CINCO DE MAJICA
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- Parts 11
I hate love, I hate affection, I hate everything that involves being attach.
I hate being weak, I hate getting take advantage, and I hate being genuinely kind to people around me.
But I'm not that heartless a year ago.
I used to be the kindess, understanding, one call a way person. I don't care if people keep treating me horrible, I'm letting them do horrible shits to me. As long as they don't leave me...
Now I don't know who I am, I don't know how to show affections, I don't know how to love genuinely.
All I know is I need to build a wall, that no one can climb up and reach it.
Pero isang araw nawala ang mga pinag hirapan ko,
nagising ako sa sitwasyong dahilan kung bakit naging matigas ako...
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Why is it so hard to be happy? Paano ang pinakamadaling paraan para maging masaya? Sabi nila, mararamdaman mo ang tunay na kaligayahan sa piling ng taong mahal mo. Paano kung dumating ang sandali na makasama mo nga sya...ngunit pansamantala lamang? Makakaya mo bang mawala sya gayong sa kanya mo lang naramdaman ang kasiyahang noon pang hinahanap-hanap ng puso mo? Paano kung ang taong hulog ng langit para sa'yo...ay literal na galing sa langit?Complete
" Convenient Love Intentions "( gxg)
A simple girl like me wants to be loved unconditionally I'm believing na may Isa tao darating sa Buhay mo na Hindi mo kailangan hilingin at ipilit Ang love na gusto mo maranasan in a different kind of people in the different kind of love you wants to receive just be patient . . . . . so what if one day your feelings to someone can't reciprocate it..but this is the story tells about in a convient love intentions magagawa mo kaya mag stay para I try at sumagal kahit alam mo in the end it might hurt you ,but don't lose hope cuz you believe being a person we have our own way to feel our love in someone sa ibat iba paraan at sa sarili mo paraan . . . . . . . . . . . at ito Ang story ni yang na Isang part na lgbt na 31 yrs old naniniwala sa pagmamahal na matutuwid kahit di mo ipilit kahit gaano pa kabaluktot Wala impossible when it comes to love ... .
AGATHOS (COMPLETED)
Every time our eyes met, it felt like joy itself recognized me-as if something sweet and familiar had been waiting just beneath the surface of ordinary days. The world was coming undone around me, losing shape, losing sense, and then you arrived-not as a solution, but as something given, something sacred, to make up for everything that never made sense. I don't know how to live forward without you-not well, not truthfully. I'm just one of your ordinary children, a strand in the thread of this wild, beautiful family, but if you're not woven in, I don't think the rest of the tapestry matters. I can't imagine a world for Kinsle where your voice doesn't rise somewhere in the wind, guiding, grounding, reminding us how to belong. I've never done well with change, with discomfort, with the unfamiliar-I've been enduring what everyone calls the "normal stuff," and none of it feels normal if you're not there. Who could ever be more than you? Who could ever outshine you? I never asked for much in this life-never longed for things, never chased material gold-pero mukhang hindi ko yata kaya na mawala ka sa akin. I don't think I could bear it. And yet, that's what people say. When they hold something so precious, their soul aches-they always say, "Hindi ko kakayanin kung mawawala ka." "Hindi ko kaya mamuhay ng wala ka." I say it too, but what makes me different? What would it take for this ache to be more than just another echo? Maybe it starts here-with trembling, with truth, with admitting that I've heard the words "Do not be afraid" more times than I can count, and still, I am. No one ever said that faith sometimes stutters. And that, too... might be holy.Complete
Blood in the Margins: a collection of different poems, unfinished potential
FINISHED AND COMPLEATED. Just poems, I suppose. Or maybe a scrapbook of scars. A chaotic collage of half-born stories, abandoned plots, and feelings too loud to ignore. This isn't a novel. It's a graveyard of unwritten books- stitched together with ink and impulse. A little trauma here, a little heartbreak there. Addiction. Bad parents. Dangerous love. The usual mess. I never claimed to be a poet, but pain has a way of teaching rhythm. And when the stories in my head refused to become chapters, they became verses instead. My father? A ghost in flesh. A man who cradled needles more tenderly than he ever held me. He is an addict. A lover of oblivion. And I, the daughter left behind in the smoke of his escape. Does that make me a girl with "daddy issues"? Or just a girl still learning how not to bleed from wounds she didn't choose? This book is for the overthinkers, the almost-authors, the ones who feel too much and write too little- until the words finally spill out like blood on the page. Welcome to the ride. There's no exit. But there's poetry in the wreckage. Author's Note I didn't set out to write a book. I set out to survive my own mind. This is what happens when you have too many stories, too many ghosts, and not enough discipline to finish a single novel. So instead, I wrote poems- or something like them. Fragments. Feelings. Flashbacks. A scrapbook of the soul. Some of these pieces are fiction. Some are memory. Some are just what happens when you stare at the ceiling too long and let your thoughts rot into poetry. If you've ever had a thousand ideas and no idea where to start- if you've ever felt too broken to write but too full not to- this is for you. Thanks for riding with me. There's no map. No neat ending. Just the wreckage, and the words we make from it.Complete
Before The Rebuild: The Prequel to Rebuilt
Before Mike, before the love story people know now, there was me-raw, broken, and surviving. This is the truth I never thought I'd be strong enough to tell. I was 22 years old when my life shattered. I was raped in a back alley and left bleeding, alone. When I turned to the police, hoping for help, they didn't protect me-they shamed me. They called me slurs. They asked me what I'd done to deserve it. What I had worn. Whether I had "led him on." No one believed me. Nine months later, I gave birth to my son. I named him Aerion Jace Rosier-Aj. His name means strength, wisdom and power in Greek. I gave him that name because i wanted him to have everything I felt had been stolen from me. He was my light, even in the darkest time of my life. But the darkness wasn't done with me. My two older children, Samuel and Emilie, ended up with my first ex's mother, and I lost all parental rights to them. And then came the 18 months of sex trafficking. They used Aj as collateral-my baby was the only reason i obeyed. I was forced to do what they wanted, or they would have killed him. They only let me see him for one hour each day. I was deprived of food, stripped of dignity, starved down to 75 pounds. I remember the blue car Aj was in the day the police sting finally saved us. But even after we were freed, i wasn't really free. the PTSD haunted me. I avoided certain materials, certain places, even certain sounds. And every night, I heard the voices. Every relationship after that was wrong-narcissists who broke me down even further. Men who convinced me I was unworthy, unwanted. My current ex even told my son Aj that he wasn't wanted-that he was nothing. I let it happen, and the guilt kills me. I became "the girl who never cried." I thought if I never cried, maybe none of it really happened. But the truth is, it didn't. And it changed me.
