let me tell you of the raven's sins.

Reading: some shitty Internet news.
Listening to: bread seller, rooster, the wind, the wind.
Last watched: Scorpion.
Mood: abandoned.
2014 October xx, 6:42 AM.

Thursday, May 31, 2012


Sun quarreled with Earth's atmospheric tears:
Who won? What about Moon and her
balsamic brothel? Where were Stars
when my day was about to squirm and swathe
in incognito malpractice? Sky, so teal
in her devout tenements, itching to steal
my black, black discord — of Love
and whichever comes first
after imagining a life without you,
without the freely-administered drugs
your chocolate jealousy seems to spur —
and addicted, I aim to inject this hurt
into my vertigo fallacy with your last
lonely kiss that tastes like mint shock
My hollowed faith remiss
Wrong is the vaulting doctrine that regulates
your rain: It is not to outmode variant poisons
— we are as human as you
The fruits and wine that we dine
energize emptiness just as your convictions
bring you meaning and marvels
These colors are to compare,
never to make us disappear
Abundance laid on the table —
                        I am complete without you

Thursday, May 31, 2012, 7:00 – 10:37 PM
Stealing arbitrary words from Darren Hayes's song "Black Out the Sun".

Your Luxury Written

in every of my passage
Today was meant for moribund
prestige for I caught the taste of
proud lemon — its acerbic bite
piercing my retinae like guilt
Today was celebratory revocation
as an escape from your potency,
so I don't come running to you
with phobic obsession like I
always do — today I am
too busy spinning discomfiture,
ebony as I can be, anadyomene
oracle by my side: heavenly
till the hour the water croons,
and all my healthy complacence
becomes a hefty foul thing
No more bad beginnings of
faucets draining doting diaries,
fawning with overestimation
Today I shall snip the trail of
your fishy scent stuttering for
conversation when you don't
deserve any foolish dedication

Wednesday, May 30, 2012, 9:10 PM –
Thursday, May 31, 2012, 6:00 PM

Wednesday, May 30, 2012


Some four, some three
Some longing beneath the sea
Everyone knew I would desert you
and I would, oh black-feathered wren

First came happiness, then
came pain, as it would each pause
I took after hollering
your God-forbidden name

Aaaaahhh ———— !
How condescending is this treason
to your anti-gravity reason
Corona artistry eliciting offbeat

delinquency, seamlessly, as a magician
would conjure his rabbit's reproof
Did I not flummox your stormy
stridency — did I not try? Did I?

Much ecstasy gathered around me
when you were gone — it was
as rare as beauty, almost like love
Too arcane to call it betterment

How long will this be? How long
till you come and rescue me?

Wednesday, May 30, 2012, 4:08 – 8:55 PM

Shadow of a Thousand Illusions

Substitutions for happiness
mix some merriment — none ever
leads to you. So much, so much
that I loved, just never enough. Never
the karmic languish you covet, nor
the nightly amazement. I fit
an ill-timed conception: unsought,
fleeting as a fraud. Not enough
to bury all the parochial dispute.
Forgiveness demands a raise —
I have too little gold. Why am I
writing you? You ungrateful beast.

Your bestiality, bucolic
in its ascension, reminding me of
what could truncate my ambience:
I am always a chore, never the joy.
And fast asleep, the eternal verity
that is in your bones grows somber
as a stone — terrorizing my dreams,
its naked legitimacy incoherent.
You made me a ligature of all things
you would not endure — thus
you live inside of me. My hiatus
a hospital for your maladjustment.

Tuesday, May 29, 2012, 6:24 PM –
Wednesday, May 30, 2012, 1:01 AM

Tuesday, May 29, 2012


Freedom is not free. It comes
with a price of a sacrifice,
of feeling infinitely small:
revelation of your ignobility.
Predilection of propaganda,
the arrow of greed, perpetrating
through these webs of deceit,
waging wars which won't end.

