Open Letters, Writing

To the Man Who Ran Over My Dog With His Car

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To the man who ran over over my dog with his car, know that the picture you’re seeing in this post isn’t my dog whom you ran over. My dog was (was is difficult) was fluffy white, white pinkish lower lip and eyes so wide and innocent and kiss that could fill up my insides with warmth — warmth that you, I figured, could never ever have experienced. I picked out a dog picture which doesn’t resemble my dog because I still can’t bear to see anyone whose features is as close as my baby’s face and body. Because that would mean imagining her with excruciating pain, broken bones and internal bleeding and gawd that would be freaking hard.

To the man who ran over my dog with his car, know that all I wanted from you was to feel sorry or at least pretend to be sorry. But what you did was tell my mom that a street is no place for dogs. Of course, that’s the case, but we live in a subdivision. In little, narrow streets which you couldn’t speed away that fast. Mom told me she heard a thud and yet, you went ahead. Only if you did stop to look at what you have hit.

To the man who ran over my dog with his car, mom told me she found our baby under our abandoned car across our house, crying of pain, peeing all over the place with her tongue out of her mouth. She got her and did first aid, but she couldn’t help it. Mom didn’t say the word ‘dead’ over the phone. Of course, she wouldn’t. I still have to ask it myself. And when she said yes, I sort of froze and kept asking the details. But, I wasn’t able to sustain it that I have to cry in front of my eight-year old cousin during our supposed to be Mother’s Day out for my aunt and welcome back celebration for me.

To the man who ran over my dog with his car, know that you have broken a mother’s heart and a mother’s bones on Mother’s Day. My mom cried as soon as she heard my voice cracked and my dog had 5 one-month-and-a-half babies, all of whom are orphans now. They must have been missing their mom because my dog was a pretty caring and loving mother to all of her babies. She still cleans her first daughter’s ears even though BamBam, that daughter of hers is already four years old. Mom told me BimBim just sit beside her mom’s body all the time after that incident. And what breaks my heart even more is that thought of how her husband, BoomBoom feels. Gawd, that dog is extremely sensitive and I bet he knew what went wrong. He knew that the love of his life wouldn’t be there with him on the coming days.

To the man who ran over my dog with his car, know that you have taken away one of my life’s inspirations. That I would forever be longing of my dog’s kiss when I’ll be coming home next week. What’s left of BimBim’s kiss is a dew on top of the plants on the soil that she was buried under. She wouldn’t be there coming all over me when I’ll enter the gate next week. She wouldn’t be there hiding at he back of our house during Christmas Eve this December because she’s afraid of all those firecracker noises. She wouldn’t be there to take care of her kids. She wouldn’t be there to make my BoomBoom happy. She wouldn’t be there to give birth to new puppies who have been making our friends lives a stretch happier.

To the man who ran over my dog with his car, I got her five years ago and I even let her sit beside my during one of my review classes. I got her for BoomBoom. But you ended her life in a matter of minutes. You took her away from us without being sorry for us.

To the man who ran over my dog with his car, people I care about tell me that I could just go buy another dog, but no. Nobody is irreplaceable. Just like your wife. Just like your kids. An animal cannot be replaced with another animal because one creature is a person of his own. I wish you treat dogs like humans because they get hurt, feel emotions, eat like we do, breathe like we do, they could die and they could be loved. Loved by people and animals alike around them. So, don’t go acting like you haven’t killed somebody because you actually did. Without being sorry.

To the man who ran over my dog with his car, if you ever run over another dog the next time, at least fucking say sorry or just pretend that you are. Your lack of compassion has made my baby angel a little more human than you can ever be.

Photo Credit: Flickr

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Prose Poetry, Writing

Away from him

 I recognize the piercings in your heart; your eyes betray them. Your heart is a fragile, magical thing; it’s supposed to be taken cared of. Not slashed and lacerated on random days he picks. You know you deserve better when you constantly push thoughts of I deserve better from your mind.

Listen, darling. You know your story. Don’t put a happy twist into it. Stop making excuses for him. Let the pain consume your bitter skin. But, always guard that crimson spot. And when all but that spot is already consumed, it’s time to cut the string and free-fall.

