drown my senses in your scent
the pleasant fragrance of your 
moist skin

leave me in a frenzy of desire
over the touch of your wet lips 
against mine 

let me taste the sweetness of your tongue
as your hot, damp breath condenses 
upon my cheek, my body
and into my soul.

tell-tale heart

wallowing in hapless   despair
I want to vanish, to evaporate
into tiny imperceptible pieces
swallowed    by the dark abyss
stripped of my soul & identity
forget me  over and over again

until I am             nothing.

But in my arms, she was always Lolita

There are only two books to date that have rendered me utterly and exceptionally astonished by the striking impact of their first few sentences. One of which, went like this:

❝ Happy families are all alike;
every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. ❞

But of the two I refer to, the other is undoubtedly my uncontested favorite.
It went exactly like so:

Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.

I’ve read and reread those lines over and over, and even as I typed them here (by memory, mind you), I savored the delicious gesticulation of the tongue while I attempted to retrace my own steps down the palate to whisper the three most beloved syllables.

And recalling the moment when I first read those lines, I refused to proceed with the rest of the narrative without fully comprehending, without fully immersing and overwhelming myself with the beauty, the depth, and the emotion of those fiery words.

In that instant, the reader is made aware that the narrator is completely and unquestionably under the spell of this Lolita woman—whoever she may be—only to find out that the Lolita woman isn’t actually a woman, but a girl. A young, prepubescent girl-child of twelve during the time when the narrator first encounters her.

Read: 838 more words

a tale of murder

I slave away for five out of seven
to see eight turns of the little hand
and each new moon fills my coffer
in exchange for my sanity, ravaged

yet it isn't the in-between of eight til five
but the before and after that gags me with rage,
that incites the desire to kill, to murder
while helplessly, vulnerably, starkly aware
of this biological weakness exploited by man

I am a woman
strong, capable, empowered
but human

with all the parts and pieces –
arms, legs, breasts, and buttocks
every limb I own is mine and mine alone

except on the daily bus ride home
when there is nothing to protect me
and sometimes I want to cry
because the parts and pieces I thought were mine
are prodded, poked, mauled, and molested

perhaps unintentionally, but does it matter?
still I feel as if a part of me is taken, owned
I want to tear their limbs for every filthy touch
draw blood with my nails by clawing their flesh

because they destroy me every time
I go aboard the bus ride home.

How do I let go of anger?

I wake up each morning with a solemn vow – to be happy, positive, and kind throughout the day. But like everything else, it is much easier said than done. I’d like to say I don’t understand why I have so much rage and resentment inside me, but I do. Oh but I do understand exactly why. I won’t admit it. Not to you, nor to others. Only to the inner recesses of my terrible and angry mind do I confess the extent of the darkness in my heart. (Continue: 359 more words)

This week in words: a catharsis of sorts



There is infinite evil and wickedness inside me. I can feel it, crushing my rotten heart, corrupting what has already been beyond decay. Jaded by the ways of this cruel world, my eyes have been opened to the underside, the dark stench of the injustice of existence. They say life is unfair to everyone. But what they don’t tell you is that life is especially unfair to others, immensely more than some lucky ones, who are apparently more favored by fortune. Life is unfair that way, despite the premise of fairness in the presence of difficulty in everybody’s lives. Allow me to alter a popular contemporary quote:

Some adversities are bigger than other adversities.

(Continue: 565 more words)


Solemnly traipsing along the pavement, I tilt my head up to greet the gentle breeze from the drizzle of a moment’s past. The cold air fills my chest with electric glee. I am alive.


I turn left through the narrow gate, and come across a great many people—some like me, creatures of the night, but with a mighty rush of adrenaline in their veins; the others are hazy, drunk with the weariness of a hard day’s work. I move onwards.


Devoid of the civility shaped through years of assiduous education by society, I allow myself not a moment of weakness. I gather my cruel strength and jostle forward, paying no heed to the un-people I am up against.


The narrow orifice of the pregnant vehicle serves as the womb by which I emerge a victor. I am once again: a human. There is no shame from my prior savagery, only the feeble comfort of a dingy cushion seat.


Thoughts afloat the confines of my mind scamper in all directions during the half-hour it takes to get from this point to there. I have no body, but only a soul—a soul drenched with dreams and possibilities. The bus stops. I feel the languor creeping in, and all the unwritten thoughts escape from my notice. I am home.

CONTEXT: I commute daily, from home to work, then work to home. Usually, I go out of the office by six or seven, or when the sky turns mostly dark. And being a person who’s most alive during the night, I enjoy these dusky strolls. But Makati, which I like to call the rush hour city, isn’t exactly the friendliest place for commuters. Courtesy gets you nowhere. I swear to god, riding a bus during rush hour is worse than the LRT. For a brief moment everyday, people forget that they are people for the sake of getting home.