Tag Archives: relationship

I’m an Ex

I’m an ex, the crossed-out name in a lengthy list that extends from her wild youth to her smoldering maturity.

I occur after a bitter enemy and precede a mysterious new face–most likely a more good-looking one with whiter teeth and healthier skin. But deep in my proud heart, I won’t ever admit that.

The truth is, other exes and the present partner/s can all eat my stinkin’ sock.

On a drunken night when you hit on her, you’d miss my name in her abridged history of love.

I’ll get labeled by some simplistic means of reduction in aid of memory. I’ll be “the one who wrote pointless, mushy letters” or “the one with the hopeless rage problem” or “the one who just couldn’t buy dinner.” On second thought, maybe there’s more than one of us exes who will fit that last category.

Perhaps I’d consider myself lucky when she lets something slip about how my mother was one of the best cooks she ever knew. But you wouldn’t care, you bastard.

For the most part, I’m a statistic. A single digit in a double-digit total of guys who used to be so truthfully, so dramatically romantic. If you ask her how many exes she’s had, she’ll give you a figure and I’ll be there. Included in there somewhere. In other words, I’ll come in a pack. Or a set. Or a kit.

You could say I’m objectified. Depending on her life, I’ll either be the equivalent of a shrunken head worn by a fearless warrior or just another dead weight to a pirate victim who walked the plank and is now sinking to the bottom of the ocean.

But basically, I’m an ex.

I’m a sealed-off memory containing our enchanted hopes and wishes that will never see the light of day again. Don’t even try to pry the seal off or my magic will engulf you.

I was her insatiable fancy.

I used to go with her morning coffee, digested with everything sweet and tasty. Burped with delight.

I was part of her daily healthy habit.

From her deadpan look, I won’t fault you if you find it difficult to imagine that she used to care about me so stupidly. So foolishly. She’d give me clothes, and food, and thoughts, and gifts, and lascivious glances you can only dream about. For now.

And in return, I also gave her my attention, my letters, my mother’s cooking, my hugs and kisses, and rage, and sarcasm, and violence, and rotting pride.

But we used to go out a lot. You’d laugh at the fast foods we raided but nothing’s cheap in the conversations we shared and the emotions we explored. I know that she loves her grandma immeasurably and she knows that’s also how much I love my mom. My soul is entwined in her deepest, darkest secrets and at some point, I became an indispensable character in the novel of her life. It will take a lot of your fancy dinners to match that level of intimacy over spicy fried chicken and ice-cold soda.

Look at her eyes, which may be arching in glee or drooping in boredom over your career talk. Those eyes used to behold me with unearthly tenderness. And I used to stare at them and see myself, alone–a king basking in her mind’s landscapes. I used to make them quiver with anticipation or red in tears.

Hold her hand. It’ll strike your heart how soft it is. I am as at home with that hand in mine as you’re excitedly unfamiliar to it right now.

Touch her hair. Is it wavy? It used to be the curliest thing in the world, rolling and coiling everywhere like the first roller coaster we rode that launched us into the sky. Maybe she cut it or straightened it out to move on from the cheerful memories of me. Wouldn’t it kill you if it were so?

Put your arms around her waist. It used to be my home.

Kiss her lips. They used to be my playground.

Fuck her brains out. I was her god.

But today, I’m only an ex.

Depending on the type of person you are, I’ll be something taboo or an impossible world record you’ll have to keep on trying to beat all your miserable stint as a boyfriend. Or as a mediocre, balding husband.

Oh, I won’t get off your back, won’t let you sleep, never let you alone, smile at you from the toilet bowl when you pee if you even give me the slightest chance.

You can try to shut her up but the moment you laze around in your cheesy rituals and duties, she’ll utter the first syllable of my name and it will tear you to shreds, you indolent fuck. It’ll ruin the expensive food on the table that tastes nothing like my mom’s expertly home-cooked meals. It’ll interrupt your useless talk about basketball and before you know it, you’re my ultimate bitch, Bitch.

Yet again, you may get lucky and she’ll forget about me. Completely.

I’ll remain on that prestigious list but it will get tattered, burnt and carry on in its accelerated decomposition over time.

All the traces of my being will disappear from her skin. My feeble spark will go out from the complex neural networks of her electric mind.

She’ll be Her without exes.

She’ll be her own new self.

She’ll be Her. A self-sufficient, independent, fresh soul devoid of blotchy histories with strange, scraggly men.

In that case, you’ll win. I can’t imagine–but you’ll win and you’ll bring home the bacon. And the wife.

