I Hide, You Disappear!

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The coffee tastes good. Someone surely did something right
and can you look at the sun; selflessly filling earth with magnificence.
I’m happy to see you too.
It’s been a while- twenty years while-I almost forgot your face.
The last time I saw you, we were playing hide and seek at Tchidi’s house.
It was really quiet inside the cupboard…
I waited for you to come find me.
Looks like you finally did.
Laugh!

I am confident enough now.
Even learnt how to cycle. A few bruises, but I was okay.
The neighbour’s kids have been asking about you,
they were filled with wonder when you didn’t pick me up from school that day,
and every day when I fell ill.
These nosy kids!

And Mike from the body-shop asked if your car has been working right since then.
He also claimed you hadn’t paid him since ’02.
I told him you’d visit once you got your pay.
He believed me, saying you were a good man.
No, don’t worry; He passed away- ’twas an accident!

My teacher says I’m doing really well at school
she never ceases to praise my genes for the good grades in Math-
says I must have gotten it from my parents.
But Mama says Math is mind-draining
she must be really odd, right?

The sun is going down,
I need to rush home now.
I don’t like dark streets
but it was nice meeting you.
Maybe next time you’ll have a chance to talk,
and I will be here to listen
then we’ll know if what they say is true:
that you didn’t mean to leave me.

They call it a mistake!

Reason for My Scars

One. If I could, I would nail these hands to the edges of stars. I would sacrifice this body to the sky hoping to resurrect that someone spiteful enough to not give a fuck about you. Two, staple me to a cross. Pierce my side with a broken promise and I will bleed all the crippled reasons why you deserve one more chance. Three, Your bed smells like the last thing I was really good at. Four, You want to know how I got these scars. I ripped every last piece of you out of my smile. Five, I whispered you stardust. Six, I spoke you into sunflowers. Seven, I dipped my hands in forever, touched you infinity, treated you as if you were the last molecule of oxygen inside of a gas chamber. I was good to you. Eight, you want to know how I got these scars. I swallowed my pride and then it clawed its way out of my mouth. Nine, I realize that I was never really your boyfriend. I was just your fucking hype-man. Ten, I hope your next boyfriend gets smallpox. Ten, Yes I said smallpox. Ten, I hate you. Ten, I miss you. Ten, I love you. Ten, its hard for me to count when I’m emotional. Ten, I heard that 90% of human interaction is non-verbal, so…Ten, If i could, I would tie your arms to a daydream and then auction you off to my fondest memories. See, I wrote this poem in my own spinal fluid. I put it on the backbone of a white flag so that before you read it, you already know that I’ve given up. I’ll just keep you here, shackled to the most important chapter of my life story, pressed into the basement of my eyelids like liquid salvation, so I remember you beautiful , with amazing underneath your wings, and an orchid smile. You gorgeous earthquake. You cracked hourglass with sand spilling from behind your ribs. You wasted my time. How dare you linger on my lips then kiss me like a stuttering apology with excuses stapled to the root of your mouth. I still remember you like a dream, tattooed to the inner walls of a long-term memory but some days, I wonder if you existed at all. And of course you want to know how I got these scars. Fine, I’ll tell you. I got these scars the day that I fell in love with you. I landed face first.

Poem By: Rudy Francisco

Source: (thelovecreature-blog)

My friend sent me this poem and I fell in love with it. I had to re-blog it, eight years after it was originally written by Rudy.

Before I Go

I want to be loved by someone
just in case I don’t make it to tomorrow-
someone to cry for me,
think of me
reluctant to let go of my bones…

I want to be loved by someone-
its an honest fear of dying alone
without eyes to stare at me like a gem
like a wealthy man and his treasures
a look that my soul would hate to forget

I want to be loved by someone
one who won’t be afraid of mutual intensity
because many nights I have felt the cold
that the world offers between two sheets
and I’ve forgotten how warm it could get
lying between two arms.


FAITH

The nausea I felt from the oxygen-draining smell of medicine made me feel worse than I already was. Seeing her lying there helplessly weakened me, but i wasn’t culturally allowed to show such feelings. All this had begun as an elating miracle with our soon-to-be baby finally showing up seven years after marriage. This was the miracle I had prayed for for 5 years, and at last, it had come true. But maybe I had forgotten to clarify the contract rules with the Creator, as He was planning to take my Maria away from me. This wasn’t the fair God I constantly heard of from my nosy neighbor Julia, and her pastor-husband. Or had He changed overnight?

