Search

DoodleScribbles

Scribblings and scrawls of a hopeless romantic soul

I was asking for it

b&w, girl, hands, light, sad, sleeping
(c) Favim

I was not at the wrong place at the wrong time. Their eyes followed me with a laugh— or perhaps a mock— as I sit on the stand. My anguish did not mean a thing and I only reaped what I have sown.

I was asking for it.

When my shaking hands pointed at man across the room, I saw them smirk. My giggles the other night begged to differ the word I am trying to utter, R A P E.

I was asking for it.

Before the judge, the defense flashed a picture of my girlfriends and I. Hands holding a glass of vodka, laughing with our heads thrown back, the neon lights flashed before our tight miniskirts. I felt dirty with shame as I buried my face in my palms.

I was asking for it.

I should have known better the moment I slipped into my short skirts and high heels. I should have known the danger and the danger I bring. You see where this is going, right? When a man twice your age stops you with a leering face, it is your fault. Men will be men, and we are but a single piece plucked from their ribcage that they need to reclaim. It has always been their birthright.

I was to blame when his groin pressed down on me as his tongue slithered all over my skin. My shouts were that of ecstasy. My tears were that of joy, they say. I fucking liked it because my breath quickened with every thrust!

I was asking for it.

He showed the marks on his back with pride. That night, I buried my fingernails deep into his skin. God, I wished they were knives. Each night, the bare wall in my bedroom echoes his moans. His groans. The sound of slap from an unrecognizable monster plays on repeat. No anti-depressant or pill can help me sleep.

I wish they were knives.

I wish to be guilty of murder.

I wish I had killed that man.

I was never told being a woman is an open invitation to be fucked. That I am a platter of legs, thighs, breasts, and neck served for hungry beasts to devour. And when the meat is handed free, what kind of animal would dare to scowl?

I was asking for it, wasn’t I?


“Duterte, in a speech in Mandaue City, joked that his hometown of Davao City has a high number of reported rape cases because it has many beautiful women. Those who attended the President’s engagement laughed at the joke.” –GMA News

This is Philippines. Where a president jokes of pardons for soldiers who rape. Offers Filipino ‘virgins’ to foreigners with purchasing power. And orders soldiers to shoot women rebels in the vagina, so they become ‘useless.’ This is not the first time and it will not be the last.

This morning, through a friend’s post, I read a circulating issue regarding one Angkas driver here in Cebu. Angkas, a motorcycle ride-hailing service accessed through a mobile booking app, has been one of our reliable mode of transportation for quite some time. It appears that he was pressing the lady passenger to come with him to a motel.

This afternoon, in a sports warehouse, a man kept on stealing a gaze. As I was checking out shoes, he brushed his hands to mine “by accident”.

Tonight, as I get out of work, I do not want to go home. I assessed I have gotten used to it but the thought of men giving you catcalls and ogle as you pass by them is equal parts disturbing and tiring.

No harm done, they say. But what of the seconds we spent holding our breaths? What of the palms curled into a fist, just in case? What of the trembling knees? What of the fear as we breathe? Don’t these count?

out of sight, i’m out of my mind

img_4192

the moon beams with your smile
and i weakened to my knees
like a madman, i hunt the streets
but the night hides you in vain
leaving memories on footpaths—
the aroma of coffee
the sweetness of ice cream
the taste of both on your lips

i love you
and there is no other way
not to

out of sight, i’m out of my mind

deny me
anything, everything
but not you

we got ourselves drunk in love
and left each other thirsty
these memories won’t suffice
but with them, I’ll survive
and until then I will cherish
the aroma of coffee
the sweetness of ice cream
the taste of both on your lips
MS


In response to dVerse’s Poetics: Twisted Adages hosted by Jilly who challenges us to  craft our poetry around an adage (or two) that you must change in some significant way.  And since I am missing someone today, here’s a shoutout to the good old adage, out of sight out of mind. This little piece beg to differ. 😉

Head over here to join the fun!

dverse

A Homo’s Inquiry

fb_img_1535198317450

earth—
ripe of evolutionary changes

a come and go
of fire and ice
death and life

species emerging
taking places of those lost:
arthropods
dinosaurs

humans—

killing the land
killing its own

are we heading towards another extinction?
or is this some faulty evolution?
MS


In response to dVerse’s Quadrille #63: Feel the Earth move hosted by Kim and Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie’s Photo Challenge hosted by Nekneeraj.

Head over here to join the prompt:

dverse

When the Night Warrants Death

I have just spent a night among the trees, out in the cradle of the mountains. I thought I’d carry the memories of that fun night a little longer. I thought I could look at the moon with a smile. But not tonight.

Tonight, anger simmers in me at a constant roil. I want to wail and rail against the world. This heart feels as if it might break through my ribcage from an intense revolt. For the first time, I hated the night. Not because of an American post-apocalyptic horror film but because of something vile and real. They come in uniform with their hands of steel. Filling the night with a staccato of gunfire, leaving men half blown off, fatal wounds in the head or face. I hated the night for they come in it. And they warrant death.

