Anonymous said: Your girlfriend is hott.
My girlfriend is hot? My girlfriend is hot? You have the entire English language, with its vast spectrum of adjectives to describe my girlfriend, and you settle for “hot”? You have done her a great disservice.
My girlfriend is far beyond beautiful. My girlfriend is enamoring, enrapturing, captivating, ravishing, lovely, incredible, overwhelming, adorable, alluring, enticing, and radiant. She’s a stunner—she’ll take your breath away before you have a chance to introduce yourself. Her eyes constantly shine with joy, even in the midst of pain or sadness. She’s a fireball that I can barely handle, but I can tell you wouldn’t stand a chance. She has a mind that could tear yours to shreds, considering the one word you chose to describe her with is “hot”.
Don’t ever degrade my girlfriend like that again.
if you have hope like i do, then you’ve probably grown up hearing your neighbour’s mother shouting at him and you brushed your teeth with the silence that came soon after.
you’ve probably had multilingual teachers back in kindergarten, who swore like they were born in ships that sailed through the mightiest of storms while women in labour screamed belowdecks, who thought that you were stupid and you didn’t understand and the only thing you learnt from them other than to speak English was to complain about money and that all the boys with brown eyes would always break your heart.
if you have hope like i do, then you’ve probably walked down streets where garbage isn’t just thrown and abandoned in black bags but collected and fought over with. there are girls with eyes that have seen more things than you ever will have and they try to smoke them out of their chests. they steal cigarettes in daylight and no one tries to help the homeless old man trying to make a living out of selling sticks that take that same thing away.
you’ve probably known all your life that it doesn’t just flood rainwater in this part of town, that the graffiti doesn’t spell out freedom and peace here, that everyone’s unconsciously nodded and accepted that the damage earthquakes have left on people’s faces over the years is more than enough to tell poverty isn’t just a word here.
but if you don’t have hope like i do, then you’ve probably never walked down an aisle so small, you move between that ducking-your-head position to that almost-crawling-but-you-don’t-want-to-touch-where-everyone’s-feet-steps-on position. you’ve probably never been to marketplaces wetter than your pillows at night, where women don’t have a house to go home to long after dark. but they fight on. not with arms and fists; they’re so frail, not because they’re women but because there’s not much to eat here. not with guns and grenades, either; there is no money here enough for those kinds of destruction. what they have is heart and tears shoved for too long inside punctured pockets.
if you don’t have hope like i do, then you’ve never had that English professor who cried after class, when everyone’s left, who teaches you about wisdom and that love could be a noun or a verb or a name, who asks you what love is because she gave love everything and she loved and she was left by love himself.
if you have hope like i do, then i tell you it is enough. it is more than enough. hope is.
Never listen to my mouth because it speaks nothing but lies. Though I am suffering and secretly dying inside, you will hear nothing but “I am okay.” It hinders people from understanding what I really feel inside. My mouth is the reason why every single person thinks that I am strong- that I do not need any companion for I can do it by myself. But behind every “I’m okay” my mouth says, is my heart, slowly falling apart and turning into dusts.
Never believe my lips because it will show you nothing but smiles. Despite of everything, my lips always try to smile no matter what. Even if I am being engulfed by agony, even if I stay awake all night because of my night-long laments, still, I would smile in front of people I would meet everyday. I do not want others to feel sorry for me. I do not want them to think of me as a weak, sensitive girl who seeks attention by means of getting emotional every now and then. I smile so that people would think that I am okay.
Never believe the words I wrote in my letters because I could easily fake them. I could easily tell you that I am fine and that I am perfectly okay despite of the fact that I am actually seeking for someone’s help because I am about to breakdown. I could easily lie to you. I could put all happy-related terms in my letter and none of them might actually be true.
The world is full of lies and so am I. “I’m sad” could easily be replaced with “I’m fine”. An “I love you” could easily be replaced with an “I’ve moved on.” You see, lies are almost everywhere. But darling, if you really want to know, the real me. If you really want to read me- look straight into my eyes and it will tell you every single thing about me.