Your temper, to each and every one,
equates nothing to their grieving.
You flirt with Death, spurning love
and wanting woe, while they —
not old enough to imbibe life nor to
admit love — are Death's children.
His toll. You mean nothing
in the face of tyranny. Your skulls,
like dirt, are a weight of futility.
Whether you exist or not, you are
nameless. You are target practice.
Men bragging guns as toys,
confounding their territory. Safety,
insanity, or pure money? Humans
tend to pacifism, not conflict
nor chaos. Not this massacre.

You are a cog of their craving.
Not your God, nor your nature,
drives you here. Your sustenance,
jostling for lineage, strips theirs.
Your hands — they are to create,
not crush. Not brutalize. Clemency
for your temerity. We all are
made of light. Flesh and blood
our vessels. Peace our promise.

Tuesday, May 29, 2012, 12:46 – 11:49 PM

House of Spirits

Superstitiously, they charged
the house that I live in: full of vice
Exorcism sent to disinfect
the wrongdoings from the past
Cemetery plot mustn't be bothered

Grandfather remade the place,
block by block — his own sweat
and the feeble sum he earned
An only child, my mother inherited
the state with grateful ease

My parents, paler than Grandfather,
had not been able to outdo, thus
the house matured twice derelict
rousing the neighbors' eerie rumors
One by one, they fled, cursing:

The house offered ill luck to their
plantations and shops — no one
reached our street anymore, not even
the children who used to bruise our door
One summer night, fire raged and ruined

Asleep, we could not sense the burn
All vanished to the ground, but three
We shield this house — us and them
— the invisible honoring our graves
Our spirits soar, rooted to the ground

Friday, April 3, 2009, 10:00 PM –
Tuesday, May 29, 2012, 6:04 PM

If Love Is Red, I Am Color Blind

Being good is not enough. I need luck. Only the lucky find love: a privilege of two.

As I was looking for a yearning video on Youtube, I found this. Darren Hayes's live performance of "I Miss You". What struck me as the most offensive was the scene where he stood right in front of a female fan, holding her hand while singing to her. The envy didn't come from being able to embrace Darren so close, but knowing that I will never have any man who loves me enough to stand like this and intertwines his hand in mine.

And so I cried and cried and cried. Life is not fair for some, even when we have tried every attempt to be fair, or to be virtuous. We are condemned to live in solitary loneliness, forever. No one will be there to console us when things go awry. No one will tell us that every bit will be all right again, that we will always have someone by our side. No one.

When we open the door to our homes, only the sound of solitude greets us. And alone we carry on, pretending that we are strong. All along finding substitutions to happiness in the shadow of a thousand illusions.

Tuesday, May 29, 2012, 2:57 – 3:17 PM
If love is red, I am color blind is from Savage Garden's song "To the Moon and Back".
Screenshot is from this video.

Monday, May 28, 2012

On Your Deathbed

Your youthful crooked grin
                                  — such juvenilia
Was that all your fearsomeness could cover?
Wild infirmity, breakable as you are,
for I would vandalize those spectacles
and toss them to torment your martyrdom
because furtively you pray for me

By God, how you thirst —
How I chide your covert wantonness
Pretty plaything and one, two, three,
shall we throw ourselves a party? Behind
defiant submissiveness lies the very truth
with tardy strokes from slender fingers
and half a cynical kiss, mine, lingers

Haughty hypocrisy embalming fair
asymmetry when my blossoming bosom
chafes your musky chest, and not
a minute passed, sanguinary suffering
rushing to your carnal core — akin to
prostitutes, you are everyone:
gleaning to reap your intemperance

Monday, May 28, 2012, 7:34 – 10:13 PM

With Every Word

Did you intervene
your deepest sleep so you could see me
gleaming amongst those faintest stars
dripping from the sky? Did you miss me so?

