You've searched me and You've known me
When I rise up
When I walk out
You read my thoughts

Running all around
Search out my paths
And my lying down
You're not surprised

By any of my ways
And my heart is counting on it
While I wait
Before there was a word

Dripping off my tongue
God, you already heard it
And then it is sung
You hem me in and run

Ahead of both my feet
Order all my steps
And dream up all my dreams
Faithful to the end

Father and my friend
My Heart lays before You

Midnight
You catch every tear I cry
Midnight
I can feel You by my side

Where can I go?
Where can I flee?
There's not one place
That You cannot see

Heaven or Hell
Dark caves and trees
Mountains and hills
Desert or Deep

Even in my lungs
The air that I'm breathing is Yours

Midnight
You catch every tear I cry
Midnight
I can feel You by my side

See I will (I soak my bed with tears)
Still close (still feel Your presence near)
Oh, my sorrow (oh, through heartache, pain and fears)
You carry me God (You carry all my years)

I soak my bed with tears
Still feel Your presence near
(Through every heartache) oh, through heartache, pain and fears

(God You carry me) You carry all my years, yeah
Where can I go?
Where can I flee?
There's not one place

That You cannot see
Heaven or Hell
Dark caves and trees
Mountains and hills

(Oh, Desert or Deep) Desert or Deep
Even in my lungs
The air that I'm breathing is Yours
Midnight

You catch every tear I cry
Midnight
I can feel You by my side
All my tears

God, You know what I am, I'm crying out
Now, I'll drop forth
Apart from Your emblem
Oh-ooh

You've searched me and You've known me
When I rise up
When I walk out
You read my thoughts

Running all around
Search out my paths
And my lying down
You're not surprised

By any of my ways
And my heart is counting on it
While I wait

Reflection:

Sometimes… midnight is more than just a time on the clock.

It’s a place.
A pause between yesterday and tomorrow.
A sacred space where the world goes quiet—but my mind doesn’t.
It’s where my thoughts get loud.
Where my fears come out of hiding.
Where the pain I shoved down all day suddenly sits at the edge of my bed… refusing to leave.

Midnight is where the fight begins.
Not with fists or noise, but with whispers and weight.
I wrestle with questions I don’t dare say in the light:
“Am I really seen?”
“God, are You still with me?”
“Why does it still hurt?”

And sometimes, I feel the enemy creeping in.
Not in horns and smoke, but in thoughts that sting—
“You're forgotten.”
“You're not enough.”
“God’s not listening.”

And yet… in the middle of that silent war, something shifts.

It’s not loud.
It’s not dramatic.
It’s the still, steady presence of a God who never left.

Because when I stop… when I pray… when I whisper His name through gritted teeth or tearful sighs—
He answers.
Not always with a solution.
But always with Himself.

His presence.

And suddenly, midnight isn’t just a battlefield.
It’s holy ground.
A place where sorrow and faith collide.
Where I may soak my bed with tears, but I still feel His nearness.
Where I don’t have to pretend to be strong, because He already knows every weakness—and chooses to stay anyway.

I realize now…
Midnight isn’t the end. It’s the turning point.
Because even in the darkness, God is light.
Even in the silence, God is near.
Even in my breaking, God is holding.

So I breathe.
I weep if I must.
But I will not fear.

Because I am not alone.
Not then.
Not now.
Not ever.

He asked me:
How are you holding up?

I smirked in his question:
You’re really asking me that? After what you did?
After you forced yourself on me and walked away like nothing happened?

He answered:
…I don’t know what to say.

I spoke:
Of course you don’t.
You never did.
You never said anything that mattered,
Even when you took what you wanted
And left me to hold the pieces of myself in shaking hands.

You left without a trace—
No crumbs.
You ate it all.
Devoured my trust, my voice, my sense of safety,
And walked away like it was nothing.

I added:
People say wounds heal.
That trauma fades like smoke through time.
But when?
Because it still lives rent-free in my mind—even if you don’t think about it at all.
It’s there when I’m brushing my teeth.
In the split second before I fall asleep.
In the silence that follows laughter, reminding me what was taken.

And you once said I ruined your life—how insensitive.
Did you ever think you ruined mine?

