Shehrazade

Shehrazade,

You gasped when I decided to call you by that name for you adore it.

Shehrazade,

When you speak, the whole room goes quiet. The murmurs and whispers that bounce off the room’s walls shatter at the strength of your presence The weight of your words pulls them down a into a never ending abyss that is as deep as your voice.

Shehrazade,

When I speak, you listen to me thoroughly. Your deep brown eyes eyes fixate on me like a snake to its charmer, like a hunter to his prey, and the angels in heaven sure do know that I am your prey.

Shehrazade,

Who am I to speak about angels and cherubs in heaven when the only angel I care about is a curly haired enigma of a man with deep brown eyes laying right across me in bed. How pitiful do I feel towards these people who disapprove of what we do, spending their zealous days slaving and suffering for a distant heaven they hope to get into when heaven is right here, in that space between us, Shehrazade and I. Sorrow is what i feel for those people working and waiting for the promised delights of heaven when I feel that same ecstasy here on earth when you make me yours.

Shehrazade,

You tilted your head, and shook it ever so slightly when I asked you why I chose that name for you. You stared at me eagerly with those deep brown eyes that pierce my very soul, with that same tantalized look you know makes me so weak.

Shehrazade,

A name that represents noble lineage, and goodness you sure do conquer like a sultan.

Shehrazade,

The name of that famous storyteller who took a thousand and one nights to mesmerize and captivate one of the most powerful men at the time.

Shehrazade,

That story teller may have taken a thousand and one nights; but with you, it just takes one.

Messages I’ll Never Send: Roseo

I stand on the balcony where we cuddled as we smoked together and watched that pathetic excuse of a sunset and I think of us.

I love your fiery passion. I love being nested in your arms as you sweetly sing to me La Vie En Rose. I love it when you kiss me and translate Italian words into your broken yet sexy Spanish. I love how you carelessly laugh so loudly in public, covering your face and then looking at me with those dreamy brown eyes that can make me so weak.

I think of all of this and curse the distance between us. I wonder of the things I’d do to have you back here again, but then it hits me.

I don’t want you near me.

When the distance isn’t physically far it can emotionally seem like it is. When you’re near me I delve into the illusion of your infatuation. I fall head over heels for you. I want to be around those big arms while you whisper beautiful promises you don’t really mean. I get torn between that ardent fire in you that melts me to the core and the sharp coldness of your distance, which isn’t always measured in kilometers.

I can’t seem to decipher your code, I don’t think we could ever be on the same page. I’ve tried many ways to cope with that fact, none seem to be working. But what I do know is that the sweet memory of you is like good wine, it gets better as time flies by.

 

Messages I’ll Never Send: Inu

Yes, I woke up really tired, I almost missed class, I was sleepy the whole day, but I’d honestly do it all over again. I want to play with your coarse black hair while you teach me words from your language. I really want to lay down with you and try to pronounce “hayete” but fail miserably. I wish the clock would turn to that time you took me to Bellevue and we watched the city and stargazed while touching the freezing waters of the windy beach. I miss the way we kissed on that bench under the rain while listening to Lana Del Rey. I don’t want to turn this into a corny message that’s such a cheesy cliche, but I want to thank you for changing me and helping me see how worthy I am and how badly I’ve been treated before. I wish the distance was shorter, but there’s nothing we can do about that.

 

A Little Poem

I often wonder

Why is it that I really dislike winter?

Is it the piercing coldness, or the fact that it is so stormy?

These unstable hindrances that distance us from others and hampers our activities

Or is it maybe the fact that everything is gray and dull?

The lack of sunlight turns the luster and radiance into dimness

What about the many things that die?

For winter isn’t the liveliest of seasons

I wonder about this as I walk in the cold alleyways, the rain pelleting down upon me and the wind violently pushing me with its icy gusts

And then it dawns upon me,

For I, am winter

And I despise winter.

Bully’s Acceptance

Chilly November night, random Uruguay Street pub, people’s voices are muffling our table’s conversation. It is chilly outside, I am very tipsy which is allowing me to feel the Deep House beats from my neck down my spine. My friend is beaming with happiness, it is her birthday and she is very excited. She calls a guy. My vision must’ve been blurred because I couldn’t make out the exact identity of the person.

Then it hit me.

It was my high school bully.

It has been two years since I graduated and I’ve been trying to efface most things related to my high school, from classmates to memories. I started university as a blank page, ready to start all over again.

But then I see him.

It really doesn’t affect me as much now, I’ve grown as a person and learned to let go of the past. He comes to our table. I act normal. I greet him and basically give him the least amount of attention without being borderline rude. However, things changed towards the end. I am not a smoker, but when I am out with my friends and having a good time, I might light a cigarette for the fuck of it.

