Secrets spill out of me during the most unexpected instances.
On a phone call, on a Christmas night, talking to a lover on the phone I had found out something monumental. I called him, I was panicking. He can not talk to me. He was busy, it was Christmas after all. I cried the entire night until the next morning, talking to another friend on the phone. I cried myself to sleep from that night, and everyday for until many months later.
The next day, I sent a message to my best friend. Informing her of the said secret. I trembled. I was trembling. I kept it secret for too long from everyone else.
These days I own up to it. If the situation presents itself, I volunteer the secret. While it may not be a badge one wears on her sleeve, it is still something which comes out of me: conversation over beers in Cubao Expo with a friend from college, arguing about a lover with my sister on our bed, over a phone call with a lover, on a lover's bed, over Y!M conversation with a friend I met online, on the bus ride home with a boy I thought I was in love with, in a car with a friend. I could set up a map where this secret spilled and I am hoping it will be an interesting one.
To own up to this secret, I want it remembered: a testament on skin, a monument one wears on her body, a graphical rendition of how painful it was to run around with it.
Soon, darling, soon. Maybe I will get a miracle.
On a phone call, on a Christmas night, talking to a lover on the phone I had found out something monumental. I called him, I was panicking. He can not talk to me. He was busy, it was Christmas after all. I cried the entire night until the next morning, talking to another friend on the phone. I cried myself to sleep from that night, and everyday for until many months later.
The next day, I sent a message to my best friend. Informing her of the said secret. I trembled. I was trembling. I kept it secret for too long from everyone else.
These days I own up to it. If the situation presents itself, I volunteer the secret. While it may not be a badge one wears on her sleeve, it is still something which comes out of me: conversation over beers in Cubao Expo with a friend from college, arguing about a lover with my sister on our bed, over a phone call with a lover, on a lover's bed, over Y!M conversation with a friend I met online, on the bus ride home with a boy I thought I was in love with, in a car with a friend. I could set up a map where this secret spilled and I am hoping it will be an interesting one.
To own up to this secret, I want it remembered: a testament on skin, a monument one wears on her body, a graphical rendition of how painful it was to run around with it.
Soon, darling, soon. Maybe I will get a miracle.
Celebration Guns: Boy In Static - Candy Cigarette
Maintenance Hall, 4 am | Count Stars on the Ceiling