Let the birds watch you step into the air. Let them see you tumble and circle around mid-air. As you f

a

l

l                        away.

Splash! You hit the ocean surface. The feel on your skin breaking the tension is itchy-woundy, but you’ll get through.

You can start from here, darling. Away from him. Away from him.

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for Magpie Tales, Prose Poetry, Writing

A Lover’s Salty Plee

La Jument, photo by Jean Guichard

The last memory I had was being on a boat sailing on a lovely canal,

with Christmas lights wrapped around the wooden rows.

I had to securely tape the power supply I made specially for this night.

I owe you one. I owe you this. You and me, just letting things be. 

The next thing I knew is that we’re in the middle of this angry ocean,

beating us like we spilled oil in one of its waters.

No boat was anchored meters away.

No airplanes that I hear of. How did we get here, my love?

If not for this rocky fortress, I would assume we were doomed —

Lungs filled with saltwater, our struggles we would eternally curse.

Remember though that for as long as we breathe the same salty air,

No wave is a maverick — ’cause we’d surf over them.

Tomorrow might be a nightmare. A future with a sink hole.

A Yolanda fiercer than ever. An oceanic beast.

Invincible, we may not be, but let our love shine to the Almighty

that He’ll calm all storms and let us be in paradise.

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Journal Entry Excerpts, Writing

Dead Butterflies in My Stomach

I woke up today to a bad news. When I heard my boyfriend sob over the phone, I knew what was wrong. The man has died. His father. Curse cancer cells. But, that’s just his way of saying goodbye to life. Hard. Frustrating. Torturous. And pretty expensive. No one deserves that, but He knows why such things happen.

I kind of knew this day would come. And I know he did too. Tito was a strong man until the second set of chemotherapy. I mean, he can still travel for long hours. He can still walk around the city. He can still do his job at home (he’s a baranggay captain). He still communicates with his sons. He joins in the celebrations — the 1st birthday of her first granddaughter. I didn’t really see him get weak and bedridden.

I was aloof of talking to him on our first few encounters, but as the encounters slowly frequented, he began talking to me. He would ask me to come eat. He would say goodbye whenever we would part ways. He would tell me to eat some siopao while my boyfriend was roaming around the mall with his uncle while we (his dad, sister-in-law and the 4 cute kids) wait for them. I did ate one siopao. I thought and hoped that I could have another dad in him (yeah, I know, I am assuming we’re not yet married) even though I know his situation. I kind of missed my dad. He died too ten years ago, a few weeks after I turned 16 and a few days I became a member of the Youth for Christ.

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I called in sick just to be with my boyfriend today. I felt sick inside. I wouldn’t want him to be alone because being alone with lonely thoughts would drive people mad. And I don’t want a mad boyfriend. I mentally reminded myself not to ask him if he’s okay because I know that he’s not. Losing one parent is hard. Losing two is not just doubly hard. It’s like you lost your home to a typhoon. His mother died when he was sixteen too.

He has to go home to his hometown so I accompanied him to the bus terminal, but he ended up dropping me in a mall where he would take another bus because it’s already running late and I need at least 2-3 hours to go back to my apartment.

Hours back when we were still riding the first bus that we need to take, a woman, in her late 20s suddenly got up and talked about God’s word. I used to feel uncomfortable around them, but now I salute the courage and the willingness that they have just to spread God’s love. As if on cue, she talked about death. Like how we all have one life to live and that we need to see the urgency of the realization that we need to do things that would bring us closer to our Lord. It was sort of comforting and I kind of peeked on my boyfriend if he was listening, but I saw him closing his eyes. He was sleeping. When the talk ended, the lady gave out envelopes for donations to their mission. Our eyes met and I began to pull out my wallet, but he said he had some money on his pocket. My boyfriend and I usually ignore these things, but on that envelope, we actually placed something inside.

Now, he’s on the way back to his hometown and I have no idea until when he’ll be there. The idea of being away from him on his lowest moments just kind of sucked. Now, if only I was only purely working online, I could have accompanied him right then and there. But, I have work. And my Saturday classes would kind of get in the way too. But, I’ll be there with him next week. Or next next week. The days should move out fast. 😦

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Book Reviews, Books

Why We Broke Up: A Book Review

Title: Why We Broke Up

 Book Blurb: I’m telling you why we broke up, Ed. I’m writing it in this letter, the whole truth of why it happened.