I recalled:
I was 15.
Barely a child.
Already depressed.
Already struggling to stay alive.
And you took advantage of that silence.

I wanna describe the feeling,
It was nostalgic to walk down memory lane
without flinching or shaking at recalling
something you wanna forget but your mind does not cooperate

I asked him:
Did I ruin your life?
Are you really saying that to me?
Do you even hear yourself?

You’re trying to make yourself the victim
When you were the one who pinned me down,
Ignored my “no,”
Took away my safety,
And left me in the dark with it.

You say you were young.
You were 23.
A fully grown man.
Sober.
Aware.
Choosing.

You talk about your innocence like you didn’t take mine.
Like you didn’t strip it away with your hands, your weight, your entitlement.

I asked him once more:
Do you know what ruin looks like?

He clapped back this time without holding back:
To answer your question…
Ruin is like sleeping,
But you can’t sleep at all.
Even if you drink yourself unconscious,
It won’t work.
It still finds you.

I objected:
No.
That’s not ruin.
That’s guilt.
That’s the echo of your own making,
And even that—you can escape with liquor, with numbness.

But ruin?
Ruin is when you wake up screaming
Because your body remembers what your mind is still trying to forget.

Ruin is when you flinch at kindness,
Because you’ve learned that even warm hands can burn.

Ruin is carrying your own body like a secret.
Like a crime scene.
Like a war was fought there,
And no one came to clean up the blood.

That is what ruin looks like.
And it lives inside me.
Not in your glass.
Not in your hangover.
In me.

Ruin is learning to flinch at the smallest sounds,
the lightest touch.
The unexpected movement of someone walking too close.

Ruin is hating myself for years.
Feeling insecure with who I am,
Guilty for what I let happen—
As if being naïve was a crime.
As if freezing instead of screaming meant consent.
As if my silence signed away my right to be safe.

I was just a girl.
Trusting. Vulnerable. Too young to even know the danger.
And you used that.
You knew I wouldn’t fight back.
Because I was already fighting everything else.

Ruin is sitting alone on the bathroom floor,
Clutching myself,
Trying to feel real.
Trying to feel clean.

Ruin is carrying shame in my bones
While you walk away, living your life,
Claiming you were the one who got hurt.

Ruin is a fifteen-year-old girl,
grounded, wings clipped to be broken not bound to fly
like a penguin, have flippers but felt useless
with broken dreams, felt caged and has limited movements

You said I ruined your life.

I did not ruin your life.
I am not the type of person to ruin a ruined person.
before I ruined you, you are already bound to be ruined
you caved in, you hid from me
ran away, you even teamed up with a priest to tolerate the **** you did

He was a boy. not a man. One thing I know is, boys tolerate ***** like their ****** life. Men ruin.
like Pompeii, you are bound to crumble and collapse


But did people look at you like you were tainted?
Did they whisper behind your back, tearing apart your dignity?

Did you have to teach yourself how to be touched again without shaking?
Did you have to pretend to be okay while dying inside?

You don’t get to say I ruined your life.
You don’t get to twist what you did into something about you.

He protested:
I… I didn’t realize it affected you like that.

Without a doubt, I said:
Because you didn’t care enough to think about it.
I spent years thinking I owed you an apology.
That maybe I led you on.
That maybe I was too quiet.
That maybe it was my fault for not screaming louder.
For freezing instead of fighting.

But no.

I don’t owe you anything.
Not anymore.

I wrote 500 poems just to keep myself alive.
To let people see my wound through words.
Because it was the only way I could keep breathing
Without collapsing under the weight of what you did.

He apologized:
I’m sorry.

I said in a monotone voice:
Your “sorry” won’t give me back what you took.
It won’t erase the fear.
The shame.
The years of trying to scrub myself clean.
It won’t give me back the parts of myself
That shattered under the weight of your choices.

Your “sorry” won’t let me go back
To the child I was
Before you decided your desire was more important than my humanity.

But I need you to understand something:

You don’t own me anymore.

You don’t get to haunt my dreams,
Poison my mornings,
Make me hate the reflection in the mirror.

You don’t get to take any more of my life than you already have.

You asked me how I’m holding up?

I’m holding up
By reclaiming every part of myself you tried to break.
By reminding myself every single day
That what you did was never my fault.

