting in moderate burns.”

“I had to, I was trying to disarm — ”

“Which brings us to April,” Malfoy says, closing the file. The pages flutter shut. “Ran straight through a basic security ward, shattering it. Minor injuries sustained.” He finally looks up, his expression indecipherable. “Anything you care to add to these notes?”

“I do my job,” Harry snaps. “And I do it well.”

“Mm,” Malfoy says, and it’s maddening exactly how much condescension he manages to fit into a single syllable. “Well, that particular judgment is up to me, isn’t it?”

Version -4.9.2.19.13.6.20

a.k.a. You’re another word for “Oh”

He is the ocean, but you are the sky. I can see the horizon in your eyes. Even if your soul failed to reflect his bright smile, your own smile blinded me. Don’t worry if you remind me of him. I may say that you made me remember how he looked like, but between the two of you, I would choose to memorize the features of your face. If my hands suddenly caress your skin, take a breath and let the warmth of my touch soak inside your veins. And you’ll know, that even if he is the ocean, you are the sky. You are the sky and the ocean mirrors your color.

Tell me lies a little more Make me cry a little more Break my heart a little more So I can love you a little less

September 18, 2013 (eusie.)

ˌdedəˈkāSH(ə)n/

There are tears buried in between these sheets, ones that kept us awake with deep cut hearts. There are tinges, hidden from plain sight, ones that came from our blood stained fingertips. There are marks and tiny scrapes across these papers, ones that were caused by the scars of our skin.

But there are giggles running around through each space. There are whispers of hopefulness in each page. There is love felt by each letter dripped in nightly ink.

This is a collection of shards from our war souls. This is a recollection of the strands of what we fought for.

There is a piece of us in this. This is us. This is for us.

— “Cheers to ourselves”, The Researchers

(eusie.)