And then he decides to make the snide remarks he was so well known for.

Wow bro, I didn’t know you were this cool. I wish I had know back in high school. So yeah, let’s forget what happened then,

Then he raised his glass.

Here’s to the past.

I am dumbfounded. I can’t help but look at him, lick my teeth, roll my eyes and raise my cup with a sigh.

I initially wanted to rage in this post. I wanted to write about the feeling of getting your bully’s acceptance. I was going to rage at the fact that after all the years of having to deal with his shit, with all the taunts and slurs, with having my pictures constantly hung in the bathrooms I was graced to get his oh so wanted acceptance -not apology- acceptance.

However,

I raise my glass to you guys,

Here’s to the past, to moving on, and new starts.

Here’s To Failed Attempts

Raised expectations.

Failed attempts.

That sums up most of my situation with guys.

When you let hopes soar, more or less like taking the steering wheel out of logic’s grasp.

Yes, I admit it. I’m a victim.

I was a victim to those brown eyes, a victim to that big nose, of those chimp ears, of that high pitched girly “grandma” voice. But i didn’t care. The way you ate the popcorn off my hands made me forget everything. When you slipped a few kissed before sucking the popcorn away mesmerized me. I remember the way you pulled me towards the couples’ seat inside that cinema. The way you whispered and moaned into my ear hypnotized me. I was in a daze, and I couldn’t control myself. I kissed your lips, cheeks, neck, hands, chest. I wanted to leave my mark everywhere around you. I let my hands explore your body, reaching where no guy has ever been before. Yes, all that in the movie theater.

How can I forget the first time I gave you a blowjob, in the bathroom stalls? We had a thing for public places. I remember the looks you gave me, you looked ecstatic. You knew I was very good at it, you loved it. I remember how that failed when that old man stormed in, casually asking his grandson if he wants to take a piss. I do not know how we held our laughter.

How about that time we were almost caught by the janitor. We dressed each other silently and plotted our escapade. We got away with it, but that’s when things started to go downhill. You became quieter and colder.

Oh, and when you stood me up… That day was awful. Listening to “Sober” by P!ink while walking around DT all alone, realizing how nothing’s in place. I broke down in the middle of the street. I found my salvation once again to be in religion. I went to a church and prayed, prayed for everything I could think of. I remember getting a message from you saying you overslept and how you wanted to make it up for me the next day. Little did you know I had put up a fight with my parents to come, little did you know how many excuses I had to make up. I started to thing of all the negative things about you. The way you kill me when you made me jealous and insecure. The way we did what you wanted. Always.

Things eventually came to an end.

Yes, it was my fault, I admit it.

Yes, it hit me hard, I won’t lie.

All those failed attempts somehow managed to give me hope.

And now, after a couple of drunken nights, here I am, chatting with a guy that happened to be your best friend and I start to realize that after two months I’m starting to finally move on.

You’re not fucking worth it.

You’re not worth me hearing those remarks about how hot other guys are.

You’re not worth the irresponsibility and carelessness.

Here’s to getting over you, and all the mess you left behind.

The Story of The Damned Wig

My childhood is full of untold stories, bittersweet memories who shaped me. They are parts of me whose personal importance might not only be underestimated but also not understood. However, when such things are bottled up for too long, they become burdens to carry for a lifetime.

I was around four or five years old when, playing  with my best childhood friend inside a women’s clothing store; happy and careless as innocent children could ever be. Suddenly, the mannequin’s wig fell off to the ground. The wig happened to be styled as the employee’s hair, and an idea that was deemed funny to my toddler’s humor crossed my mind. So commited a mistake that I still regret nowadays. I picked it up, put it on, and goofed around mimicking said employee jut for fun’s sake. I pranced around joyfully, but little did I know that my father had spotted me from outside, and he was furious. He stormed in and threw the wig off my head, and just like the other time I got yelled at, humiliated and hit. But to me, what hurt the most wasn’t the fact that it was all a joke nor that they never let me explain what truly went on and not even the physical pain but what really made this incident so memorable was the fact that I was made sit alone and watch my friend blissfully play inside the shop while I was punished for something as simple as wearing a wig.

Bucket List: Kissing A Girl

The night started settling in and the place started to get crowded. People started drinking more while others were tipsy already. Amongst them was a fellow classmate, whose experience with handling alcohol and going out until dawn didn’t give her the best reputation. I went up to her and grabbed a few more drinks and had a very brief chat. The music started getting louder, so loud I could feel my insides move. A while later a friend of hers came in impromptu, interrupted our conversation and snatched a kiss from her. My mind was still processing what happened when a mutual friend came in to share a smooch with the guy that came in unexpectedly. I was in shock, and it was conspicuous. 

