MINIMENTO AND
DENISE S. CHUA
ANDREA KIRSTIN D. RAMIREZ
CLAIRE DENISE S. CHUA
FENNIEL FAITH C. DE PEDRO
FRE ANNE T. GRANDIA
JUSHLINE FREINE S. SAYCON
KAORI JASH D. HIROSE
MA. AVRILLE MARQUIELA C. LORAÑA
MARGARET KELLY N. CUMAGUN
MARGARETH N. TING
MIGUEL EMMANUEL G. MAGDALES
PRINCESS JAIMARY F. SOLACITO
RECCA KLIEN D. SEVILLA
SABRINA ISABELLE D. YAMBOT
SEAN CARLO O. SAMONTE
SETHELEH LIAM G. RAMOS
SOFIA BEATRIZ A. BLANCIA
XIOMARA ANN B. MONDRAGON VISUAL CREATIVES
HEROES stagnant. ................................................................................................ 6 A Woman’s Guise .................................................................................... 8 an innocent’s silence ............................................................................ 10 heroized fraud. ..................................................................................... 12 Cosmos ................................................................................................ 14 VILLAINS Reeks of Rue and Ruin ........................................................................ 18 chess of red and pink ........................................................................... 22 A Murderer’s Cries ................................................................................. 24 Bow Down to my Whispers .................................................................. 26 Chaos ................................................................................................... 28
CLAIRE
CREATIVE LAYOUT
JUSHLINE FREINE
ASST. LITERARY EDITOR
MARGARET
COVER AND
OONA MARIA AQUILINA C. OQUINDO LITERARY EDITOR
EDITOR
S. SAYCON
KAORI JASH D. HIROSE
KELLY N. CUMAGUN
DESIGN
Every story is woven into dimensions between pages full of adventure, love, and friendship—bound by thoughts of characters that readers learn to adore from their words. As the great villains poke the heroes to shine and save the day—their never-ending battle of good versus evil is the lifeline that sets off the people within each turn of the page. Their odds may rise and fall and as each quest is a crash and burn for one of the sides—until the end there is a hold on you that will never let you put the book down.
Like an orchestrated ensemble, the point of the baton gives voice to the cries of justice—letting it rise to a crescendo to the conductor’s swish and flick—drowning out the cheers of many and forging a podium for them to take a stand.
The camera pans out and catches men pulling women into their cradled blackhole of royalty while they figure out how to hold on to the branches of wisdom and leaves of knowledge by letting it plant seeds in the next generation of girls.
A man and wife—with vows bounding them for a lifetime—they take each other to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do they part—and they did…as she pleads for him to stay, he breaks the vows he made with her heart–leaving the ring and half his heart behind.
Heroes are meant to save—but how will they save the cause of their own destruction? Their mortal enemy—someone whose beliefs are against their own?
Voices travel in ripples to transcend distance and break barriers of kingdom walls. How is one expected to echo beyond them when it is inside their head?
Stanzas fill the space with justice, stakes, familial connection, destiny, motivations and means do not fit into, letters twirling and swirling unto each other as they travel to paragraphs of unraveled tales that extend to another and fade into
When the world is cast in shadows, there is one who will bring light,
WRITTEN BY NABI
VISUAL BY RECCA KLIEN D. SEVILLA
1976
breaking news—governorship of manila is increasing powers of [salome romero]—
the howls in the night are animal-like, grating your ears until you fully wake. it is as if they’re within the walls, rattling in the rusty pipes.
it’s another sleepless night for you, with the sky-shaped moon hanging above your head like a mobile. its visage is the only presence that makes you lift your head in reverence—an obligation born from tension in the marrow of your bones. your feet lead you to your kitchen, where your midnight rituals take place.
the kettle hums and shrieks. it never drowns out the other noises, but what else could you expect from an item bruised black?
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a hiss, a pour, a clink. the tea steeps the water beautifully, the moonlight mirroring luminary gold as it reflects the surface. like a luxury, almost.