I’m holding up
By writing my way back to life,
One poem at a time.
One breath at a time.
Even when it hurts.
Even when it feels impossible.

I’m holding up
By living,
Even on the days the memories try to pull me under.
By laughing.
By creating.
By loving people who deserve my love.

By refusing to be silent about what you did.

You may have hurt me.
But you do not get to destroy me.
You do not get to end me.

I am still here.
Breathing.
Healing.
Rising.

That’s how I’m holding up.

A moment of silence.

Then, I speak again:

You know, old wounds never really heal.
Skin deep, they close—
But underneath?
They’re still bleeding.
Quietly.
Silently.

They ache
When the weather changes.
When the world gets quiet.
When a certain smell or a voice
Drags me back to that day.

You see me laughing now,
Building a life,
Writing my poems,
Showing up for people who need me—
But you don’t see what it took just to get out of bed some mornings.

You don’t see
How I clutch the sink when the memories hit out of nowhere.
How I have to remind myself that I’m safe now,
That you can’t touch me anymore.

You don’t see
How I’m still stitching myself back together.
Threadbare in places you’ll never see.

You don’t hear the whispers I say to the child you hurt:
You are safe now.
You are allowed to take up space.
It was never your fault.

You don’t see
How I survived you—
Even when I didn’t want to.

You asked me how I’m holding up.

I’m holding up
By breathing through the days I feel like I’m drowning.
By writing 500 poems
To remind myself that my voice
Is stronger than the silence
You tried to bury me in.

I’m holding up
By loving myself
In the ways you never could,
In the ways you never wanted me to.

By letting the wound breathe.
Not hiding it—
But honoring it
For what it is:
Proof that I am still here.
That I am still alive.

So yes,
Old wounds never really heal.
They stay,
Like a faint echo.
Like a scar under skin.

But I’m learning to live with it.
To hold it
Without letting it drown me.

I am still here.

And you don’t get to take that from me.

A pause. I look you in the eye.

I asked him this time:
Tell me something.

Why did you do it?

Because it was easier?
Because I was there?
Because I was depressed, quiet, vulnerable—
And you knew I wouldn’t fight back?

Because I looked tired of life,
And you thought I wouldn’t tell?
That no one would believe me?

Was it worth it to you?
Taking from a 15-year-old girl,
Leaving her to break herself apart
While you went on with your life, untouched?

Tell me.
Why did you do it?

Without hesitations, you held your breath and answered it:
Because you were easier to capture,
Easier to fool,
Naive enough to follow.

You:
So it was about power.
Not desire.
Not accident.
Not confusion.

You picked me
Because I was small enough to silence.
Because I didn’t know how to scream yet.

You fed on what made me soft—
Turned my quiet into consent,
My loneliness into opportunity.

You knew exactly what you were doing.
And you’re still trying to call it a strategy
Instead of a crime.

But I am no longer quiet.
And you don’t get to name it anymore.
I do.
And I name it ****.

for the longest time, I thought my rival in this fiasco was Medusa, but I was wrong.
I was like her too. Misunderstood. Judged. My reasons weren't heard.
easy for everyone to say, quick for everyone to judge
coins have two sides, so is the truth too. it is not always one sided.
Like smoke, it cannot be consumed. it comes out on its own.

He did not make a sound. He just smirked and keep his head low.

I was so angry at myself. so angry that I did not tell a single soul about it. afraid you will haunt me and **** me.
I forgot I was the predator but never the prey.

He said in a low monotone voice:
“…I know.”
(He bows his head, unable to meet your eyes.)
“You’re right.”

I smirked and continued...

There’s nothing you can say to fix it.
This isn’t about you finding peace.
This is about me finding mine.

You asked me how I’m holding up?

I’m holding up
By speaking.
By facing you.
By refusing to carry what you did
In silence anymore.

And now—
I am holding up
By letting you carry the truth, too.

I said calm, firm:
You know, I forgave you.

Not because you asked me to.
You never really did.

Not because you deserve it.
Not because it erases what you did.

But because I owe myself an apology for that day too.

I spent years thinking it was my fault.
That I was weak.
That I should have screamed louder.
That I caused it.
That my naïveté invited it.

