The temple for which you should offer your prayers:

Love, you’ve been worrying again.
I see from the look in your eyes
you’re about to wage war on yourself again.

But why
do you have to be
your own
enemy?

You let the men tell you
you should be soft.
You let them mold your curves
so you can finally define yourself
a woman.

You let other women show you
that you should be hard,
choose to be predator not the prey,
lest your heart
be unguarded.

You let other people
talk you into fighting their causes
while you remain deaf to your own.

Can’t you tell
your soul is asking
to be excused
to not be accused
to be given more breathing room
to touch base with itself?

Why must you set your real self aside
for the woman they tell you
you should be?

You are soft
as you are hard,
you are gentle
as you are strong,
you can be as much rough
as you can choose to be silky smooth.

Don’t be the temple
listening to prayers
that aren’t yours to hear.
You are as much
of a woman
as you hold yourself to be.

You matter.
You matter as much
as everybody else,
never too much,
never less,
always just enough.
All you have to do
is spread your arms
and hug your real self.

You exist.

In case you ever doubt
who you are,
look at yourself
in front of the mirror
and see:
you exist.
Skin and bones,
subdued and powerful –
just how a woman should be.

Fortitude in Frailty

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The world can take away,
at times,
when it should give.
People will hold you down
when they should lift.

The universe conspires
to make nothing work
though you’ve put in time
and done your homework.

You will want
to keep gnashing your teeth
and throw punches –
you’ll want to be anything,
but weak.

But my dear,
there is fortitude in frailty –
a brand of fearlessness
in accepting defeat.

Keep your head down,
once in a while,
and take the beating.
Fighting the quicksand
will lead to rapid sinking.

Let go,
for this is just another day
to live.
Take the weakness
being passed on your shoulder,
go ahead and grieve.

Know this:
today you fall away, in dismay,
but you still make headway.
This day won’t be wasted,
for there’s a new kind of strength
you just tasted.

To be weak
is to be strong, sometimes,
it’s your strength’s
carving fork.

So keep your head down
and live this day,
tomorrow,
you get a chance
to breakaway.

Good night.

Good night

Stay in bed
the night isn’t over yet.
Close your eyes –
you can still walk
in the land of your dreams.
Pay no attention
to the hushed whispers
attempting to chip away
your peace.

Drift away.
Listen to the soft music
that will lull away
your fears.
The stars are spread out,
a huge blanket
offered by the sky.
You are not alone
as the night makes it seem.

Succumb
to the helplessness.
Stop putting up a fight
against the things
that won’t fight back
or will stay in place
however you rearrange them
in your mind.
Don’t attempt to perform –
it’s been hours
since the curtain call.

Tonight,
your soul invites
a battlefield;
you can choose
not to fight.

Stay in bed.
Go to sleep.
Or at least
stay put
until the day arrives.

The battle will soon be over.
You’ll stop fearing the night.

Home is where the hurt is.

There is no place like home
yet, sometimes,
home is where the brand of poison
that can kill you
is manufactured.

There is no place like your bed
where you close your eyes
and pretend you don’t have to go anywhere.
And yet, sometimes,
your own sheets are drenched
by your darkness.

There is no place like your heart
yet, sometimes,
your heart is the raging advocate
for the things that hurt.
It urges you to touch the burning stove
even if it knows it’s hot.

There is no place like yourself
and yet, sometimes,
you spin the tangled webs
that lead to your undoing.
You are predator and prey
for those who are watching.

There is no place like your mind
and yet, your mind is the sword
hanging over your head.
You pronounce your own death
and call for a thousand cuts
knowing you can’t stand it.

There is no place like your head.
But when it is the abyss
swallowing your soul
how do you run
and where do you hide?

Smelling White Tulips for Catharsis

Like the soil that nourished the petals to bloom,
my mind is barren and cracked.
I thirst for the tiniest drop of hope –
my Garden of Eden, envisioned,
my wistful longing.

No sooner have I tried to water down the hankering,
the desire for this wretch to be bigger than myself,
I relent to the persistent roots that ground me,
keep me where I am
though I want to move.

I smell the white tulips and know
the scent, contrived from reflections of myself,
will bring me catharsis.
I still know who I am,
however much I don’t know
who I want to be.

I wait for the day
the white petals will fall off,
the leaves will rot,
the roots will dry up.
I wait for the day I can plant my roots somewhere else.

But until that day, I wear my pollen crown –
sometimes, reeking sickly-sweet,
sometimes, stinking like a fish,
sometimes unconcerned as I keep my essence to myself.
I turn to my white tulips for catharsis.

Dance to Liberty

It starts as a whimper,
forty pennies shoved down your throat –
payment for your silence.
As with medicine, you taste the bile
but you keep it down
valuing its life source.

It starts as an inaudible whisper
that even your ears can’t hear.
You catch yourself mid-sentence,
knowing you can’t cry wolf
for the thirty-third time.

It starts as the emptiness
you feel thriving
at the pit of your stomach,
slowly breathing itself
onto your pores.