Then, say it — say it like you meant it:
I am a part of you
I am what makes you want to scream
The glottal stop strangling your throat
                    trembling your thoughts
with every word I wrote I beseech you

The stress stitched in your springy strain
— its usage your cultural taboo
We are made to sate each other
to actify the margin of our twin birth
Your unfettered flux broiling my brain
seething seduction in every of its gait

Surrender, I huff, inhaling the mildew
of your softened cheek, pure as milk
Like a deceiver, clinical in her clandestine
confidentiality, my kisses reach yours

Oh, Sylvia —
darling, darling you

Monday, May 28, 2012, 4:57 – 7:03 PM


It is too dark for an afternoon
that indicates three. Too dark to see
these theories inside my head,
where everything floats into fluid solidity.
The world falls asleep as her flames
turning frozen, limp as a dead whale.
No sound wherever I seek. No sound
but the wind gently toying with the frond
of such crimson shapelessness. Crucified
perfumery whiffing its last breath, buzzing
in cowardly voltage. I am searching
for something so lucid that cannot be seen —
or felt. Something stemming in the remains
of an abandoned dream. His pragmatism:
a privilege like any other. Oh agony,
were I blest, were I some centimeter of zest!
But no — I won't ever be. All things bind
into a gust of fallen asperity I can never be.
Too trivial to be the subject of one's elegy.
You never want me in this; neither did she
in hers. What good am I? For burying
your faults. For scrubbing little things
and none of it. You can afford a thousand
of my clones. Disown me when
you don't need me. I am a toothbrush.
Tiny and temporary. Replaceable: I am.

Monday, May 14, 2012, 6:53 AM –
Monday, May 28, 2012, 4:20 PM

Sunday, May 27, 2012

Feeble Attempts and Creamy Oranges

G'morrow, lords and ladies
Oh, I am but here to please
Afore the glorious Sun rises in the east,
whose wish will I grant, whose lips shall I kiss?

Bathed in the warmth of a creamy tropical afternoon,
let me tell you the greatest love there ever was:

He was perfect as the golden snake in Sicily
and she was the very figment
of her imagination — of pure fiction
She adored him as the night would redirect
into unclarity without the Moon, a little too much
While he — he would utter the shortest I love you
whenever their world broke in two

She loved by and by till one day,
she found out: He betrayed
Mercilessly he stabbed that she failed her sanity
Her sanctity, her all, her clarity meant woe
Without the rite of rationality, she was true evil
                   — and thus she un-loved

Sunday, March 1, 2009, 10:25 PM –
Sunday, May 27, 2012, 10:58 PM

Drugs of Desire

I am asleep, asleep,
cringing under the drugs of desire,
of desire, creeping from hour to hour
Senseless, unconscious of them
                 — their betrayal
Dashing from scene to scene,
Selecting nightmares, dreams, beliefs
Infinite search through Sunday,
Monday, one third of May
in lone periwinkle morn: to forget
in case time stops; stars drop
gone into an undersea voyage
of blue boredom, squinting
for no tomorrow freedom

But drugged as I am, hesitant
as you are, paranormal nausea
logging in with its bric-a-brac
and antiquarian knack
Oh, there shall be no more
of your paramount paramour for
here, it is only dry and my phatic eye
like a camera waiting to wallow
the twist within me whirling
a tasty tornado
Torrid then toppled, the trickster's
quizzical quarks go asunder

See me fail; see me cheat
in an attempt to defeat your beat

Sunday, December 6, 2009 1:47 AM –
Sunday, May 27, 2012, 8:16 PM

Not Much Fun

Showered at two PM. I was afraid that the water would freeze my body again, but it ended fine. Now I feel fitter. Much, much cleaner without the sticky sweat. Headache is almost gone. I hope this continues so I can start writing those second-rate poems immediately. Two poems for today, as I planned.

Now, a minute or two to spoil my blog: vain self-portraits. Who doesn't enjoy posting her own mirror-shots over the net?

Some entries ago, I published that side-angle photo where my breasts looked bigger than reality. I didn't manipulate anything there. But to be fair, to banish all misleading depiction (also to prevent more visitors going to my blog looking for "Indonesian whore"), I present you how I look from the front angle. This one is much more realistic and factual.

Having D cup breasts is definitely delightful. It makes me feel most like a woman in all my life. But I hate how fat I have become in the past four years. With 168 centimeters of height, I currently weigh 104 kilograms. A 36.8 BMI doesn't sound healthy at all. Even when I don't look that obese, I prefer to be a size fourteen (or sixteen at most) and not eighteen. Of course, the disadvantage of shedding weight is losing my precious pornographic breasts. That would rob me of this gorgeous mature sensation.