“i’m going to [the capital].” your tone left no room for argument. this is what you want, and this is what you’ll get. you disregard the quiver in your lip as you meet the gaze of the people who gave you your life.
the television rattles on, and your mother’s voice overlaps with the news anchor’s as she immediately cries out in protest. your father barely acknowledges you in his seat, probably dulled by the domestic setting. he’s always been all too eager for work, work, work. you never knew why, but with the sparse information that you hold in every sense except for your sight—you do not wish to be enlightened.
your heart is hardened by the city. the last time you saw talahib leaves you thought that the things you’ll be hearing at night are stray automobile engines or rowdy upstairs neighbors. instead you found yourself at the hearth of a potential uprising, and you’re determined to latch away from anymore disruptions in your life. you refuse the heat, the risk of burning.
“it’s a land without regard for people,” your mother, bright like fire with words just as scalding, exclaimed, distraught with your departure.
you asked for this—a respite from the province, a change of pace. aside from the occasional street demonstrations, the noise from the city had died down, but it only reminded you of home.
it’s a good thing. the stone narrows they call streets could use some quiet—your life could use some quiet. god forbid your overzealous neighbors parade around the markets again. ambition only brings trouble, if their dwindling numbers are any indication.
it’s simply justice at play—weeding out the indolent and entitled, even if you miss how your co-worker Elias greeted you in your early morning shifts, and when aling Remi opened her windows so you could hear the records she’s playing. there will always be a bigger picture, and you’re doing your part by letting it be. there are consequences, after all. consequences you’ve spent your life witnessing—hearing. you’ve never seen anguish but you’ve heard it in defiance and smelled it in cigarettes more expensive than your shoes.
there is no more molten gold in your cup; dredges of tealeaf dust remind you of the impermanent warmth in your stomach and the weight in the pressure points of the back to your nape. it reminds you of your dinner earlier—watery and without substantial, nutritional value. for a moment you miss your mother, then your father.
“for a promotion?” you reply, as if the answer has never been clearer, “i can live with that.”
deafening silence commences, and it’s only then that you realize that cries have been stopped. the tension under your skin does not waver, however, as you initially hoped. the cold and the quiet sink in and you shiver.
you don’t bother placing your mug by the sink, where the water runs turbulent colors of bronze and unappetizing colors you wish you had the name for. your bed calls for you, and you lay supine to its whims. what follows the decrescendo is simply you—in the apartment with thinner walls than you would’ve hoped and a teething conscience you’re itching to abandon. you lay there, restless yet unmoving—stagnant. with your mother out of earshot, your father grasps your shoulder with a calloused (heavy with strength and how could yous—) whispers to you a premonition, “one wrong move and you’ll be eaten alive. keep your mouth shut and don’t disappoint me.”
you don’t know why you’re listening to him—when his face is reminiscent of the smoke he leaves than his meager legacy called fatherhood.
you’re not a stranger to ambiguity. you knew why he warned you—his only child, of what will happen if you even spark a flame in the cold, dry air they settle in. after all, what is a blade without its master?
the howls in the night are animal-like, or so you are convinced. they couldn’t be anything but.
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“don’t let them have their way.”
as these were the last words my mother had uttered before succumbing to eternal rest, they always stuck with me. in every thump of my heartbeat, these words were carried by the flow of blood in my veins and coursed through my body—my lifeline.
even long before arriving at her deathbed, my mother had already decided that those were the very last words she would mumble. the second she had laid eyes on me, still red and fragile, she knew she had to leave me this reminder because no one else will.
she was right.
my arms were raw and littered with bruises, it was as if the grapes growing in our vineyard had decided to take shelter under my flesh. yet the pinching only kept coming.
“no grinning, no smirking—just keep a polite smile! your emotions mustn’t show. no matter the pain or exhaustion you must never exhibit such negative emotions in front of your father or husband. no man will take a frowning woman as his wife!” screamed the woman hired by my father.
i willed myself to smile and stand straighter. but wearing a gown ornamented in different stones that shimmered with every move made it harder to do so. akin to this kingdom, the clothes had been extravagant but restrictive in nature.
