An Ode for My Heart-bled Ink
written last August 2024
To say only one person has impacted me and my pen over the years is superficial. Should I answer the question of who influenced my writing the most, it would reveal how lightly I hold attachments. And if people knew me, they would see the truth behind the white lies, that I hold people so tight, that my heart bleeds with the slightest change, be it a change for the better, or for the worse. My ink stains red with every move of the lifeline with the people I meet, be it blood stained for pure joy, or one filled with utter destruction. Every connection made, be assured (or be terrified), is another puncture to my heart, another reason for the words to keep spilling.
Let this piece be the pieces of my heart, desperately woven into one piece of writing, even though my pen and my heart knows how futile the efforts may be.
One: An Ode to the Lover Who Failed to Love Until the End of Time
“how on earth
did the constellations move
that our hearts exploded into a million pieces,
and we were left bleeding in our safe spaces
that turned into haunted havens?”
An ode to the lover who loved, but failed to love until the end of time: To the one who made me realize I am indeed a tortured poet, and inside me are countless of poems, of stories, I keep inside. The departure shook me to reality: That I ought not to keep my stories inside and only for him, but for the world to hear. Maybe, a stranger can pick this piece of my heart, and somehow fit the hole inside theirs. And if they felt someone understood them, in a comforting or despairing way, I will know, that as a writer, I have bled the same way other brokenhearted people have bled. And they can take heart
Two: An Ode to the Friend Worth Loving
“here’s to the girl
who I met two months ago
and two days when we broke up
invited me to cry along
a band’s songs that I’ve never even heard of,
and never knew existed.
and two weeks later;
asked me to go out and meet in a coffee shop.
Life since then has become so much better.
She taught me,
there was so much more to life
than a romantic love
that wasn’t worth fighting for.”
An ode to the friend who was a firm believer with constellations and zodiacs, with what the universe has laid out, and with karma and retrograde. When I was just one who used the constellations for metaphorical writings and instrumentations for parallelisms and unknown destinies, she used it for guidance. When I felt lost, too lost to see the road in front of me, too lost to search for anything in the darkness, she took my hand and went straight for the light. She ripped off the bandage and let the wound bleed. She saw how badly I needed help, and how terrible the bleeding was, and called the surgeon. She saw me drown, to the point I didn’t bother to swim afloat and still thought I was worth saving. So she swam, until she found me. She pumped my chest until I remembered the sensation of chasing the air, and reminded me, never to forget the sensation again.
Three: An Ode to the Mountains that Never Moved, and the Seas that Never Dried.
“a toast
to the mountains —
who kept me sane,
who allowed me to scream
until my voice got hoarse
calling his name
that never answered
to the oceans —
the place where we started
and the place we poetically,
tragically,
had our ending.
who with the waves
wiped every tear I had
that my sorrows are acknowledged
until I won’t recognize them
in the sea
that had their fair share of tears.”
I realized, rather shockingly, that I couldn’t move the mountains after all, and I couldn’t dry the seas with all the faith I had. But, I can climb to the summit, and I can dive under and reach the seabeds. And although my faith couldn’t do the impossible, God enabled me to push for the things I never thought I could do. And in the moments when my heart was breaking, and the ink wouldn’t stop spilling, and the words refused to stop pouring, the simple act of breathing felt like moving mountains and drying waters, that was more than enough.
And so, this piece of my stained heart ends with a bittersweet reality, with my heartbreaks, mountain summits, and drowning and saving, all of these made me the tortured poet and wistful writer I am today.
And while I couldn’t say I would do everything again the same way, I can say that I don’t regret it. Every painful connection, every interaction with the lifelines’ reactions, is worth my heart bleeding and the ink staining.