But I didn’t.
I was 15.
I froze because I was terrified.
Because I was a child.
Because that was the only way my body knew how to survive.

I forgive you
Not to free you—
But to free me.

So I can breathe
Without your shadow choking me.
So I can live a life that is mine,
Not something you get to own forever
Because of one choice you made.

You will live with what you did.
Whether it haunts you or not is your burden.

But I will live with what I choose now:

I choose freedom.
I choose peace—
Even if it comes slowly.
Even if I have to remind myself every day
That I am allowed to have it.

I forgive you
Because I am reclaiming the power
You tried to take from me.

And I am done
Letting you define who I am.

I am still here.

That’s how I’m holding up.

I didn’t notice at first—
how the paper darkened
whenever my mind did.

How my hand obeyed the ghosts in my head,
spilling ink I never meant to pour,
turning every sketch into a dismembered memory
I could not bury.

I told myself,
“It’s just art.”

As I painted a black silhouette,
rope tight around the neck,
calling it “expression,”
but my mind whispered,
“This is how you feel.”

Tell me—
what kind of art strangles you
while you’re still alive?

I drew her lipstick smudged,
eyes screaming for help,
and said, “It’s just a concept,”
but it was me, wasn’t it?

Mascara running at 3 A.M.,
the mirror whispering,
“Wipe it off before they see you’re breaking.”

I painted limbs cut, bones broken,
stuffed her into a bag on the canvas,
called it “creative,”
but it was me, wasn’t it?

Chopping parts of myself
to fit into spaces I don’t belong,
breaking what won’t bend,
silencing screams in the back of my throat.

And when I toast to a goblet,
pour another bottle before bed,
I tell myself, “I’m just tired.”

But the wine is the only one listening,
nodding back in crimson reflections,
never telling me, “Don’t think like that,”
only hushing me to sleep
when I whisper, “I can’t do this anymore.”

I wish I could read between the lines,
match the types, connect the dots,
but I am the lines, the dots,
the smudges on every page I touch,
the type they skip over,
the dot they miss,
the line they don’t read.

So I draw my pain,
sing my sorrow,
dance with ghosts that cling to my ankles,
spin for them—
round and round and round,
until I’m dizzy enough to forget,
because it’s the only way I know how to breathe.

Funny thing is—
the saddest people give the best advice.
They know what to say,
they know the words you crave,
because they crave them too.

They don’t know I say those words
because I wish someone would say them to me.

So when you thank me for saving you,
remember: I was talking to myself.
Telling me to hold on, to breathe, to stay.

My art is not just art.
It’s a confession,
a silent scream hidden in brush strokes,
in shadows,
in black silhouettes.

It is a dismembered memory
on canvas, begging to be remembered,
begging to be seen.

And maybe—
just maybe—
one day,
someone will look at what I’ve drawn
and say, “I see you.”

And I will know,
I am not alone.

Why do people sometimes mistook kindness and friendliness to flirting?
People already assume I like them or if I have romantic feelings towards them. But no.
Do not give people the wrong idea just because you are kind to them, make it clear, "I do not like you as someone romantically."

It’s hard when you’re not close with your parents.
Because when they’re angry at you, there’s no one you can turn to.
I’ve mastered the art of crying silently — no voice to be heard, only the tears falling.
And with the blackout, no one can see me in the dark.
You can’t even hear me breathing, because I hold it back.
I’m used to it now.
What hurts even more is when you’re praying, and the tears fall before you can even speak the prayer.

No one has to know. No matter what other people have to say against you, their opinions never matter. At the end of the day, no matter what you do in life, you always have a home in me, my arms will welcome and embrace you. Keep moving forward my love, mistakes happen. We are all imperfect, still, what was important was you were never invisible in my eyes.

We survive not to please other, but to prove to ourselves that we can do it. That we deserve to live a life independently. We survived long enough to satisfy ourselves. Opinions of others are not required to be heard, God's voice does.

How come— he who bends me never broke me But rather, his pleasure is what I desire
I thought it was pain, but when it lasted, I long for the feeling.
I cried and moaned softly— but amidst the push and the pull, I laughed playfully

I was weak.
That’s the truth I’m trying to swallow.
Not proud—never proud.
Just... hollow.
It wasn’t love.
It wasn’t joy.
It was me, trying to outrun the man I failed to become for you.