That was when it happened. That was when my friend picked her lips out and signaled for a kiss.

I felt awkward. I pointed at myself to make sure she meant me, and she did. I was a bit hesitant, but I knew deep inside that I’ve always wanted to kiss a girl. I didn’t want to leave her hanging though, nor did I want to give hints of my hesitation, hints that would make people question why I didn’t want to kiss her. So, I just closed my eyes, pouted my lips out and slowly went for the kiss.

And it happened, our lips met with a quick peck. I expected the taste of cherries or strawberries, my expectectations ruined by reality. She tasted like pizza, cigarettes, and a hint of alcohol. Not a taste you would want to have stuck for the rest of the night. That quick smooch left no effect on me. It didn’t make my heart beat faster, nor did it make me wanting more; it literally felt like nothing. 

The young and naive me learned a couple of things that day. I learned that I shouldn’t raise my expectations, girls are not always pink and girly. I learned to to underestimate the effect of alcohol. Yet most importantly, I discovered that kissing a girl feels hollow, almost feels like kissing your own hand. But who knows, maybe it was because it was a quick peck…

Irony

I remember meeting Irony in a summer two years ago. She was an average girl; pretty tall, beautiful hair, pretty insecure. I recall that time I was wearing a formal suit, wanderig, lost and alone under the heat trapped in my thick suit. The day I forgot my wallet and had to buy food from the spare change in my pockets. Saw her wandering alone too, and recognized her from a time we sat with our mutual friends. She walked with me, I offered her the only cupcake I had and watched her happily take it and throw it in her handbag carelessly, my Arab upbringing concerning hospitality prevented me from taking the unwanted yet precious cupcake back. I remember walking in the sun together, chatting and babbling and getting to know each other. I was hesitant to give her my number for I thought that we wouldn’t quite click, yet I wasn’t rude and gave it to her.
And that is how Irony started doing what it does best.
Every time she would talk to me, I would reply late, answer briefly, making sure not to allow for a conversation to develop; however, Irony has ways to make tables turn and before I even knew it, I found myself actually enjoying those little conversations, contributing more and more to develop this kindling friendship. Things started to develop even with the 10 hour time difference. We managed to somehow stay up as late as possible to talk about the randomest stuff. She was there with me when things were going from bad to worse. She was there when I started going through the difficult stage where I would dip cookies in vodka and drink sake till my throat would burn. Irony found a way to break all possible barriers to sneak her way into my heart; and when she got there, I opened up to her. Confessions started to pour left and right, starting from small ones and gradually go to scandals that would ruin my life.
Yes, it was that very busy day when we decided to play 20 questions, and everybody knows what kid of questions teens ask when it comes to that game. I remember coming out to her, and how she said she liked me and how every guy she likes is gay. We both laughed off and started talking regardless of how extremely busy I was. I set my priorities straight.
And that was when Irony struck me.
Our chats continued on their normal pace, disregarding that there was almost no more time difference anymore. Those days when we planned to meet once again. The days when I told you about the perfect guy every single person I knew had a crush on.
Those were days things changed.
I began wondering if I did something wrong for you would answer late or not answer at all. Your answers became briefer and briefer until you would totally ignore me. I pondered about how karma is really a bitch, what has been done to you returned to me, what went around came back around. But this time it had been different, an amazing friendship was jeopardized.
What happened to the days we would discuss our childhood, our school’s infamous secrets, talk about our hot mutual friends, the Kama sutra sushi rolls, the time we caught the drunk women urinating in public, and most importantly, those endless talks where we would pour our hearts out.
I guess only Irony would know…
–
P.S: happy belated birthday…

You

You.
You might think that I hate you; however, you are the world to me.
You.
You, the victim of my many deadly glares, the many hurtful words I have said.
You.
A person I would die for, a person who doesn’t know how much I love them. A deep unconditional love only very very few and limited have the privilege, or the disadvantage, to receive from me.
You.
You don’t know that all I do is because I love you so much and don’t wanna see you going through the rough and unthinkable paths I walked with sadness.
You.
My heart breaks when I see you imitating every single one of my footsteps. Almost throwing yourself into the never ending abyss of the mistakes I have commited.
You.
You see me as a superhero, a role model, somehow digging deep beneath the layers of fake laughs and foul actions. You seem to find a spark in me that makes you happy, and I unconsciously try to put it out.
Because you want to be like me.
But I don’t want you to ever be like me.