“you still have so much to learn before you can even become royalty. we cannot keep wasting our time on such simple tasks! now don’t start scowling, that isn’t a very lady-like thing to do!”
a distant shout had pulled me back into the present. a few meters ahead of the carriage, a girl, a boy, and an elderly woman were standing on the side of the path.
“has your mother not taught you any manners? even if he had hit you first, you must never hit a boy back! he was merely trying to catch your attention and you should be grateful that he even took interest in a girl such as you!” the elderly woman continued to lecture the girl who in turn had no choice but to hang her head low.
as the carriage passed by, the elderly woman met my eyes. she quickly changed her demeanor and sputtered a greeting. i smiled back.
“do you see that woman? you should grow up like her or else no man will accept you and you will serve no purpose in this kingdom!” the woman’s voice rung in my ears. the tingling traveled to my limbs, paralyzing me on my spot.
“my lady, are you feeling well?” the chauffeur’s voice disrupted the numbness from further spreading.
“a-ah, yes! i’m feeling alright. great, even! although i would prefer you keep your eyes on the road, for my safety and your own,” i had replied. the chauffeur glanced from the mirror to the road before nodding hesitantly.
it was good that no one had been in the carriage with me. one could immediately tell that there was no truth to my words. my furrowed brows and the droplets of sweat sliding down my forehead would have made it apparent that i was feeling the opposite.
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“no other woman has been invited to the lord’s palace. you just might be able to soften his hardened heart.”
oh, i will.
getting into his palace was only a small part of my plan. i will be whatever he wants me to be—elegant, alluring. even if it means seeing him everyday and escorted by a man whose hands have stained other women’s skin. even if i have to get on my knees and throw any remaining pride i have away. i will stay closely by his side, leaving no room for him to doubt my sincerity. close enough until i can let go of his hand and finally grab at his heart and ridiculing him the way he has done to my people. maybe then, he will finally see the world like how it is for the women in this kingdom do: suffocating and violent. and when i have his heart, soft and whimpering at my mercy, i will mold it to my liking, like how he and his ancestors did to mine.
“welcome to the palace, my lady. the lord has been expecting your presence,” the guard welcomed me as they arrived and opened the gates.
as soon as i stepped foot outside the carriage, a man clad in silk clothing greeted me. he held his hand out, the smile on his perfectly sculptured face rivaling the sun.
“for a second, i thought you were going to stand me up. but i knew you were better than that,” he took my hand and planted a light kiss onto it.
i plastered on the smile i have practiced before becoming royalty, “oh, you surely do. i have never been the type to back down from a challenge, after all.”
it was no extraordinary afternoon. after taking me around the palace, spending extra time on showing me the pictures of the late kings, we sat to chat over a cup of tea. and before we knew it, we had spent hours on playing chess. and on every round, i would be on the verge of winning before i purposely make mistakes and have him win, just to stroke his ego.
“would you look at that, you won again! how do you do that?” i crossed my hands against my chest, feigning frustration.
“you should’ve seen this coming. you can never beat me in a game of chess,” he smirked, tone oozing with confidence.
“i no longer want to play this. i keep losing against you,” i raise my hand up in surrender.
he laughs, “okay, then. i can teach you some tricks i learned. maybe then, you can finally beat me.”
“oh, please. how can i ever beat you at your own game?” i covered my mouth as i laughed.
at some point, i might not have realized that i’ve no longer been fighting for the women weeping on the cobble streets just outside the castle gates, nor had i been fighting for the girls that had been sold off by their own families to men in exchange for gold and jewelry. unbeknownst to me, i have been fighting for my own pride and traded a life of peace and luxury for one that battles against patriarchy—perhaps i have been playing right into the hands of the it. after all, they have always loved to see women struggle. but soon enough, i will be able to rid of this system.