Her perfume didn’t enchant me—it distracted me.
Her laugh didn’t move me—it made me forget the silence I created between us.
You were there every night—polishing shoes, folding shirts, But I looked at comfort and called it routine.
I mistook loyalty for obligation.
And when I felt small, I found a way to feel wanted again—cheaply, recklessly.

Yes, it was weakness.
Not temptation.
There were no fireworks.
Just a flicker in the dark and the sound of me closing the door behind your back.
I regret it—every mark she left And every trace I brought home to unravel you.
You didn’t deserve to feel second to anyone. Ever.

But here I stand, not asking for forgiveness— Just owning the wreckage and calling it mine.

we danced for danger,
I thought things for drastic measures
lost my way into the woods
glad I met someone like you—
get ready for it

sang a chorus of songs like a plea for help,
stray me my sanity
but still, I love him
though the forest never promised safety
I stayed

his silhouette flickered between trees
a lullaby and a warning yet I followed

I absorb words as if I was a sponge—
soft, yielding until the flood finds me
and I no longer float, but sink singing

how troubled my mind is? I painted a figure
a silhouette in black
with a tight rope wrapped on its neck while screams for help
her lipstick was smudged
Her limbs were cut, bones were broken and chopped
Into the bag, she went

Talked to a goblet and a bottle of wine before going to sleep

I wish I could read between the lines
Match the types, connect the dots
Draw my pain, sing my sorrow
Danced to the rhythm
Sometimes, the saddest person gives good advice
because they wish they hear those words they wanna hear

you know what's fun?
roast people using poetry
no pun intended, no revenge included
just pure wordplay
I like how they boil their blood at me
you deserve it,
I could only care less.
I could do so much more
It was like my mind was an abyss of words that cannot stop overflowing like a waterfall
and my ideas keep on coming nonstop.
I love to roast the people I hate, especially my enemy,

And you cannot stop me

(Written in diabolical red ink)

One thing that reckons me was— a force that cannot be avoided.
Like a secret— a smoke as I described it
Cannot be kept on one's hand
For it reveals itself on its own.
Tricky, perhaps, any scientist or philosopher would dare question
Not even a dummy can spin a roulette
Not even a hero can toss a coin to the ferryman to cross the bridge when we got there
I know my rights, my rules as a woman
And one of the words you claim of me, is not counted.
Hence, the releasing of secrets began like one's fate is sealed and revealed at the same time
Life made me question my abilities
My identity made me question my worth
Who was I, right?
That even the scapegoat was crucified for us to be saved from our sins.

Her mouth speaks volume— ways to turn a vermin down the notch
A disconnection notice, an unpredictable, unscheduled power interruption
A warning from the tides, eye of the cyclones
Swept away everything at once
I was told, that even the nonsensical things thrive on its own
I bring chaos as she brings war along
Words like bullets, tongues no bones but bleeds through your heart
Unweary of things brought me trauma
For, I was once alone in darkness
Now, I am one with the silence

why did I bother coming home
when my home was not considered
a house to live in anymore
It was like a ticket all the way to hell
Why don't you hold her hand and not mine
I was drowned at sea, I should have died instead.
Why am I still here?
Wrapped in cords of machines and popping pills
Just to keep me alive.

To Whom It Concerns—and it concerns you all,

They call me the villain.

Not because I wear a crown of thorns or command thunder,
but because I stopped apologizing for existing in my own skin.
You turned your gaze toward me,
and where you didn’t understand,
you colored me dark,
drew fangs where there were lips.

I once clapped for you.
Laughed with you.
Stood at the edge of my own dreams to make room for yours.
And when I fell silent,
when I curled inward to heal,
you called it distance.
Then defiance.
Then danger.

I watched your words spin— villain, selfish, dramatic, cruel.
Your chorus found rhythm in my silence.
You rehearsed your lines with such conviction, that I forgot the script I once wrote for myself.

Well, allow me to write it again.

I am not the poison.
I am the girl who tasted it and lived.
Not fire-breather, not monster.
But if I must breathe flames to survive,
then so be it.

Yes, my wings are broken— but they didn’t fall off, they were ripped.
And I stitched them back with thread made of my own poetry.
So if I fly crooked, don’t marvel—just know I am still in the sky.