1. Spit it into her voicemail, a little slurred and sounding like the shot whiskey you downed for courage. Feel as ashamed as you do walking into work in last night’s clothes. Wake up cringing for days, waiting for her to mention it.
2. Sigh it into her mouth, wedged in between teeth and tongues. Don’t even let your lips move when you say it, ever so lightly, into the air. Maybe it was just an exhalation of ecstasy.
3. Buy her flowers. Buy her chocolate. Buy her a teddy bear, because that’s what every romantic comedy has taught you. Take her out to a nice restaurant where neither of you feel comfortable and spend the whole night clearing your throat and tugging at your tie. Feel like your actions are more suited to a proposal than the simple confession of something you’ve always known.
4. Whisper it into her hair in the middle of the night, after you’ve counted the space between her breaths and are certain she’s asleep. Shut your eyes quickly when she shifts toward you in askance. Maybe you were just sleep whispering.
5. Blurt it out in the middle of an impromptu dance party in the kitchen, as clumsy as your two left feet. When time seems to freeze, hastily tack on “in that shirt” or “when you make your award-winning meatballs” or, if you are feeling particularly brave, “when we do this.” Resume dancing and pretend you don’t feel her eyes on you the rest of the night.
6. Write her a letter in which the amount of circumnavigating and angst could rival Mr. Darcy’s. Debate where to leave it all day – on her pillow? In her coat pocket? Throw it away in frustration, conveniently leaving it face up in the trashcan, her name scrawled on the front in your sloppy handwriting. Let her wonder if you meant it.
7. Wait until something terrible has happened and you can’t not tell her anymore. Wait until she almost gets hit by a car crossing Wabash against the light and after you are done cursing at the shit-for-brains cab drivers in this city, realize you are actually just terrified of living without her. Tell her with your hands shaking.
8. Say it deliberately, your tongue a springboard for every syllable. Over coffee, brushing your teeth side-by-side, as you turn off the light to go to sleep – it doesn’t matter where. Do not adorn it with extra words like “I think” or “I might.” Do not sigh heavily as if admitting it were a burden instead of the most joyous thing you’ve ever done. Look her in the eyes and pray, heart thumping wildly, that she will turn to you and say, “I love you too.”
And this time,
I won’t run after you. I won’t run as fast as the blowing wind just to ask you what the problem is. I got tired of receiving nothing but silence. I got tired hearing nothing but lies. Fake promises resides in your mouth but do not worry, your eyes are the truth. I can see it- the way you look at me. I can see that there is a problem regardless of what you say. You do not have to deny what is obvious.
And this time,
I won’t listen to you. You do not have to tell me that you love me or that you are still willing to fight for what’s left of us. You do not have to tell me that you won’t do the things I hate the most. I heard that millions times ago. And you repeat your actions over and over again. I cannot find any credibility in the words that you are saying. I lost my faith in love, the same way I lost my faith in you.
And this time,
There is no turning back. I won’t even look back. Looking back means reminding me of the enduring journey we’ve traveled together. I have to get rid of every single memory of you. I have to forget everything that reminds me of you.
I have to stop thinking that this will work. Because obviously, we’ve reached our downhill.
“I am riding in the passenger seat, listening to my mother talk about the ways love has failed her. I can see the fifty-six years on her face, though she wears them well. She has been called “wife” by four men, “girlfriend” by eight names she has slipped into conversation, “lover” by strangers I will never meet. When I curiously ask, “Why stay married if you’re unhappy?”, she goes stiff. ‘You don’t understand,’ she says defensively. ‘You’re just a kid.’
I am seventeen the first time a boy mentions marriage to me. We are months into our relationship and giddy with the idea of gaining light by revealing our dark insides. We are too entranced by how bold shouting ‘forever’ is to know how suffocating it can be. We have no idea that we will spend months listening to each other punch ‘fiancee’ out of our speech.