Min Green and Ed Slaterton are breaking up, so Min is writing Ed a letter and giving him a box. Inside the box is why they broke up. {Read more…}

 Book Genre: Young Adult, Contemporary, Romance

 Lusters: ✻✻✻✻✻

I first saw this book in National Bookstore, its ever charming cover luring me in. I had a bad case of a break up hang up that time and I started to run through the pages. The novel was a breath of fresh air. The novel is supposed to be a letter of Min, a “different” girl to Ed Slaterton, school’s hot basketball co-captain, with fancy illustrations of the things that the poor girl wanted to give back to Ed. A common break up move, but not mine. 

Each item tells a story. Each item represented a chapter of the teenage love affair, which ended up tearfully. Sorry, just spoiled you. I love the writing style and I adore it; Daniel Handler is mighty with words. His one-sentence paragraphs is comparable to a blackhole that seeps you in and make the time stop, making you remember your first heartbreak, or your first kiss, or how you believed in forever when your first love solidified into your life.

I know need not read a young adult story like this at my age (mid 20’s), but Daniel’s writing style had me at the first read. I fell in love with his weaved words that this whole review would just point out to how much I love the way Daniel writes, but kind of disliked the shallow story. But then, your first teenage heartbreak gets more shallower as the years progress, as opposed to that very moment when all your hormones were raging up and when you thought that that’s how love is supposed to be — panting after a few moments of kisses, the phone overheating to your night-long (again permit me to use the word)  shallow conversations and the bursting of negative, heavy emotions at the faint hint of your boyfriend or girlfriend having someone else. 

I like Min, by the way. She is arty. She is someone that I want to meet. She is someone that I want to be friends with. She is someone that I wish a part of myself is — very passionate about her interests. I like her ideas, her bold stunts, her themed parties, her affection for coffee with extra cream and three sugars, and for Ed. I was kind of like her when my first love is at its climax, cold with her friends. 

At this point, please know that I am not impressed with the story as it was predictable and that not that totally rad (or maybe because it just reminded me of my bad romance), but the writing made the book a great, imprinting read. Though sometimes, I have to admit that I am as jumbled as Min’s thoughts (bottom line: it was confusing I have to read the entire paragraph all over again). It’s just that the pacing of the scenes are fast and sometimes, I couldn’t keep up or I was again thinking of other things while reading. 

I kind of like Daniel Handler. I am curious about other books that he can write. But right now, I am going to bombard you with my favorite lines! 

Letting my hair down with my hair up, in a rubber band from your doorknob, and your shirt riding up as you hung out on the floor, your shorts loose and low, the small of your back I’d watched all day. Take it back, Ed. Take it all back.

I can see it, Ed, I leaned deeper into you, felt you nodding along with the sounds in the room, and your warmth signaled through to me from under your shirt, lovely strong, safe and right. 

To stop staring at you, I kept fiddling with the sugar until you stopped my hand with yours.

This is like a cookie, it tastes like a cookie having sex with a doughnut. 

*More of this book: Why We Broke Up on Goodreads

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for Magpie Tales, Prose Poetry, Writing

A House Party on June

Stanley Kubrick for Look Magazine, 1949

I still remembered that one fateful June night.

Raindrops pouring, you and me under my umbrella.

Tagging along the sidewalks, skipping over water puddles,

making our way to this local bar that we made our weekend nights getaway station.

 

I still remembered that instant connection we had.

Holding each other hands as if we have done that naturally in the past,

the outright kissing in front of our friends,

the right-then-and-there confession in your room, on your bed.

 

I still remembered the night outs that followed the first,

the solo slow dancing in the middle of the dancefloor,

the scent of your skin and the softness of your palms,

and the lines that formed on the sides of your eyes when you laugh.

 

I still remembered the mornings after,

you lying next to me, reeking of alcohol and perfume.

Oh how sweet it is to just lie and sleep by your side

after going home, tired of dancing at 3 AM.

 

I still remembered the spark that we had

when we’re still living in that spark we have.

And for all that you’ve done for me,

I would even be the one to light up your cigarette for you.

 

**Written for The Magpie Tales

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