kamukha mo si paraluman

Francesca Caeli Agulto

Don’t be a Manic Pixie Dream Girl

“You’re not like other girls.”

He complimented my thrifted dresses and cheap headphones. Rivermaya faded like it came from a Jeepney radio, it was just better. Better meant they fit his indie superiority complex. Better takes him to the record store despite Spotify existing. I’m not like other girls, I’m better.

I choose being better over myself

Better had his hand holding mine Calloused, bruised, but held.

Better sold my soul to Rom-Com scripts. Desperate writers’ words a manual I’d follow to keep being held.

Strumming Balisong, his favorite. Seven chords repeating as my fingers start to bleed All for him to give me bandages after.

My hand a mishmash of tan, white, and blue. I didn’t even like the guitar. I just liked playing with him.

Sliding down stairways of heritage homes. Crashing and laughing at bruises. Running from the guards.

Quoting Nietzsche’s meaning of life

As I trace every purple mark on his skin

Insisting that pain makes us profound.

Profound, but not better.

I traded my humanity to be a fantasy

A watered-down Zooey Deschanel.

Realizing I can get sick of dancing in the rain

Burning with a fever, bedridden alone. My bandaged hand the only thing accompanying me.

“You’re not the girl I used to know.”

He told me when my hair dye started to fade Roots damaged, the constant bleaching didn’t make it better. Better was an act I wanted to stop playing. Better was a concept for his attention. Better never even existed.

Kristen “Winsoar” Campos