I woke up half an hour past my alarm this morning, as usual.

Next to me was my dog Bebe snuggled in the crevice of my armpit, as usual. I dragged my ass, literally, up from bed and failed to wake my little sister up for school. She turned off her third alarm eventually and murmured, with eyes half closed, “I hate you, you never remember to wake me up.” Then she proceeds to urinate in the bathroom as I brush my teeth, as if it was some kind of punishment for my, albeit unintentional, forgetfulness.

I wore the outfit I contrived in last night’s pre-sleep ritual. I was deciding between my Hunter rain boots or beat-up suede ankle booties (for the sake of fashion) and asked my little sister for a second opinion; she asks me what she should wear today in return. I walked out of my room in my shiny burgundy Hunter boots; she’s still in her racerback tank and jeans.

In the kitchen, I see my mom wrapped up the Cajun-marinated chicken breasts she grilled this morning in aluminum foil; next to it was a ziplock bag of steamed broccoli and cherry tomatoes, both laying on the island. I grabbed my lunch for the day. My mom also made a breakfast sandwich for me and my little sister. It was layered as so: toasted Italian bread, two slices of muenster cheese, a fried egg, and…15 slices of ham. I was running late for work so I quickly grabbed my breakfast for the day. “Bye Haw Ga Yun!” I yelled as I jotted out the house. It’s pouring out, but warm. And I just received a flood warning on my iPhone. Hunter boots were a good choice.

I made my bus today, not my usual luck since I almost always miss it by one minute. I sat down toward the back and texted my two sisters: “Why does mom always stack like 15 slices of ham in sandwiches…” The thought made me nauseous. And my older sister, who no longer lives with us, texted us back: “Lol I miss mom’s sandwiches.” To which I promptly put down my phone, smiled immensely, and ate my mom’s meaty sandwich.

Because one day, I will miss how she stacks 15 slices of ham in her warm sandwiches.

I love you mom.

WORDS ARE EMPTY.
All empty. 
Everyone is the same.
Until you meet someone different.
And he’ll be a keeper.
For the sake of patience.
I’ll rot.
Until revival.
Still dead inside.
Hoping to wake up,
alive.

I’ve been studying the past,
though the present is a test in itself.
You were right to believe words became somewhat empty,
and so there wasn’t much left to say.
You pulled away,
and I willingly pushed.
You were quick to retrieve all senses,
and mine still intertwined.
Shot,
one by one.
Though,
I am fine.

Too many people fear that simply being themselves isn’t good enough. Fools. They have no idea what they’re missing out on. Words withheld, actions dismissed. What’s lost is what could have been and not what has to be. But their minds are too busy filled with and filling with disappointments and doubts, without substantial grounds. Why do they imagine the worst and not the best? Why fear.

If this is you, just stop it. Be yourself. Admirers will flock to you, and all you will have to offer is you in the purest form.

Now, watch them fall in love with you.

What I’ve come to realize is that everyone is using someone for something. Whether it’s comfort, companionship, spite, danger, or misery, there’s a take and, sometimes, a give. At the end of it all, all we are really concerned about is how much time was — and still is — wasted. And whether it was worth it.

The old die young and the young are fickle. So I never knew you. And I don’t deal with children. See I told myself this in the beginning and was disgusted by it since birth. A star anise. It’s the closest way to describe this pain in my mouth, the flavor born from embarrassment. Not tasteful, but tasteless. Hard to ignore the irony in it all. So quick to snap. Show a hidden face. And old patterns.

And what kind of person are you to call someone a slut and end up with her. Or without her. Next to her. You were the kind who spoke the worst of those you knew anyway.

You never were the best. So I never really knew you.

And I don’t deal with children. So you never really existed.

For that little bit of insanity, that drive, the energy and those smiles that never fade. Friends, lovers, strangers. How far are you willing to suspend reality, to forego a damned mental capacity. Every minute passed is a minute annihilated. We fix ourselves to build ourselves, and break ourselves. But time will catch up to us. When minutes meet mind. And we better be strong by then, rock solid. Forget them, him, and her; clear your own grounds.

The process seems to have calculated its own decay. Like it lost track of chances and faith, as if happiness and pain were separate entities that would never converge. The thought so engrained it filled the air around. But you were better off a quitter.