WRITTEN BY AURORA
VISUAL BY NABI AND SYLAS
ART BY FATLULU_(1008)
9
A day of arranging papers and listening to the calls of stranger’s voices— I exit a nine-to-five job, my tie tightened on my neck and my hair not a strand ruffled by the wind. The silver ring on my finger glints underneath the rays of a sun melting in the horizon, and I close my eyes, where in the dark depths of my mind, hues of warm yellows paint a clear picture of you laughing in tulip fields, a honeyed sphere in the sky illuminating your body. Static from the television rings in my ears and I stare at the pale light of the microwave, but it is the memory of you, sitting on our sofa, a smile dripping with fondness on your beaming, crescent eyes, my chest burning with the warmth— those eyes bring me home.
So I step into our threshold and open our front door, Shoulders relaxed, lips slightly upturned–the same expression you’ve given me since the day we both fell in love. My body twitches in await for your arms that wrap around my waist, after a long day of work. My eyes move up from our band of promises on my ring finger—
The grin on my lips drops with my heart to the ground. My blood simmers under my skin at the crimson staining your limbs and your sunday dress. You looked as beautiful as the sunset losing its vibrant warmth to make way for the shadows of the night sky. Even with the panic trapped inside your blue eyes, as your body painted a story of terror and sin, my bones tremble for your embrace.
A glint of sharp metal sitting beneath your shadow, traces of red on its edges.
A figure lies on our marble floor, unveiled from your gloom and unmoving beneath the amber chandelier. But the body owns a face that belonged to a boy, who played hide and seek with me in a tiny, cluttered house,
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WRITTEN BY VISUAL BY DAYEA
BY HIRAYA DAYEA & SPLENDORA
His face once alight in joy remained wide-eyed and open-mouthed, staring up at the ceiling, breath stolen by the vermillion puddle leaking out from his belly and creeping onto spotless grounds.
When my gaze falls back on you, I sway on my feet, like you had dug the blade into my skin and left the wound open to fester, the air snatched away from my lungs. The ache spreads from my stomach to my limbs, a chill running from the tips of my fingers to my toes shared between me and the cold body beside you.
The silver ring on my finger dims underneath the shade of a sun fading in the horizon. You used to shine golden, bright amidst tulip fields, but now, all I see is the scarlet, tainting and dripping all over your hues of warm yellows, until there is nothing left, but blood on a murderer’s face. A house once bathed in the fiery heat of our gentle touches and loud laughter, grows icy in the absence of noise, ghosts forming in our frightened silence. My eyes move down to the band of broken promises lying on my ring finger—
I turn away from your ashen face, your beauty that had pulled me towards you, now pushes me to flee out the front door, without looking back.
A night of unsaid words and listening to the cries of a distant lover’s voice— I exit a haunted house, my tie loosened on my neck and my hair tousled by the wind.
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WRITTEN BY ANGELLE A. VISUAL BY NANA
breathe— basking in the limelight, breathe; beneath all pearls and medals,
it bites back— when you’re at your peak, it bares its fangs
smile.
clasp trophies in your warm embrace, with undeserving hands adorned by a heartstopping smile
gnash— clench your worn-out molars; gnawing on fibers of the facade you’d protrude
reel in all the undivided attention— eyes fixated on every engrossing move, robotic; gear for gear, running on auto-pilot.
inexperience once shown with your heart on your sleeve, with anxious, trembling hands and cracked-up teeth
skim through the crowd, untangle which mask to use as you clench certificates; shaking warm hands with cold intentions— ,
smothered by sugar-coated mendacious words, your silhouette eroding and chipping away like rotting teeth
relish in the brief moment where despite feeling warm under your skin,
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until each smile no longer resembles your own.
delight in the praise of others, as you feel electricity pump through your veins; catalyzing you onto the top pedestal— for without pawns, a king has no control.
opposing all of the actions you’ve done— ridding of those who dared a coup, berating prodigies to question their worth; manipulating everything within the palm of your hand
until you start to see you’ve grown into what you’ve hated, a being with only self-interest, engulfed in narcissism saving others for the glory, and for your name.
extinguish— snatching flames before they even spark, using every means possible,
embracing the deranged human behind the mask with a warm hug; watering it with pride and ego, greed as fertilizer
so they see you as their light; gaslit into submission, under your tender care revering how you pay close attention to their woes—
until it all f
alas, until damasked with all the lies and fraud, you’ll play the good guy
a l l s a p a r t.