You have sung yourself
songs of survival
to keep the darkness away.
But it is lacking
for it gives just enough
and never a drop more.
For you to open your eyes,
but not to look around or gaze at the sun.

You sway along
to the rhythm of your mundane,
while also carefully picking
at pieces of yourself.
An inch of flesh for every reason
you ought to swim in your own mediocrity.

Sometimes songs change their tempo
as they get closer to the end.
Dissatisfied and bored
by their tired, old routines.
The beat picks up;
you learn to dance along to it.

It starts out as a song of survival,
the stink of resignation to your fate
permeating the very air you breathe,
stamping itself onto the tips of your fingers,
so everything you touch smells like it.
But it picks up, slowly, driven by a hunger.
Teaching steps unsteady, unfocused,
but galloping away from what the soul says is wrong.

This is how one dances towards liberty.

Intersection

Resist the urge to listen
to those who try to tell you
who you should be;
you know yourself better
than anyone could.
But also resist the urge to be deaf
for there are things about you
you only learn through someone else.
Resist the urge to be hard
for in softness lies formidable strength.
But also resist the urge to be too soft,
for there are times when you should not yield –
times when you should put yourself first.
Resist the urge to be selfish;
you must learn to share parts of yourself
if you are to establish genuine connection.
But also, resist the urge to be too selfless
there are some things you must keep only to yourself;
these are the things you cannot afford to lose.
Resist the urge to be stuck
we are made to evolve, to eclipse ourselves.
But also, resist the urge to give in to everything
for a man must have principles to live by;
a man needs an inner compass that will stand firm
despite all the ways it’s being challenged.
Resist the urge to be mediocre
for in reaching your potential
you will find fulfillment.
But also, resist the urge
to be the best at everything
for life is but a race against time
and never a race with everyone else.
Resist the urge to be safe –
you don’t get to live life twice.
Drink in as much of it as you can.
But also, resist the urge to live without stability.
Carve out a life for yourself
that you don’t have to escape from.
Resist the urge to think when you must feel
for there are moments that can only be understood when felt.
But also, resist the urge to be driven by irrationality.
You are more capable than you think.
And most of all, resist the urge to avoid pain at all cost.
To learn how to be human
you must know pain.
But also, resist the urge
to make pain stay.
You were not born into this world to suffer.
You are not a prison.
You can master yourself.

Two cents too short.

Listen to me, my darling. Coming into yourself could be the most difficult challenge you have to face. If self-love were that easy, nobody would fail at it.

But we fail. We fail because we are humans, after all, who hate the idea of being alone. We fail because from the moment we were born into this world, we were surrounded by people who have shown us different types of love, except the one we get from being alone. That would not have made it hard except we’ve also been conditioned into believing that every goodbye, every next chapter, every end means there is an absence of love. After all, no one tells you ‘Okay, I’m leaving because this is the part where you do self-love.’ No. When people leave, there’s no one to make us feel that loving feeling anymore. And so we have come to dread being alone. In fact, we panic at the thought of it. We think that to be alone must mean no one loves you.

But being alone doesn’t mean there’s an absence of love. There is a type of love that can exist and the only problem with it is that you have to learn it alone. People can do so much as tell you about it but you never really learn how to do it properly until you go through the motions – until you face your biggest fear.

When you do that, you learn that there are several ways to do it, and you learn that it may have to be the hardest thing you ever have to do.

Because to love yourself means you have to fully examine yourself and you work with what you have even if they are things you hate the most about you. It means you stop telling yourself lies to make you feel better but instead, you offer to yourself the gift of acceptance. Sometimes, to love yourself means finding a way to live with your flaws, turning them into your strengths as opposed to treating them as your weaknesses. Sometimes, it means putting yourself first before someone else. Sometimes, it means being at war with yourself – saying no to the things that will be bad for you even if every cell in your body wants to say yes. Sometimes, it is forgiving yourself for being unreliable, for not knowing better.

And believe me, my darling, you’re gonna have a lot of forgiving to do because you won’t always get it right the first time. Sometimes, you’ll fail yourself. And those times, you’re gonna have to learn to forgive even if it’s the last thing you want to do and even if the temptation to practice self-loathing calls at you louder than understanding.

Once you come to accept that you will mess up sometimes, treating yourself better will be easier. And that’s when the pay off starts. Eventually, you’ll grow into loving yourself deeply. Just be patient because trust me, this is an adventure where you will return a different person – stronger, happier and not afraid to be alone anymore.

Welcome home.

Learn to extend your arms, my sweet.
Learn to do so without holding back.
Welcome your best lover
with arms wide open
and palms facing up,
fully accepting
the wounds this love has sustained
and the stains that have dimmed its light.
Teach yourself to touch it gently –
without judgment
but with compassion
for this best love has yet
to come to its full term.
Learn to extend your arms,
and with patience, my sweet,
as you welcome yourself
for it may have taken a while
and you often found yourself lost
in someone else
but now
you are finally home.

All or Nothing

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Photo by Rose Renolla

“I don’t know who is more careless – you, who keep throwing your forever around and to so many people like there’s enough of you to sustain them, or me, who firmly holds on to mine like there would be nothing of me left after I give it away.”