To illustrate, this is my photo of December 7, 2007, when I was still a vegetarian, weighing around seventy-six to seventy-eight kilos, size fourteen. With this figure, my breasts looked rather flat. Not fun. But, gaining much weight isn't commendable, either. So... I need to get back to size fourteen. It's much more important for me to feel healthy instead of feeling sexy.

How I wish I could slim my upper-arms, waist, and legs while keeping all the fat in my breasts. That would be miraculous.

Sunday, May 27, 2012, 3:30 – 4:41 PM

Lips for Sale

Conclusively sick. Damn virus.

The analgesic seemed to heal me after the first two hours of rest last night. As I woke around midnight, I felt fine. And then, I slept again till seven in the morning. My legs were colder than giant blocks of ice, even when I slept with a cotton blanket. I refused to move or rise since it felt like it would worsen the chill. But I had to.

So, I hastened out of bed to the bathroom, still freezing. Washed my face and brushed my teeth. Had rice breakfast. Brewed warm ginger-honey-tamarind in a bottle. Cleaned my room and changed my dress. Standing up for too long made me nervously queasy, like I was about to vomit. Took another analgesic pill for the headache. Feeling better now that everything is fresh, though the bloody headache still occupies my brain.

Not feeling drowsy, I chose to write. If my parents were home, I could ask them to take me to a doctor, to make sure that this isn't some type of dengue fever or worse, malaria. Dengue fever is common anywhere in Indonesia, and it's only lethal to children whose immunity is weaker than adults'. Malaria normally spreads in areas with dense jungles such as Borneo. But, my American colleague who lived in Jakarta had it in 2009. He was hospitalized for two weeks, lost twenty kilos, and almost died. I loathe mosquitoes. They should be extinct.

I'm thinking about completing more poems today. See if creative writing triumphs over this menial illness. Perhaps, composing under the influence of paracetamol would make my diction sound much interesting. Who knows. If the verses don't work, I'll just go back to diary entries. As long as I attempt to think in unison, I'm sure the headache will disappear. I'm an expert in being alone.

And what if I tell you that my body is succulently sweating under this midday heat? My moistened ginger-honey lips, half-asleep, breathing their virgin seduction. Which man would be heroic enough to kiss me and catch my disease?

Sunday, May 27, 2012, 10:58 – 11:42 AM

Saturday, May 26, 2012

All Alone in Space and Time

I am not sick, not sick, not sick, not sick, not sick, not sick, not sick, not sick, not sick, not sick. I shall recite it a thousand times to make it come true.

Without rain, mosquitoes rule the days. I heard from my mother that four of my cousins had some sort of dengue fever recently. My sister and I were also hospitalized because of the same disease in 2003 when I was still in college.

The doctor informed me that I was attacked by a virus, without contracting dengue fever. I hardly believed that. The symptoms were obvious. Three days of deadly fever, where I was almost unconscious except to take my medicine. I couldn't recall anything but my mother bringing me food and sweetened tea and checking my temperature. It was almost as horrid as having a drug overdose.

And that is why I am worried to death about suffering another case of this plague. Even when dengue fever is only fatal to children (it leads to death), I don't want to be sick for a whole week or more.

Too many mosquitoes convene in my room in the past week. I do use two electric mosquito repellents. They scare the pest for a while. It was disconcerting to experience the start of a fever earlier this afternoon. My body shivered and I had a nasty headache. Heat pulsing from within me. I fed myself instant creamy soup and took an analgesic pill. Luckily, the headache is half gone by now, but still exists.

So this is how it feels to be ill and alone. Completely alone with only a stupid Internet radio broadcasting Placebo's "Every You Every Me" and a blank document of illegal Microsoft Word. Mommy's not here. Don't I wish to have a Darren Hayes husband to kiss my forehead and sing me to sleep... Someone write me a love poem or something. Quick!