Unknown
I Was 6 When I Found Out I Was Adopted, And I Found Out The Hard Way Too. All These Lies And Unpredictable People Are Worthless. In This World You Have To Learn How To Live Alone. How To Be Genuine..But Also How To Acknowledged The Fact That When You Want Something..Get It. Even If It Means Lives Have To Be Taken Away.The Unknown Will Bite Hard Cause In This Life Theirs Only A "Hard Way". My Way.Complete
The world is ending and I have unlimited supplies
They said the world was ending, but it didn't start with fire or war. It began with a storm-just like any other. But this time, it didn't stop. The rain fell for days, then weeks, and then came the flood that drowned everything. When the sun finally broke through the clouds, people thought it was over. They thought it was hope. But that hope was a lie. The sun scorched the land. Insects bred in the rotting water. Plague spread like wildfire. Water became scarce, food even scarcer. They said Mother Earth was angry, and I believed them. I did everything to survive. Even if it meant relying on a filthy, twisted man for bread. He preyed on girls like me-young, desperate, orphaned. He fed us, clothed us, and in return, demanded we sell our bodies. He called it "the price of protection." Men came to us like vultures. They stripped away our innocence and left us hollow. And then, one winter night, starving people stormed our hideout. They came with knives and desperation. I threw myself in front of the youngest girl when one lunged to stab her. I took the blade meant for her. As my body went cold, I felt no fear. Just peace. Finally, I thought. This nightmare is over. But when I opened my eyes again... I was in my bed. Warm. Dry. Dressed in pajamas. It hadn't been a nightmare. It had been real. And now, it's happening all over again. But this time, I won't be weak. This time, I won't be used. This time... I'll survive. No matter the cost.
Tethered
Bright lights, the beat of the music beneath my feet. Distant chatter, quite whispers. The feeling of joy, loss, heartbreak, and loneliness surround me. Buried in a crowd, drowning under the gazes of people who look through you. I am but of glass, a mirror if you will, willing to be seen through, but not seen. Screaming in a room full of people when no one can hear you, let alone see you. Hidden breaths, rising, falling. Isn't that funny, falling? Laughing would be easier than standing here in the crowded place, filled with people, faces, judging every moment the other makes. I could tell you the peace I get standing alone in a room filled with people who only see you as a mirror for who they don't want to be. I could cry tears of blood, and non would ever so much bat an eye in my direction, but I love it. The feeling of being unseen as to appose being seen for the matieral object I once was. Silent, unmoving, unwilling. I am but an idea, glass, shatterable, broken beyond compare. But strong, resistance flows through me. Willing me to be the best I can be, but can I? Who says I make sense, who says I am even me, am I? That's a question I spent years wondering. Who would I be without these scars that tether my skin, marking each even, like a calender. To mend the feelings people have isn't a easy thing, but to break is easy, always easy. How easy it is to forget, to run. I can feel the ground beneath my feet, feel the soil in-between the crooks of my toes, I could describe to you the smell of the rain. Pinpoint the center of the earth, but as I stand here, again amongst the crowd of people stand in this room. I am lost again, an idea, but for what purpose? If I could run, navigate my way through this crowd, I would seek refuge somewhere dark and cold, where I could take off this cloak and be one with who I am, or want to be.
Why is it so hard to be happy? Paano ang pinakamadaling paraan para maging masaya? Sabi nila, mararamdaman mo ang tunay na kaligayahan sa piling ng taong mahal mo. Paano kung dumating ang sandali na makasama mo nga sya...ngunit pansamantala lamang? Makakaya mo bang mawala sya gayong sa kanya mo lang naramdaman ang kasiyahang noon pang hinahanap-hanap ng puso mo? Paano kung ang taong hulog ng langit para sa'yo...ay literal na galing sa langit?
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