You’ll have winged fairies for kids whose pictures will lay waste to my heart that’s supposed to have moved on a long, long time ago.

Your simple, yellow home in the countryside will pluck my imagination like an ivory palace in one of my old fairy tale books as a child.

Your short, loving embraces will be my eternal condemnation.

Your quickest kisses, my centuries of regret.

Hell, your brown dog will be my devil.

‘Cause I’m her forgotten ex, the crossed-out name on a lengthy list that extends from her wild youth to her smoldering maturity.

It’s fair to say that since I failed to give her the future she wanted, I must willingly offer her the unfolding present. With a fossilized version of myself lodged in its crevices or not.

Though I have much to say and many things to do, I must pound it into my head to take my rightful place in the list. Scream her name no more. Struggle out of my bonds no more. Try to be her hero no more.

For it’s time to be a statistic.

A passing subject of small talk.

At best, a friend. At worst, a recurring nightmare.

It’s time to be an ex.

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Filed under Life, Love

Her Station

She’s there
in my burger

telling me how heavenly
this is,
this cheesy cheeseburger is,
when our bodies are already dried
from the liquor
and the blabber
of the night.

She lives
in the sooty streets
asking me how come I sing
every morning and
I won’t let up ’til we part

in the train station
where I kiss her cheek
a single
stolen
time.

She waits
still at the same spot
in the mall
where we used to wait
without any guarantee
that the other one will arrive
saying their sorrys,
prodding to hurry
to catch the evening TV.

She’s there.

I know

that she dreams of me
half a world away
as I live to sleep
and take my turn
come dark
to dream of her.

I see
her in every bare wall
and each busy page,
in all things the calendar
throws my way,
and in the nothingness
my eyelids and my bed
conspire to envelope me with;

and in my fingers she used to hold,
and in my feet she still adore,
in my face she used to measure,
and my eyes that used to behold

her. She’s there. She’s everywhere

there’s nothing and something and anything!
I lie and I walk and run in circles
along her planetary rings,
hopping and skipping in our dreams,
wishing and watching our favorite films,

making it to the next stop,
checking myself if I should laugh,
hoping we wouldn’t

drop

it.

‘Cause while she’s always a step ahead,
a safe distance where I can’t
smell her hair,
I know I have to keep on going,
keep on eating my cheeseburgers,
walk my way down busy streets
across malls, over calendars
and ’round planetary rings
once more.
And I know I have to keep on humming
the silent song in my chest
for I can’t rest
’til she’s back
in the train station
where I used to kiss her cheek
a single
stolen
time.

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Filed under Love, Poems

Red Light

Bad
Bad

They have no idea
how bad it gets
when the office falls
silent
and I’m left to gaze ahead

at the beckoning abyss of the wall
dotted with sharp pins.

Bad
Gripping

Your face on my cell phone
eternally smiles, and I remember
I was there in that same room
on that same night,
as bald stray cats prowled the grounds,
and I
was seeing more — far more,
an entire more universe
sparkling with undiscovered stars —
than this

greasy

gadget

in my hand.

Mad
Seeping

It’s like a naive cancer or an earthquake,
or a tragic film no pleasant soul
would wanna see on a summer day
of flowers
and lovers
trailed by petals
and a hundred

bowed heads.

Bad
Bad

They have no idea.
Push me with a finger
and I’ll collapse on the bed.
I’ll stare and I’ll glare

at the abyss of the ceiling
where lizards hunt roaches
patiently.

No one has an idea;
not even you since you can’t pick my head.
Oh, darling,

you don’t wanna
pick this head.

It’s so bad that
one day, while crossing the street
among the usual crowd
between the typical jeeps,
inhaling that exact, same soot,

I think I might

stop
in my tracks

and refuse,
just shake my head violently
and refuse,

to cross
to the other side

so I can stay there forever.

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Filed under Love, Poems

My Home

You are my simple life,
my home at the end of the road.
I’ve traveled far, hoisting the problems
of a million strangers on my shoulders.
Oh, I can’t wait
to lay them on your doorstep someday
and worry about them
no more.

On your small wooden table,
a cold glass of water awaits.
I’ll drink it with glee
while looking out your window
at the warring worlds
I’ll leave behind. Continue reading

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A Story of You and I

I am afraid of writing
because I can only write about you
and you are leaving
me.

I am afraid of poetry
because the saddest poem
is the most enchanting one
and you can’t be the reason
I write it now.

Every morning, the birds remind me
that your plane flies well
like they fly well
and neither of them can ever fail.