Saturday, May 26, 2012, 8:12 – 8:50 PM
All alone in space and time is from Placebo's song "Every You Every Me".
Piano fantasy

Of Impure Carbon

Her mists were maroon balloons,
                                some white.
When she saw a father
fitting his oversized coat to his daughter
for it was too cold outside, she took nothing
but alienation. She would never be her.
Two lovers held hands and passed her way;
she turned to count the trees, buildings,
and space, sensing nothing but virulence.
She would never be her. When her mother
fell ill, she would sit in her ward without
the handmade get-well-soon card, without
saying she loved her because everything
she kept inside was a heedful lie, like playing
an old tape she knew by heart. Exaggerating
each line to make them believe. Rehearsing
again and again and again, it came naturally.
Her eyes and ears a constant recorder:
They photocopied the spectacle of emotions
without any immersion in her brain. Arts
and imagery — all an act. Inability to feel
was a fateful virus penetrating her immunity.
The only counterattack her body had was
feverish defense. Gradually mocking till
it was about to spout in streams of tears.
Nothing rose afterwards. Kindling, stifling,
and assuming to understand as she chose
to be a poet, not a lover nor a child.
Her business was melodramatics. Her role
an equable bystander: warily documenting
each gesture of affection without being it.

Saturday, May 26, 2012, 6:00 – 7:12 PM

Dear Nothingness

Sultry, insomniac night
inflammatory as billowing bother
Much how I wish to besot you
the way I allege myself:
without judgment or bureaucracy,
without this clamoring headache
that insists to madden me
We solely exist
to catch each other's shadow
Our minds two virtual prisons
heating and melting illimitable irony
Freedom sounds more like an insult
And when I sleep or unable to,
the hunger enrages of taming you
Taunting your farsightedness
for lacking cunning to see beyond
the basal needs and awfulness
They will never be me, nor
what I allude into your senses
Gather millions of them and our
sacred Hell shan't be resurrected
You can never behold me outside
your dreams: I am your Cinderella
— broken glass my slippers

Thursday, May 17, 2012, 9:41 PM –
Saturday, May 26, 2012, 2:39 PM

Game of Survival

Ten minutes to six: no sun
That idly inglorious star!
Cars racing; people competing
to gather food in a game of survival
Highways flocked by antipathetic
candidates sacrificing ourselves
to rotate a habitable planet
We are the first barrel of wreckage

Ripe almost red —
like Popsicle made of rusty apricots —
the sun rises: half circle growling
into an abstract splash of flames
Fair frosty cumulus the herald of a rite
Columns of pines on dank silent hills
Everything green and geodesic
Rays of light penetrating the earliness
Dry ghostly bamboos, slender,
breezily whispering sorrowful envy
Vehicles queuing on the plank;
children piling on the field
A day has just begun

Disadvantage of ravaging time
What would be worse than this?
Useless — yes, we are dying
We all are going to die, but at least
chance it with adequate zeal
Why won't they listen? Or employ?
Why won't youth cooperate?

Tuesday, May 22, 2012, 6:49 AM –
Saturday, May 26, 2012, 12:49 AM

Friday, May 25, 2012


Prosaic in its gloss
with more conceit than craft
I write to divorce the comely Death
These stanzas my bandages —
their ointment like steely string
almost undetectable but always there
stronger and stronger as I retain myself
from the altar of disrepair
Uncompromising swiftness
acclimatizes the ice into my veins
I am unkind:
There is a charge to my giving
In a trice, blessing becomes a game
All things crystallized;
everything dilutes in vain
Ribbony clouds, streaked
with black crows, my heathen heart,
it knows no forgiveness
Crocuses combined,
they make the bed where I divine
Slovenly I shove and on I move
to a realm centralized in discretion
With a stare so bare, they
shoot their blowzy infection
Love gods conspire with each
interaction on a stage
whose only part for me is a beggar,
unfit to show my inauthenticity