13
Hey, can you hear me, I draw a needle to take in the darkness from your veins into mine. This pedestal I do not care for if it purges your soul.
“I cannot let you be. I am your companion even when you think I am not— whom I wish to share the light I have with.” I have tried not to meddle with what is written in the book of fate…as you and I cannot exist in the same destiny. But it is in my hands to save yours, even if it would not let me hold onto it.
Chaos, how I adore you so. You aren’t meant to be loathed, you are meant to be loved. Our past is already behind us making our souls tied with assurance. As my salvation speaks, I cling on to the hope of protecting you, sheltering you, and saving you from the people who will harm you. So let this golden time be the moment that I can rescue you.
Of course I wouldn’t neglect you—I am a Heroine who will bring salvation to everyone as well as to you, my true companion. We oppose one another, but even so—Fate cannot break the bonds we built.
How does one claim true peace when everything that I do is for you—whom I don’t wish to be gone. Once more I plead, don’t leave—don’t leave me. Please Chaos, come back to me and reach for my hand—allow me to be your light in glowing armor once more.
VISUAL BY RENREN
WRITTEN BY THE MARTINET VISUALS BY AXILLEZ & KINO
(1972)
I entered the dismal chamber with the feeling of claustrophobia stoking inside my head—the surface felt like a frigid sting against my feet. And the vexing outcry of an innocent reverberated in my ears.
“No!” She looked at me with struggle bleeding out of her eyes—more painful than the anguish crippling on her skin. “Pray tell, what rather illicit deed have I done for you to trample upon my entirety and make a prey out of me?”
The malice in her voice made something in me snap and I thundered,“You are all but the very cause of chaos in this land! Isn’t this torment enough to put an end to your defiance?”
“I’d rather succumb out of love for my nation than conform to a ruthless caesar!” she sirens, and it sent alarm bells ringing in my head.
I clench my jaw and scoffed, blood boiling, my hand meets her face and the blood that dribbles from her mouth makes me cackle.
“Remember this,” I lit up my cigar and puffed it. I blew the smoke in her face. “You are but an ant against a bloodthirsty battalion.”
She scorned as I wave my arm around the chamber, “What is one voice against millions?
“What can you do then that can save you and your allies from us?”
“You do not know what we are capable of.” My face goes up to her face and I put out the cigarette as I shoved it against her collarbone. I clenched the wires and savored the pleasure it brought as I saw the surge of ire pumping in my vessels led actions that ruptured her skin and skeleton. And I traipsed away leaving crimson footprints with a devilish smirk plastered on my face. (1980)
The familiar reeks of red drifted across the same chamber. The tiles still felt cold, grim flush still defines what ambient means to me. Thousands of lives. Millions of people. I now saw a colony of ants against a troop—like fallen gladiators despoiled in the spoliarium—purloined of their right to taste even just a slice of liberty. It was pleasure of privilege that besotted the core of my being— relentlessly drowning me in daze and delirium.
And so another prey has been ferried to great divide—violet corpus, fresh red flanks against coagulated ones, entirety swaddled in rotten fabric of skin. It’s an exhilarating sensation sprawling across my body like a drug blowing me aloft in cloud nine.
Yet after almost a decade as a martinet warping the hemlines of humanity, a sudden cogitation hit me hard—brutal bliss have collided with gnawing guilt. It was a world of Armageddon that seemingly has no surcease.
When my blood-drenched sole reached its destination, I flicked on the radio…
Has it gone too far?
…and sat before this man-made apocalypse. I felt the bite of broken glass panes against my front— its slight poke was quite excruciating for the thickness that covered my face.
Have I let the splendor of privilege devour the depths of my existence?