And every evening, the dark sky whispers
that everyone’s almost asleep
and so are you
and so should I.
There’s no other choice but to sleep
and wake up again tomorrow. Continue reading

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Filed under Love, Poems

My Pimples Never Lie

My pimples never lie. They burst out like an angry Arab mob out of my greasy pores when my unconscious falls into anarchy (though the unconscious is already in a constant state of chaos). They burn. They itch. They make me want to grill my face with a red-hot iron and condemn the whole world for its infinity of sins and cheesy religious rituals.

My unconscious never lies.

I smile calmly before friends but deep inside that black hole, I am wasting away at the bloodcurdling truth that she will leave me in a matter of weeks. If you’re curious about how an utterly lonely man feels, I’ll tell you how. It usually feels like deliberate indifference and forgetfulness, which it IS exactly in every single way. One cannot smell right or see right; mostly just a haze of colors and scents in a crumpled day. One cannot remember.

Some two nights ago, I dreamed we were chased by vampires. Brown vampires, not Meyer’s pretty pale vampires. We were running down a flight of stairs we painfully hike with our mouths agape everyday. We were hopping, skipping, careful not to trod on something and crash. It was a losing battle, so I woke up.

It doesn’t take a Freud to see that I’m running away from the future, which has recently synchronized its meaning with the word “failure.” Future and failure mean almost the same thing to me now despite my efforts at fighting back the clouds of doubt and the bloodsucking vampires. Though I love her with all my heart and soul, this darkness has blanketed my sight with the sleekest, clearest blindness and I can’t see beyond.

Friends say I should apply for a scholarship. In Canada. Or Japan.
My mom just wants to be assured of the monthly rice allowance.
Gates have to be opened for “wire cutters.”
She’s leaving.
It’s hard to get a fuckin’ job.
The axe is nearing my neck.
She’s leaving. Perhaps forever if I can’t make it out of this shithole of a homeland.
All the while I’m forgetting things, succumbing to an illness brought about by years of paranoia.
Did I say my love is leaving?

———–

It’s nice to shop around malls for things she can bring on her trip. She’s careful not to buy clothes she can’t use in the merciless cold of that country. So basically, I’m helping her get out because I’m the best man to do that. It’s always the greatest irony and tragedy when the guy who doesn’t want to let go helps the girl to fly away.

And she sells things ladies love. I joked that she’s selling our memories. Every dress she posts online is invested with days and nights of experiences engraved in my mind and my skin. Funny how customers fight over them like wolves under a juicy piece of meat dangling from a tree, blood trickling. Had they known how precious they were, they will probably stay away from them and bow to them, like they were sacred temples.

But they have to be sold. They are of no use to us anymore.

————

Chemae’s friends know she is a special person like I do. From here on out, her Facebook wall will just continue to unroll a kilometre of farewells, sad jokes and goodbyes. I’ll make sure to add my own bits because in the end, I’m just another guy in the crowd who will wave at her from underneath the plane. Not even literally ’cause she won’t let me be there on her departure. God, we all love her. But please allow me this — I love her the most.

Fuck, this entry is gloomy.

And that’s why my pimples are here to stay and they never lie.

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Filed under Life, Love

Surfing for Love

How many candidates will you turn down and feed to the lions until you choose the one to spend your life with? This postmodern life has blinded us with infinite options. We’ve ran so far away from the imposed choices of archaic times that it seems like we forgot to check where we’re headed; and now we find ourselves standing in the middle of nowhere, surrounded on all sides by giant shelves of options stacked up to the heavens. You don’t just eat your food. You choose from innumerable varieties of fast-food, packed ready-to-eat meals, luxurious entrees, junkfoody snacks, the old home-cooked kind and everything else in the maze of the grocery store. Similarly, no one’s forcing you to become a lawyer, a doctor or an engineer. As long as you have enough money to fuel your ambitions, you can be anyone: a fashion designer, a Web entrepreneur; or you can ruin your life in the classic rebellious act just for the existential experience. You thought cable TV before had a ridiculously long list of channels, but when the Internet popped up, our idea of entertainment went from “ridiculous long lists” to “infinite and unknowable boundaries.”

And then of course there’s love. Since we’re so used to choosing, we treat relationships like surfing the Web or shopping in a massive grocery store. We just know that somewhere in this long line of brands that stretch up to the horizon, is the “right” guy or girl who will make us happy. Time is of the essence, so we can’t be bothered to check an item thoroughly. We browse it, scan it, get a summary of its ideas before we move on to the next one, which might be better equipped with qualities that feel “right.” We’re faster than HR people when deliberating applicants. Continue reading

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Filed under Love, Random Thoughts