Friday, May 25, 2012, 6:22 – 8:55 PM

Dirty Friday

Again: warmth too cocky
to rectify lives into dreams
What is there for us to say
except this blindness?
Gambling a pact with Time,
scouring a slice worth relishing
And you survey this lifelike coma,
a termination, pertly apprehensive:
typographies of movements
and stop-motions depicting
another breadth we cannot touch
Reviving those mornings where
you were majestic enough
to be a part of something
            — human with feelings

They need you not
You are a channel like many others
These people come to claim their rights
for self-assurance, so they can be
a darkened part of something, as if
they were loud enough to be majestic
as you once were: petition of price
If you were of comparable molecules,
you would shine in the interplay,
not alone, never forgotten
Instead, you fill your eyes
with the dance of the unknown
Everything silent
that creates a mood of the living

Friday, May 25, 2012, 3:10 – 4:24 PM

Thursday, May 24, 2012


You, love, shall kill me
with your perverted kindness
and willingness. You shall be
my hero, here and afterwards
And I will love you still. Some say
I am obsessed. But little do they
recognize me and what I am
capable of. Perhaps, obsession
is what I want them to see
Perhaps, I lie all the while
People see what they wish to see
Their eyes all clouded in hypocrisy
That shan't make me a liar. Or will it?
Throughout my life — this pintsized,
overrated life — so many guises
stop and go. None is as wicked
as yours. Nor as vain, my dearest
darling love. You and I are democracy
Our republic reigns in computerized
cogency — such one as revamped
invocation predating human nature
Contention of God and His demiurge:
Of which will we one day be?

Sunday, May 13, 2012, 6:31 PM –
Thursday, May 24, 2012, 7:39 PM

Writer's Altiloquence

It began in 1991: a child of eleven
and her writing career, for she made
no friends but her own achromic room
People seemed to irk her too much,
and more if they came in crowds
So she writes and writes and writes
Daily, nightly, hourly: All the time she
was alone, her modest world shut and
she was sound, with her stories —
tragedy and melancholy. True love
that becomes reality when one wishes
with all her might. Words of a little heart,
too timid to be heard, purging like
an inferno of wingless birds. Pageantry
of chrestomathy originating evil —
some hate, some tainted hope. Every line
a little skewed. The artificer at work,
thinking to herself for civilization would
never speak to her: tears clarified
Rubbish projected in three million
multitudes of misanthropy
Lonesome crickets sing with her —
                 disharmony by her side

Sunday, May 13, 2012, 6:40 PM –
Thursday, May 24, 2012, 5:36 PM

Two-Thousand Twelve

Today — what day feels more
like the night before my execution?
Misunderstood Mozart: retold
symphonies to aggress concentration,
accompaniment for novels too thick, too
lengthy to devour some twelve years ago
Resonance better than alternative rock
The deceased of Spoon River vocalized
in loads of ingenuity; Elizabeth's sonnets
with their ancient poetic calamity —
Short verses, still in the process of
five developmental others. Seven days
of clothing — my hands damaging
a washing machine — hung high to dry
Argumentative twins: louder than a riot
Horoscope and Tarot cards prophesying
a soda shower that is most pretentious
than I could ever be — more and more
mannerism since no one spellbinds, not
mysterious enough to cultivate but an
enigmatic self. Its unfaltering coercion:
a demure woman in her early thirties,
farther and farther away from societies
Content dejection is where I belong

Monday, May 21, 2012, 4:12 PM –
Thursday, May 24, 2012, 2:01 PM


My first language is Hate —
never Love. None ever taught me
love or how to love. I know not how.
I profess envy, jealousy, despair —
bitterness, apathy — each
and every form of negativity
this world keenly conjures: wrath
that becomes beauty but ends in
carnage. Life taught me how 
to brandish a knife
to shield my body from pain.

Well-versed in belittlement, in
snobbery. In strutting my demands.
Contemplation of death when nothing
is worth the effort. Nothing: not the
didactic God too busy preaching
and forgets to imagine. A family
too absorbed in its way of seeing.
Nothing makes any difference as
godless, loveless, and luckless I sing.

I was born into a tiny chaos.
Negligence raised me.
This is the Universe I know: fragility,
where people deify what they desire.
Self-proclaimed friends
working twenty-four hours for Life
but too busy for me. Relationships
synonymous to vacuity. Everything
leads to estrangement. Promises
uttered for convenience,
                 never sincerity.