She had been chained to machines for 2 weeks now with no movement whatsoever. Doctors had been avoiding direct contact with me for a week now, with not even a whisper of my wife’s near death or my baby’s soon-to-be life. I was getting restless at a very fast rate, and the desperation was hastily turning into a fierce rage that would have burnt the doctors if not for my mother’s hand always holding me back. Seeing my best friend through the glass window, so feeble and so helpless, seemed to have been that major point of weakness she’d asked me about on our first date.
“What do you fear most in the world?”
“Death alone”
“Oh, really?…”

Now I wanted to tell her the truth. I wanted to tell her that what I dreaded most wasn’t death, but losing her. I wanted to tell her that even though getting our child was important to me, losing her would be the death of me. I wanted to remind her why I chose her 7 years ago in college, and watched her walk down the aisle 2 years later towards me, and me alone. I wanted her to laugh at my silly jokes, and hit me as she laughed just because her laughter was incomplete without hitting someone next to her. I wanted her to tell me about her day at the kindergarten, and how she despised Jayden’s mother because she had a crush on me. I wanted her to hold a spatula to my face and threaten to kill me if I ever fell for my secretary, who for many reasons, she also admired. Now more than ever, I wanted my wife… I needed her.

“Chris, why don’t you go home and rest? I will stay here with Maria until she wakes up , cause I know she will wake up. Go son..you must be tired.”
I freed my face from the bars of my hands and looked at my mother. She seemed to understand my agony, but didn’t know the weight of it. I shook my head in denial, and bowed my head down back again. She pat me on my back as if to comfort me, only that my head was still lost in the flashbacks of my time with Maria.

“I mean, I don’t understand why you even listen to these people. Their music isn’t as great!” I always detested her taste in music. Back in college she always had this thing for boy-bands and she’d tell me stories of how handsome she thought the lead singer to be, or how the drummer’s hair looked so great, or how the guitarist must be having amazing abs as she had pictured him naked once or twice. I didn’t know why she thought such stories to be amusing-as her preferences in men were insults indirectly targeted on me. I just had a beard… And a great height:or at least taller than her. But I had no music talent even in my dreams. Just a degree in Economics, love in my heart, and a beard. That got me a ‘yes’ from her.

“Their music is amazing!” she’d cry out. “You cant even sing, so shh!”
“But Maria,”
“La la la la la…” she’d pretend to sing along just to avoid listening to my jealous comments. Looking at her murmur the wrong lyrics and sing out of tune always reminded me of why I chose her. She always did what made her happy. This was my perfect image of her: happy- not dying…

“Chris, I’m going to the chapel. Do you want to come with me?” Mother’s voice chased me out of my trance. The doctor hadn’t told us anything yet, and the nurses sprinted past us as if on a mission to hide the truth from us. I was getting impatient. I needed to know something.
” No ma, I’ll just wait here”
“Chris, you can’t wait here just doing nothing. Let’s go pray for her. Then she’ll get strength to come back to us. I know you still have faith-“
Faith. Did I have faith anymore? Did I believe in the God of Maria and mother and Julia and her husband anymore? Faithful people don’t get to cry like I do at night. They don’t get left out in darkness like I am right now. The little faith I had left died when I saw my wife being rushed into the ICU. Faith…did I have it at all with her eyes still closed?

“Chris! Chris! Let’s go son”


“Bless me Father, for I have sinned!”
“Speak my child”
“I have questioned God. I have lost my trust in Him. I have rejected Him. Father, I let my human emotions get the better part of me, and I am undoubtedly sorry. My wife is dying Father! She is fighting for two lives, and… and if she loses, she will take away three. Father, I don’t know what to say to God so He can help me. I can’t lose her… “
I cried. I had let down my guard. I was weak.
” The Lord shall forgive you my child. For you’re His , and will forever be. The Lord loves you, and He loves your wife too. My child, go tell Him to let His will be done. And don’t say anymore.”


