Chasing Paris

You told me you it wouldn’t hurt,
because there would be something
to support the fall;
but when I fell to your abyss,
all that was there was a cushion
where I expected a hand.
It would hurt less if there was only floor.
At least then, I could comfort myself
with the thought of being forgotten
rather than rejected.
I should have known.


As if you only existed
to let me know
that a mess
can be clean
and that
sometimes,
a mess can be
beautiful, as well


i. I hope you like puzzles. Did you play them as a child? I wish you had, so your knobs won’t have to adjust. Or if you never did, it’s okay. I think everyday is sufficient enough to learn. Everyday is a puzzle with me. I hope I do not become responsible for the burden of your frustrations or your frowns. I hope I never hear you sigh with the dread of the world. I hope you solve me everyday.

ii. I hope Scrabble doesn’t bore you. I hope you like words. I hope you feel the need to beat me in this game. I hope you will challenge me. In fact, I hope you defeat me. I hope my eyes never see you settle for ten points, I hope to see you thrive. Tell me that you care. Tell me that you love me in words that score twice as much as mine.

iii. I hope you don’t think of this as a chore. But I can be a mess. Literally, figuratively, actually. You can do two things: you can clean up after me, or you can be a mess with me. I’m not sure which one I like better during that day, because I’m moody; I hope you know me enough to know what to do when things get bad.

iv. I hope you read every single word. I hope you didn’t skip to the end. If we will be together, I will be ranting. More than you would like me to and more than what I think is healthy. But I would like you to listen, even if I’m not making sense, even if I become boring, and most especially if I’m making a fool out of myself.

v. I hope you’re not a fictional character. I hope you’re real and alive and breathing. You may be with someone else now. But time will come. In God’s perfect time.


Most days, I want to be the snow.
Other days, I want to be the sun.
Whatever day, the snow and sun is yours.


the deeper the night becomes,
the harder it is to trust the mirrors.
some nights, I race back
to catch my reflection in the act;
half expectant that it will blink
or scowl or reach for my head.
But I always see the same girl,
with the same features as me,
that smiles when I do
and I can never catch blink;
I see the same girl that is me
but not quite,
and that scares me even more.