Sunday, May 20, 2012, 5:38 PM –
Thursday, May 24, 2012, 10:38 AM

Wednesday, May 23, 2012

That Girl

How does it feel to be adored? Wanted, needed, loved, and appreciated. How does it feel when someone misses you every minute of every day? How does it feel to have someone by your side? How does it feel when someone pledges to spend his lifetime with you? What about when someone wants to talk to you all the time because it feels rapturous just to talk to you? How does it feel to be cherished because you are who you are?

When I majored in English literature, I was intoxicated with studying. All I wanted was education. The highest there is: post-doctoral research in creative writing. I did try, three times, and none of them worked. But then, it hit me. It hit me a thousand times. When I went to and from work, when I woke, when I had nothing else to do but to feel miserable all day. I doubt that schooling will change who I am two years from now, or five, or eight. The pain will still survive. Wanting what I can never have. To be that girl.

No one would spend hours on a plane flying from one continent to another for he wanted to meet me. Not even from state to state. No one would be hysterical if I did not talk with him in one day. No one would cry because I stopped talking to him. No one wanted me so much that he could not sleep thinking about me.

No one would love me because I am unworthy of love. I am not beautiful enough or thin enough or cheerful enough or lustful enough or herbivorous enough. I am always wrong. Incomplete. I don't have what it takes to be loved. I don't have love in me.

There were times when I contemplated what went wrong. Would I feel better if I had the need to depend on someone else? That would make me feel weakest. And I hate feeling vulnerable. I need strength more than anything. I need independence. If I am to be most truthful, I will say I don't need anyone. I will cry alone. When I cry, it will be violence, not sorrow. I will write. And I'll be fine. I don't need anyone to make me whole.

One thing I won't ever do is to beg for love. Articles cited that women who appeared desperate for help (the archetypal damsel-in-distress) would be more attractive to men — simply because men had the need to feel like a savior (the knight). Seriously? I'm not omniscient. But I don't need help from anyone, either. I'll always figure things out on my own. If I ask someone for help, it will be a disguise to talk to him. That's me: nothing but deceit.

Still, when I cried, there was a tiny part of me wishing to be that girl. The girl who deserves to be loved just because she is everything she is. To have someone who would give up everything just to be with me, even if it were only for a day. Just one day.

Wednesday, May 23, 2012, 7:49 – 9:18 PM
The hanged man

Tuesday, May 22, 2012

Ginger Honey

The point of this post is to show that it has no point. Except, to expose my clothed breasts, obviously. And, to prove that I look fatter from side angle. It seems to me that this is my best pose since it enhances my breast size to double D (instead of mere D) and it slightly slims down my butt (or, I just don't have that much of butt in reality). I do have another picture of this series taken from the front angle, and I didn't appear as curvaceous there: flatter breasts and smaller figure.

What am I doing? This isn't Okcupid... What the Hell. No one reads junk poetry, anyway. Everyone only wants to see pictures of breasts. There's no point in trying so hard to write so much every day. As much as there's no point in living this cursed so-called life.

I need to upload a most sluttish photo along with a most sluttish prose to foil my Internet representation. The start of my cyberslut career. Apparently, drinking fusion of ginger-honey-tamarind doesn't ease my overwhelming pain after teaching 150 devilish seventh-graders. My bones breaking; my brain bursting; my tummy twisting. Get me out of here —

Tuesday, May 22, 2012, 8:04 – 8:24 PM

Alienation of Affections

Have you ever wanted to die?

I want to die so much that I don't care about anything anymore. My mind and body are tired of life, but they won't give up. I want to give up. I want this to end. I don't feel anything anymore. No desires, no wishes, no emotional ties. I have never felt loved nor needed nor wanted nor liked nor appreciated. If I die, no one will notice anything. I don't make an effort to be known or remembered or important. I don't need all that. The only thing that activates me is hunger, thirst, and tiredness. Like an animal. I don't need to talk to anyone. I don't need anyone. I don't want people to pity me. I am only looking for someone to murder me. Are you kind enough to be the one?