I left the chapel and lazily strolled my way back to the lobby. What if – no, I couldn’t question Him again. A nurse walked out of the room wearing a calm face and stood beside me.
” Sir, you can go in and see your wife. “
Her words brought me back to life. I darted past my family and walked to her bed with a hopeful coat on. Her belly was still big, easing my worries of losing my child. Her eyes were still closed, and her body as still as a tomb. I gathered the little strength I had hanging, and reached out for her hand. It was warm. She still had life in her. There, I kissed her and whispered, ‘Let your will be done!’

I held her hand for a longer while, as I replayed all the memories I had shared with her. She was more beautiful than ever, and her peaceful nature was more evident now than when she confronted me for coming home late without notice.

“Promise me you’ll always keep the key under the flower pot just in case,” I had asked her before.
She nudged my arm causing a fake cry of pain to leave my mouth. She laughed at first, then said, “Well I don’t promise that. But I promise to always wait for you cause I know you’ll come back home.”

The heart rate monitor started beeping fast, jolting me back to the downcast moment. The nurses rushed back in and pushed me away from her touch. The doctor walked in, and whispered,” Have faith! “

I left relentlessly, wishing that it was easy to have faith as it was saying it.

A Cup of Friday

I turned 12 last October. It wasn’t a magical day like all the kids in my block claim. My family sang like a forced choir, and after the cake-cutting, I was off to the cafe down the street. It had been standing for years now, and the cracks on the walls were signs of a very short life span left. I took a book from my series of The Diary of a Wimpy Kid, and sat at the last table in the corner. The lack of customers in the cafe was a loss for Mrs. A, but the serenity it brought was a plus for me. I ordered my usual: a glass of milk and cake, and indulged my mind in Greg Heffley’s vacation in the Dog Days. That’s when he entered. He sat at farthest table from mine, and his eyes drifted to see me staring. I was ogling at this creature before me, and in my head, the Wattpad teen-romance stories were coming to reality: the new cute boy in town, the nerdy girl, and the breakfast date.

I will be turning 22 next October. Maybe I will be having a better year than I did this year. I’m currently at the school library, trying to understand the aspects of Business Law in the 2 hours before my presentation. The morning doesn’t seem promising, and the shiver in my bones isn’t rhyming to my favorite jam. V walks through the doors with two cups of latte and a box that seems to be packed with cupcakes. Not giving enough cares about her environment, she screams out my name as she places the box on top of my books. “You worry too much kid!” How was I friends with a human that hated reading? Anyway, coffee had always been a great start for me, and V has always been my best friend. This was my kind of favorite breakfast.

I will be turning 32 next October, and that really scares me. My male-dominated profession doesn’t allow me to harbor such feelings, but not being ready to think of midlife crises forces me to have fear. Stuck in traffic from work, my eyes can’t help but stare at the hotel across the street. The floors look exuberant from far, and the architecture bears a social-class definition. The environment surrounding is serene and almost perfect for my meeting. At least Mr. O would have one less thing to complain about. I imagine myself wearing my navy-blue pants suit and I feel my toes cringe at the thought of high heels. The coffee has the taste of its berries right from the rim of the cup: something that would lessen his complaints. Just one problem- his lawyer’s eyes were intimidating me. I thought coffee brought tranquility?

I turned 42 last October. It has been an exhausting April for me, and thoughts of retiring have been kicking from all directions. Aunt Gladys’ son, my husband, is planning a getaway weekend at the beach, and the anxiety has been creeping out all week. A morning at the beach, watching the sunrise on the water’s surface, sipping on mango juice glazed with whiskey. This vacation is meant to distract our minds from the ongoing divorce procedures, but for me, it seemed to be a summit for me and my gods. “Why are you leaving such a good man, ey selfish woman?” Traumatizing. This wasn’t the breakfast I dreamed of.

Its October once again. This time I will be turning nineteen. I always thought my first breakfast date will be like the former imaginations. But it was entirely different- completely real. It wasn’t like I read in the books, or watched in the movies. The streets were quiet and peaceful, and the drizzles made the soil smell edible. Wearing my black coat like a second skin, the euphoria of dates tickled all my senses; bearing warmth. I was having coffee with my long-lost friend, and the cheerfulness of that moment was something I wanted to capture till the end.