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20
WRITTEN BY JO VISUAL BY PEN PEN
‘ women are like pawns:
women whose lips will twitch upwards, whose eyes will glow burning colors of passion, and whose voice mimics a child opening their Christmas present when ribbon-tied-together flowers knock their doubtdriven emotions down; allowing the lip stain on the collar of my ruffled white polo to remain unveiled while completely exposing itself. women wearing miniskirts and rays of sunshine are the same women who will trade their lives for ballroom dances and set up marriages with a man who offers a well-established fortress and their carriages leaving at dawn for another lady.
easy to tip off the board, set aside, and forget about.
women will fall upon my feet: women will cover their mouths when they burst out laughing because… men love women who are bejeweled with grace, decency, and etiquette.
women are man-made. they breathe the air we breathe. women are to kneel before us and their gowns veiling the sting of bruised knees. women will hate men and put their most expensive silk on a glim steak and mashed potato dinner. women will loathe men and crave our validation like chocolates on strawberries. and women will hate men and nudge other women for not morphing into a man-made society. ’
men are more potent than women. men are smarter than women.
“on a chess game, the queen always protects the king, do you know why?” she shifted her gaze unto me, her lips forming not a smile, but a grin. “the queen always submits to the king.”
i matched the grin plastered upon her face, my tongue searching the corners of my mouth.
“no. because the king will lose. the only reason why men have the upper hand is that women are used to protect your thrones.” checkmate.
at this moment, i was exposed–a scandal unveiled by a backdrop in a theatric play–along with my kingdom where newspapers of pennies and jewels bargained with women flew across every corner, the masqueraded ballrooms of society that only benefited us (men), and the weeps of ladies in laced gowns for freedom from the front porch reaching the halls like a poison reeking mud of darkness. she stood afront the screams of both agony and hatred–allowing the cracks to travel from one corner to another–and the continuous murmurs of passion for bringing our patriarchy down she has beknown.
she stood from the table–her cloak embracing her physique–with our kingdom crumbling.
she’s won.
my eyes were bloodshot when they darted on her. and the crowd cried both blood-boiling emotions and award-winning cheers.
22
“we’ve screwed your well-built society” she says.
Mere moments are between us, before the countdown of your heavy steps come to meet me at our doorway. The scent of coffee wafts through my nose, replaying our early mornings like a cozy melody of sweet nothings and buttered bread, as I watch the sunset through our window, when I hear knuckles against our door a jumble of caffeine and anticipation kicks into my system feet scurrying across our little home. With trembling hands I swing our door revealing the secret terror. His burly shadow towers over me, shrouding my figure in darkness. A likeness in your image donning a tailored costume and a scalp of waxed hair, but tainted by a yellow wicked smile; a feature common amongst the most ravishing liars. In a single step, a vile chill crawls behind my nape. My blood turns cold, organs almost halting as if to grant me mercy. Some days, I endure the edge of his filthy nails piercing my once unblemished skin. Everyday, I live under layers of makeup desperately hiding each red mark. When I look at you guilt consumes me, tarnishing the promise on my ring finger, the illusion of the perfect housewife I was supposed to be.
Disgusting gaze ruining marital chastity, Calloused hands re-tracing patterns of trauma, my ears pick up the dreaded metallic sound. Against the lust of my groom’s best man I must welcome with my weak limbs and gaze at our ceiling, as eyelashes conceal the mist of my eyes. With a kind smile I must remain buckling under the snap of a finger. Yet, morals falter and willpower dies. A horrific adrenaline courses in my veins as I clench an icy blade warming under my excited hand.
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WRITTEN BY AINE SINEAD V. GUILLEM
Life leaked from his leathery skin growing paler by the second. With his last drop of vigor a slur of curses fill the air. The wicked grin he wore now creeps onto my lips. A chuckle escapes from my mouth, as I stare ahead at our wooden door eager to share with you the death of the fiend.
