An Interview With My Neighbor

trying to write a poem. or even a story. but shit

A poem written by Beau Taplin entitled, “Vacation”

a.k.a. That’s literally the title, and the poem is in italic by the way

I need to move around a bit. To shuffle my surroundings.

The day it all sank in, I didn’t find myself on the kitchen floor. But I sat on a chair, crying my heart out to the extent that I wanted it to disappear; I didn’t want a broken heart. The sobs that came from my sour lips bounced to the walls and then to oblivion, as if they knew that they were useless anyway.

To wake up in cities I don’t know my way around and have conversations in languages I cannot entirely comprehend.

I didn’t know what to read from these unknown yearnings at around two in the morning, of sad movies or sad songs, or probably just sad love. Or at mid-afternoon, when I wake up wanting something I don’t even know. Or when it rains, trying to reach out my hands and feel the drops and feel, just feel.

There is always this tremendous longing in my heart to be lost,

But after then, I know. I want to be lost in a place unknown, but then find myself in the same location where I think I forgot my soul. I want to wake up and walk to a balcony to see a different set of lights and colors waving at me from the day before. I want my heart to ache with the sight of people falling in love and knowing that I wouldn’t encounter the same love story the next city I’m in. I want to feel the lack of a familiar emotion when I come home, but know someday, I’ll be able to really forget the emptiness in my chest and really come home.

to be someplace else, to be far far away from this.

But I know that with these obligations wrapping me on my neck and disabling me to breathe properly, I have no choice of running away to find out the bliss of going to different places and being held captive by their beauty. I know that being lost in a place where no one knows my name and how my heartstrings tangle each other up to form my lonely soul is better than being found in a place where everyone drags me around and force me to suppress my dreams to want myself and feel myself and love myself after I lose myself.

(eusie.)

Why I stopped writing...

i'm scared to be scarred again. give me a little bit more time

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.)

LEE KNOW for BEAUTY+

listen. i want everything to finally be over. but i don't want the process. i don't want to be in between. i want to be at the beginning and at the end only. i don't want the stress. please and thank you

How to spell?

She starts to talk about Mississippi, and across these ill-painted walls, I hear a whisper. You’re a fool for her.

I remember when my mother used to say, “Don’t use all of your heart,” and “Leave a little bit of love for yourself.” I always rolled my eyes, because I didn’t know back then. And now, if my mother would yell at me for being this close to giving myself up just so she can say she loves me back, I wouldn’t care.

Fighting the urge to caress her cheek, I fond over her smile. She continues to go on about attending her favorite band’s concerts. Her eyes burning like she’s on fire. She says she’s excited to wear her tight black dress if she ever has a chance to go. I notice how her face’s suddenly painted in crimson as she longingly looks to a distance. Then she says, “I want to be kissed by someone as we listen to my favorite song being sang live.”

I could feel my soul closing in on her and kiss her lips, as if I’m the one that she wanted to be with her. But I know she doesn’t. So I pull myself back, and try not to feel hurt.

I return into trance when she mentions my name. That’s when all of my insides dry. But fuck. Her voice is like my blood, and the way the letters of my name slip from her tongue, I would think that she was the one who weaved my being. I ask her what else does she want to talk about.

And if I lose myself once again with just by her presence, I wouldn’t want her to know. I’ll just let her continue to tell the things she dreams about, even if I’m not one of them.

I’m a fool for her. Yes, I am.

(eusie.)

ask me if i'm fine. i promise i'll say i'm okay as long as i hear your voice

found, and never lost again

a.k.a. with papers on the floor and ink bleeding on nothing, i say, “maybe words are not enough to describe you”

you are afternoon walks under the sun’s rage and we burn whenever, but it feels good like cold water caressing our skin, and we know we’re alright you are running on a sidewalk with laughter beating the sound of cars as background music, and the smell of meat pies that i love to eat you are the feeling of falling asleep after a tired day, and you are stolen kiss in the dark and heavenly giggles after our lips part you are lullabies at dawn and ballads on rainy days, and when i want to dance, i dance to your name, i dance to your heartbeat you are my wild love (the “i won’t” to my “why don’t you leave me”, and the “libre kita” to my “gutom ako”) and one day you’ll be the horrible smell of morning breath, you’ll be the glorious taste of morning coffee, you’ll be the unnecessary fights after eight o’clock, and the bouquet of exquisite roses waiting on the kitchen table at 15 past five, (the “take care” after “i’m off to work”, the “good night” after “i love you so much”, and the “midnight snack lang” after “saan ka pupunta?”) and you’ll still be my wild love, i’ll still be loving you, and writing about you, and you’ll still be my wild love (my “pangit ka”, my “damulag”, my “babuy”, my “love”)

(eusie.)