I am the villain in your story because I dared to become the hero in mine.
And I refuse to apologize for it.

If I frighten you, it’s only because my voice has grown louder than the silence you hoped would keep me tame.

With unrepentant breath and scarlet ink,
—Me

you want game? I will place you in one.
beware. no one makes it out alive.
how does it feel?
to be played in your own game?
be tricked in your own set of rules
Is it fun to be played? No right?
so why play when you do not wanna play fair?
you do not know the mechanics of this game.
but you seem to act as if knowing the rules by rote memorization makes you win
know the rules by heart and you win.
honey, you are not suitable for my liking.
and so is the game you play.

We started off as a closed friend, a knitted relationship—
ruined by someone unworthy.
We ended up blocking each other on social media,
cutting off and burning bridges,
If necessary, we will bury everything in oblivion.
Are you not tired of yapping about nonsense things?
Sometimes, learn to work your intellect and not just your mouth, okay?
Tin cans are easy to babble when it is empty without proofs, right?
I thought so.
What were lost from us will find its way to return to us,
When you lost us, prepare yourself
The worst is yet to come
The worst— I mean, a recipe for disaster
And we plan to not come back any longer.
So, I suggest, go home here in the Philippines
Face your son and yap along with him.
Okay?
Learn to focus on yourself and not on ours.
Take note, you are still thinking of what to say
We are already one step ahead of you.

Ciao, Adios!
I am ******* done!
Sayonara!

I like this excerpt from the song "YK" by Cean Jr.:

"You're my remedy for all the pain that's hurting me."

I used to believe that.
That his presence was the medicine—
the one thing that made the pain bearable.

But I’ve come to realize something deeper, something heavier:
He is both the cause and the cure of my pain.
He broke me, and yet, he’s the only one I longed for to feel whole again.

When he came close, the ache would fade.
But it was only because he was the one who left it there in the first place.
I mistook the comfort of his return for healing.
I thought relief meant repair.

But healing isn’t silence.
And comfort isn’t closure.
No one can truly fix what they were the first to destroy.
And maybe that’s the tragedy—
that the only person who can truly take the pain away
is the same person who gave it to me.

I play pokers with snakes,
I play hide and seek with monsters under my bed
I play truth or dare with backstabbers
Well, it is called truth for a reason

I mirror unparallel versions of you, mimicked into one
The deception of the trickster was acted upon by the *****
For them, money is god. For God, you are pulverized— like ***** and Gomorrah.

Forming words like scrabbles is like forming words of questioning abilities
Be it a word or a phrase— make up your mind and lay the tiles on the scrabble board
Like a domino effect, I stack you up and you fall

Pick up sticks, fell down and picked up
But sticks and stones will surely break your bones.
The games of the general or checkers, move for the red or the black one
Bull's eye like darts or archery, you could swing by in a baseball bat.

Knowing a mastermind's mind games is wicked
But knowing your move is like playing chess with the enemy.

Not knowing when he will bite or blow,
Fed by fear and latin prayers
behind the latin prayers written in the red handkerchief

I was wise enough to tell when I let it burn
Out with the agony, with the truth one person tells through smoke
Like this poem, my mind is in scribbles too.

the only thing for my mind to keep quiet was...
to write what I feel and let my thoughts fly
like me, almost like a flightless bird
more likely Medusa, sometimes a fictional character but most of the time, me. Misunderstood and betrayed.

But he was the best.
no wonder I miss my home,
His house was a far less travelled by
I miss that home, where I could call him to come by
And hug him all the time
My home was never a building, a big structure
But he was a tall man with a dark brown round eyes like me, curly hair and dark skinned.
He has a humor that makes me laugh all the time without being tickled,
He makes me feel loved and cared for
He loves pandas, cuddles, hugs and kisses
He loves me of course above all.

He was my calm and peace amidst the noise going on inside my mind
He was my sanity. He brings out the best in me

one thing I was trained for
was to not be scared of the devil.
it mimics. it scares. it feeds from your fear.
be it a demon or a person.

one thing I will always be scared of,
GOD.
He is the Sovereign One. The Triune God.
I am a God-fearing servant of God.