Her nails had a freshly painted coat of dazzling red lacquer, and her hair was neatly combed. Her outfit had the ability to showcase confidence and casualty, and the flamingo purse she clutched was the wrap-up of it all. Although coffee with creamer had always been my go-to, I felt phony-like I was disappointing the coffee lovers-as she ordered black coffee. But the exhilaration of sharing this moment with her outdid all other emotions of the day. The rains got heavier, and the connection we had was watered back to life. I was falling in love with the old things; with someone who meant a lot to me, over a cup of coffee.

fika 
[fee-ka] • Swedish 
(n.) a moment to slow down and appreciate the good things in life 
“Coffee with friends” 

Truth or Scared?

Place your chin here and observe directly into the light. Tell me what you see.
Is the image clearer with this, or this?”

That’s a question I never know the answer to. Like both those instances seem unclear to me. They always do. Do I tell the truth? No! so I do lie? Yes!
wow!
So, when else do you lie you little bird?

 “are you okay?”
“how was the test?”
“when am I going to see you?”
“how far are you?”

Yes, I do lie in those instances too. I ‘lie’ cause the truth, a powerful tool as it is, could hurt you or me, or what we have. So, I ‘lie’-I have to: to give you hope, or give me an escape from certain emotions.

And when do you tell the truth?

I miss you!”
“I love you!”
“I am scared. I am scared because I have a feeling this might be the last letter I write to you, at least for a very long time. I was scared since the last day we spoke, and I’ve been scared every time I had to write on a new page-praying that it wouldn’t be my last paragraph, hoping that it wouldn’t be my last word to you. They have been keeping me sane for all those years, reminding me that I have someone who cares truly, or once did. Now I have so many, all of them getting close to me…and I can no longer fight. I can’t.

So maybe its time I let go, maybe its time I move on. Be happy like you would have wanted me to be. With no sad playlists, no more sad songs. No sad blogging, no emotional poems.
like how it was before you left.
like how I was with you here.

Maybe its time for me to start again. Let people in, and believe-in friendships, in love, in eternity, in God and in me. Just like how you would have wanted. This time, I will try not to disappoint. No promises though, cause that would make it a lie.”

I wish I could cut you out like a paper from a book
and leave you outside my window
for the sun to fade to grey.

I wish I could relinquish our bond like a leaf from a tree
and ignore you on the dust
for the earth to turn into waste.

I wish, I wish.
I wish I could forget you,
but at the same time I pray you forget me not.

Now did that hurt?”
“Yes… No. A little bit!”

“Well, you will be okay! Since that’s what you like being!
Ha!”

Beautiful pieces

A palace in the middle of imaginations.
A wreck of a home-to them a dynasty-
full of blood craving a taste of harmony.
She was born.
The walls creaked with ecstasy,
the wails brought hope: she believed.
She saw them broken, ready to make their pieces whole,
little did she know, she was set for a ruthless road.
She was just naïve.
She was me.

Hours had gone, the sun was no longer the same,
the dynasty broke, the bonds shattered in ages.
She was still very young, but not too selfless to understand
that despite the peace, she also brought war
and mixed with love, she bred despise
for the ceremonies held were not of joy,
but of malice, and specks of regret.
She was meant to die.
She was me.

In the thatched shanty with her grandfather she lay.
He was her last hope; the first drunkard she had seen.
His words brew blind hope
as his songs uttered blessings to his own.
But she wasn’t his blood,
he cared less to know her name-lest he would have said it just once-
even if as a curse, to her it would have been a coated blessing.
That’s all she ever craved, eight hours beside the river.
That’s all she ever cried for, till the river turned into clay.
She wasn’t related.
She was me.

The bamboo trees swayed in matrimony.
The light was back, though in secrecy.
He was sent by the Heavens to teach her how to love
and there, he became one of her only two relations.
Minutes later, he was attacked and kept away from his own
and on his return, he could no longer breathe.
It became her first loss; her first drown.
She had lost all she had-
forgotten for a much brighter illusion.
She felt tired.
She was me.

The bus drivers hoot out loud in distress-
she had just rested for six seconds.
The weight on her shoulders had gotten heavier,
the humans surrounding drew farther.
Her heart had never known to seek help.
Her eyes grew impatient for the sun rise.
Now she cries no more, for her pain surrendered
to drunk glasses and bended knees.
Her soul remains caged,
her body lies feeble, years awake.
The world is tempting.
The battles are enraging.
She dreams of being with her papa,
then maybe with closed eyes she would be good enough,
maybe in another life, she will be strong enough.
There’s only much one can take:
her mama knows not,
but she needs a break.
she is me.