Not A Fairytale

Princesses with long hairs and crowns on their heads,
wearing floor-touching nightgowns,
while being guarded in lavish mansions,
attending classic dance balls,
crossing paths with anticipated kings from certain kingdoms,
and ending up marrying one of them—
oh, the cliches of fairytales.

But if I was to believe in fairytales,
and the beauty in the stories;
if I was to avow my conviction toward the idea of a magic lamp
and the wishes it could fulfill;
I wouldn't ask to be a princess,
for I would rather be the evil queen.

The evil queen who hides under a black robe of insecurities, but seeks egoistical pleasures;
chases after an innocent heart, yet despises the power of true love;
building walls and destroying bridges as far as she could go—
because just like her,
if my happily ever after is never meant to deliver into my hands,
then nor should anyone else's be.

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The Ghost in Distance

Had I never pressed the playback button, I would never have to find myself crawling out of the pain caused by the absence of the figure I used to consume day and night—the pointy edges of your shoulders, the messy hair strands of yours, and the pair of lips that goes in accordance with the motion of your beautiful but piercing words.

Had I never laid a hand on the camera, I would never have to find myself digging through the memory scrapes of the pictures of you in my head—because although you were no longer the object of the photographs I take;

still, the fear of my eye capturing the constant shadow of your being keeps me looking back—for I miss the adrenaline rush of being in direct confrontation with what scares me the most, instead of just being haunted inside out but only from afar.

A treasured ghost to me, is what you are.

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Why Did You Ask?

Why did you ask me to explain everything in detail, when your mere presence already brings me into a state of loss for words?

Why did you ask me why I was acting weird, when your attentive stare is what makes me wonder how should I behave?

Why did you ask me if I was sleepy, when I would never want to close my eyes with you in my sight?

Why did you ask me to rest, when your shoulder is where I would lie my head onto?

Why did you ask me where I would go back to, when right by your side is the only place I feel at home?

Why did you ask me to sit next to you, when I would rather be in front of you to look right into your eyes and say all of these thoughts out loud?

Why did you ask me if there was anything you could do to help, when you're the reason for this helplessness I'm feeling—of not being able to control nor hinder myself from falling faster and deeper in love than I have ever been before?

Why did you ask me?

Why did you ask?

Why?

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