It’s about that time.

I could still feel the tablet particles lingering in my gut and I hated it. Tears building up in my eyes, biting my lip so hard to prevent the whimpers from projecting. One foot dangling from the couch curled up in foetal position, trying to get the best way to minimize the killing pain. I felt like I was being literally ripped off, by the unbearable pain. Being a girl during your P’s is never a thing to admire. It becomes one of those existential moments that you wish you can just die. But not that you want to die, just figuratively and not literally. The pain is so overwhelming, putting it verbatim will be hard as it is. The least you can do is raisonne your tablets, gulping them down one after the other. Then retreat to some corner, pretzeling and doing all types of acrobats that can come to mind, trying to coax and show the pain to remain behind the fence, because you can’t take it anymore. At this moment, I don’t want any chocolate, snack, or anything edible, but maybe some back rubs and whispers of sweet nothing in my ears, as I try catch some sleep to forget the whole ordeal. Cramping sucks an I hate it.

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That girl.

I realized I am that girl who will never be enough for anyone
That girl who will always laugh at everything and nothing
That girl that never dresses fancily,
That girl that is always in crocs, just because i love the fact that he bought them for me when i craved for them that much,
That girl that will always cry at the smallest of things.
That girl who loved him with everything she had, till she had no love left to love herself.

Wachauchege.

When love hurts.

It’s no longer all fun and games, not when it’s all laced with scenes, hard to undo. Wanna know the most interesting part?, actually there’s none. Not when something is substituted with nothing that gaups at you like you some psycho. But as was my own the therapeutic angle is no longer visible not when you sitting on ducks. Not when you always the bad person and erasing it becomes a full time escapade. Yet am not ready for death, the excruciating pain brings me contentment, its the bare minimal that I can precisely afford. Sitting at a dimly lit corner, in the parking lot and inside the bar across the street, they doing karaoke, it just doesn’t sound the same, not when your tongue is doing tear salt tasting something that fits well for wine tasting. Its no longer the modus operandi of the heart being soothed by sweet slow music. Not when you got chipped nails as a result of biting them due to panic. Somehow somewhat, you just realize you lost and slowly fading.