And so...you walked in. Consequence in its human form. Damned weapon dropping to the ground. My boiling blood quiets under my skin at your loosened tie and tousled hair. You looked as beautiful as the orange skies casting its vibrant warmth to wrap my entirety in its soft embrace. Even with the fear trapped inside your brown eyes, as your body painted a story of a long, working day, my bones ache to reach out to you.
The look in your eyes murdered me. Forever will I be tormented by their reflection? A woman in her stained Sunday dress dripping of maroon and at her feet the corpse you loved better. Soul freshly departed, body still warm, those deathly lips spoke to you in a way my words never could. Worthless were my tears that wet the ground my bruised knees and throat, it took nothing for you to turn and walk away. To leave me wallowing in the ruins of our marriage, pricked by shards of shattered trust. Emotions I can’t name flow out of these wounds drowning my entire system and rendering my mind incapable as it becomes a mass of unthinking flesh.
What once was love flips into a wrath so blinding, now all I see is nothing but the back of a traitor—yours.
VISUAL BY SOFIA BEATRIZ
25
A. BLANCIA
Heave a breath. Breathe in and out slowly, long before my whispers, you tried to shut away— drown what’s left of you.
Loud and clear, my every syllable. Clench your teeth as I say, behind all your glory, you’re nothing but a fraud.
Stare at the mirror. Yes, let it haunt you. Even with a well-practiced grin, no one will miss noticing those bloodshot eyes.
Let your hidings haunt every inch of you until you realize, you can only ever hide from your true self.
In hindsight, they wanted for you to tell your story, but every word you utter goes unheard. Flinch as you take in the realization— only time will tell ‘til they’ll figure out the truth. WRITTEN VISUAL BY PRINCESS JAIMARY
BY PASTEL
F. SOLACITO & SIEG
Sense it in your throat. See it in their eyes. Read between the lines of their sweet nothing. They’ll think all of you is a lie.
Yes, bask in the praises, such honeyed melody to your ears, but I’ll never leave your side. I’ll keep plaguing you until you lose it.
Imagine the villainess you’re trying to outrun. Let the vision play like a broken record until you realize what you’ve become.
Your deceit is the only thing that makes you matter. You’re nothing without the spotlight— your five seconds of fame.
The words deafen everything out— your pleading, begging, and squirming to get free as you hold on to the person you never were.
Your arms and legs weakened as you lost your voice to my whispers. Yes, my dear, surrender yourself. Free who you really are.
You are nothing but a fraud.
JAIMARY
WRITTEN BY ARIES VISUAL BY ANDREA KIRSTIN D. RAMIREZ
I’m hearing your great all-knowing voice again, and it is irking me to the bone that you think that I am blind to the truth— leave me alone, Cosmos! The truth shall not set me free!
My blood that’s more black than red, puts you on a pedestal, while I am trampled over by this world that wishes nothing but to purge my soul.
Why can’t you let me be?
I am not your friend, Cosmos— Nor am I capable of sharing your light. We’re two different beings, says the book of fate— So, who are you to rewrite the odds and offer your heart that’s as pure as gold to a rotten person like me?
Stop kidding yourself, you do not adore me, I am meant to be loathed! This is who I am!
We did once wander the beauties of the world as one, but the rolling seasons have perceived those moments to be over— get a hang of yourself, your people are expecting you to defeat and not save me.
Look at me, righteous knight— you are meant to soar the gates of heaven, as I am longed by the fiery flames of hell.
You may try to deem yourself as the strong and mighty, yet your glossy eyes say the opposite; we are both tired of this, don’t you realize? This is a losing game for both of us—trying to defeat the odds.
So, I beg you for the last time, my dear Cosmos— Let yourself rest, as I finally lay down my sword in surrender.
I am setting you free from this never-ending war, and free myself from the shackles of my own hatred.
Let me be one with the night sky, as you continue to become the shining light that guides the lost souls of this city to their rightful place in this world.
Farewell, dear friend— let this be my final favor. Go forth as you continue your journey of salvation, do not think of me any longer because a villain like me is destined to vanish— If not in your glorified hands, then maybe my own.
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