At nineteen, I am doodling in the margins of my college notebook, thinking about how this habit has followed me through my educational career, when my teacher says, ‘Second marriages have a 67% chance of ending in divorce. Third marriages have a 73% chance. And if you’re on your fourth, well, really, what are you doing?’ I think of my mother in her fourth unhappy marriage. I think of my father in his fifth. I wonder if picking myself up and trying again is in my genes.
I do not pick myself up and try again when I learn that I am not going to marry the first person I loved. I pack the remainder of my tiny world into two suitcases and leave the photos of the two of us to die on our bedroom walls. I write lots of shitty poetry and tell my ghosts to ‘keep quiet’ when I think nobody is listening. The next time a boy knocks on my chest and asks, ‘How deep do you go?’, I do not show him. I say, ‘Infinitely’ and leave when he complains about the spaces in me he will not be able to fill up.
I am riding the bus home with friends when they spot a baby cradled in a new mother’s arms and squeal. They swap fantasies of their future kids getting their chubby legs tangled in tall grass as they watch from the kitchen with their husbands. I can see myself congratulating them with my arms empty and ring finger naked. I taste rust in my throat as I realize I am only in my second decade of being alive and already, ‘alone’ stains my tongue.
My ninety-year old grandma, with her silver hips and bullet-wound lips, tells me, in a thick accent, that ‘Nice girls should be married.’ For years, I saw her treat love as the greatest task on her ‘to-do list’, always cooking and cleaning to keep the relationship alive. But I am too weak, too selfish, too young to carry the weight of love. She says, ‘Find someone nice and settle down’, but there is a desire for the world in me that must be fed. And I am trying to first settle the disorder in my head before I even think about sharing my bed.”
— Forever Is Too Large To Promise | Lora Mathis
You are beautiful-
even if your skin is not as white as Anne Hathaway’s. Not because your skin is not that white, doesn’t mean you’re already ugly. Maybe, one of society’s criteria of being beautiful is about being white, but believe me, you’re beautiful in your own way. Even if you have tan lines, you’re still exceptionally beautiful, I swear. So don’t be scared to go outside your house during noon time when the sun is shining so bright on it’s throne. Go, have fun and don’t mind whether your skin is going to be tanned. Don’t let anything hold you back. Just enjoy.
You are beautiful-
even if you’re underweight or even overweight. Size does not determine whether someone’s beautiful or not. Even if your waistline is not 24 or your stomach is not flat, you’re still beautiful. Don’t mind the society. They will always find ways on how they could bring you down but what’s important is that you don’t let them discourage you. So what if you’re size is big? So what if you don’t have a thigh gap? It doesn’t really matter. In the eye of someone who knows how to appreciate true beauty, everyone is fairly equal. You don’t have to starve yourself to death just to achieve that perfect body shape you’ve always dreamed of having. A healthful body is more important than a sexy body.
You are beautiful-
even if your hair is not the same as Lana Del Rey’s. You are beautiful even if you don’t have flat teeth. You are beautiful even if your nose is not as high as Manilyn Monroe’s. You are beautiful even if you think that you are not as slim as those dancers in your favorite TV show. You are beautiful.
You are beautiful-
despite of all your imperfections. You are beautiful and don’t mind if people tells you that you’re not. Someday, you’re going to find someone who will appreciate you no matter what. You will find someone who will tell you that you’re beautiful even if your hair is not yet combed. Just remember, "beauty is within the eye of the beholder" as they all say. Society’s opinion is not important. What’s important is that when you look at the mirror, you could confidently tell yourself, “I am beautiful”.
You are beautiful-
because you are the only person as beautiful as spring time. Your beauty is like a new born bud- let it grow, let it develop naturally. If you could only see, that your eyes are like windows to the universe, that your hair are like the vines that give beauty to a garden, that the entirety of you is a masterpiece, I swear, you’re going to look at yourself differently. If only you could see yourself the way I do.
My prized possessions.
I don’t need flowers to remind me of the fact that you love me not.
— Haiku on Daisies