I will pay for your travel expenses to and from Jakarta. You will have to kill me in an instant. Just like that. No questions asked. Like when you buy a bottle of water. Quick and simple. I'll give you the rest of my savings. It's not much, but it's still money. Do whatever you want with my body and my money. You won't feel guilty because killing me will be kindness. It will end my suffering.

This is not a joke. I am serious. You can contact me from this email. And I won't change my mind. I have been looking for a way to die for so long and I have decided that the easiest will be to hire someone to do it for me. Suicide is poetic, but too dramatic. If someone else does it, the plan won't look so climactic; it will simply be a business deal. Don't you want to help me?

Tuesday, May 22, 2012, 6:17 – 6:44 PM

Monday, May 21, 2012

I Have Lost All the Love

       that I savored to save you —
I have lost all amorous nectar
that used to adorn your grandeur.
Gone is beloved blithesomeness
where I woke to greet you. I cannot
spell your influence. Conception of
your prerogative becomes irrelevance,
paltry as commuting through dust
from light to light. No more inducement,
no enjoyment. Blinded by cancerous
starvation, I pledge to libel every part
of you. Every inch you endeavor
shall squander. There shall be less
and less of you and so much more of me.
Regaining the selfish macabre autonomy:
a truer self. I waste no time to hate.
All I aim is beautification of simplicity,
like inhaling faint citrus freshness
in Vivaldi's nocturnal spleen.

Monday, May 21, 2012, 2:51 – 7:28 PM

I Cannot Decide

whether to fight or to fumble
in this questionable morning where
the weathercock sings. Water springs
like swatches of a sorceress's dream —
arsenic, violet, burgundy, to amber —
their magnanimous composite knelling
a grotesque sound. Oh chemist, you are
perfect for my emotionally-detached
surreal imagining. The emptiness
in your empathy makes a penitentiary
of vernal blessing. My antihero. Wait.
Wait graciously. Come the time I shall
breach your unsung diplomacy:
that chivalrous disinclination you
consecrate as you age. Like a vocation
(occasionally ambition), your digitized
inscription never fails to encumber me
with an encyclopedia of disease.

Monday, May 21, 2012, 9:19 AM – 2:31 PM

Morning Dream

Her body bare under his
experimental passion lending
aggressive eccentricity reminding
her of flickering volts of electricity

Shy neon light turns away
from this morning where they lay
skin on hungry skin, moistened
with captivity turned indulgence

Demands met: his diurnal fantasy
etching her pulse in administrative
force where graces frantically
repose — their sulfurous tides

tawny like moldy mahogany
Maddening lips bestow
one-thousand kisses that plant
nothing but infertile insolence

She lusts for more of his creed
Each nerve transmitting decadent
delight like a fountain of starlight
waltzing into her, scenic and

all the while skeptical
Her receptive gaze coils as he
crops the conceit in her crevice
— this strange untenable man

Monday, May 21, 2012, 7:50 – 9:00 AM

Sunday, May 20, 2012


Blue-eyed lark, have you found
the poet whose romantic collection
you lost? May Edna replace your
treasured John. How you intended
to study poetry for its pompous effect
of linguistic rejuvenation. I hope such
aspiration still governs your decision.

I feel you in the falling rain on the rooftop,
softly muttering your gravity. Dewdrops
opine your European patois. Another play
resolves. Days suck me in a whirlpool of
memories — sometimes I long to weep
with them, to hold you here with me.
Emerging in a world where you are able
to look into my eyes without blinking.
But I know you: I have to be older, to 
stop all the unwarranted dramatization 
that complicates so. And you were right.

With you, I became atrocity. Not knowing
South from hereafter. I wish to be free.
To undo the annotated sentimentalism
I somehow attract. It is always inconvenient
where I stand. Be it alone or with everyone.
You want me to live a better choice.
Thus, I cut all ties to imaginary intricacy:
I am done being a child.

Sunday, May 20, 2012, 4:54 – 11:12 PM