This quiet is piercing. The night is orphaned from the sound of crickets. I wonder if they knew. I wonder if they are mourning too. I wonder if the crickets offer this brief silence to the stolen lives of the dead just as I do.

The night cries justice
A long pause from the crickets—
Can somebody hear?
MS


In response to dVerse’s Haibun Monday: The Sounds of Koorogi hosted by Victoria C. Slotto. This piece might be a bit digressing from the topic but I hope it counts.

Currently, my mind is in rigor from reading about the death of seven men from Antique. They were rebels, members of our local red fighters. The AFP came in the middle of the night to serve “arrest” warrant to two men but it ended with death instead. What really happened, only the crickets know. This shouldn’t be a shock, they say, for the body bags have been pilling up. But it still makes me sad and mad. Especially when I found that one of them goes by the pen name of Maya Daniel. I came across this poet last 2017. He writes poignant and painful poems, each is a cry for freedom, liberation and resistance from oppression. His death marks another voice silenced, another pen deprived of ink.

Head over here to join the fun!

dverse

Snippet: (Non)sensical ruminations

always, beautiful, beauty, boy, couple, forever, girl, hug, love, lovely, night, sky, stars, together

“Death might be life in prison”
I wonder what you’d say when I tell you this.

Last night, I carved a path out of this carnal flesh
Wanting to leave the world behind—
Thoughts, feelings
Images, emotions
Flickering like jeers from far-off constellations

Death, this world has too many body bags
And the irony that prison has become a safer place is a shame

Between us, I was the lesser WHY-person
And you were the one with the bigger questions
Transcending physics to the realm of extraordinary things
While I was lost in poetry and daydreams

Detached from the physical body
Passing through astral planes and realities
Talking about death and life
A skeptic and a believer at the same time—
This is how we’ll make love

“Death might be life in prison”
I wonder what you’d say when I tell you this, love.
MS

 

Arms

banksy

in a perfect world
arms are safe haven—
body parts
wrapped around your waist

they are not pieces of steel
sending you to hell
or to heaven
at point-blank range

in a perfect world…

arms bring bodies closer
not bodies enclosed in boxes
MS


In response to dVerse’s Quadrille #62: Thinkin’ Inside the Box  hosted by De Jackson.

For some reason, today’s prompt reminded me of the rampant killings in my country and the world as a whole. 😦 The image above, Soldier Flower Gun Boy, is another guerilla graffitti from Banksy that has stirred the minds of many with its irony and juxtaposition. The image speaks for itself.

Head over here to join the prompt!

dverse

Memories Sting

beautiful, black, black and white, girl, hair, photography, window

I woke up with scattered thoughts of you. Memories tossed on my bedroom floor. I tiptoe as I reached for the remote control, aware of what could happen if I step on one of them. A headline flashes from the flat screen. Today the world remembers the 140,000 deaths of the Hiroshima bombing. I can already hear you laugh. You, in your black shirt with that big bold quote that says “Fuck Imperialism”. You like women who can’t spell capitalism and it’s exactly the reason why you held my hand. Because I hated the numbers.

Outside, the world is a limbo. Cars going to and fro in a dull locomotive pace. I remember you complaining how God is a lousy screenwriter. On how this universe has become lopsided because he has rounded animals and humans but fucked up with the food chain. Men killing animals. Men killing men. “What madness!” you used to yell.  God, I miss you and your opinions. Those random sarcasm that turn into a long eurhythmic condemnation.

I calculate my decision as I snug on my pillow. What are the odds of living if I get up on this bed? I remember hands wrapped around my waist, soft kisses on my nape. You gave a scientific inquiry on how long can hugs last. I got up because my answer still has not changed— infinite. Today the world remembers the 140,000 deaths of the Hiroshima bombing. I have never seen the Fat Man’s wrath. I have never washed my face with blood. I have never ran away from death. I have never fought my way to live. But those 140,000 men must have felt far more torment than this heartbreak. And so, with shame, I must carry on this fate.

the wind whispers woes
of the dead and the living—
how memories sting
MS


In response to dVerse’s Haibun Monday: Peace Memorial hosted by Frank J. Tassone and Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie Wordle #206.

Image Source: Favim

Head over here to join the fun!

dverse

Eyes Scream

We tend to eat ice cream every time it was cold out. Like that one night I let you try Moonsky & Sunny. You could not decide which flavor so I chose coffee and chocolate mint instead. Beneath the moon and sky, I gave you a sunny smile. You laughed when you realized I was waiting for a feedback. It tasted great, you acquiesced. The next time we ate, you picked the place. I remember getting lost and strolling quite a distance. You kept saying sorry and it was the first time I told you how I love long walks. And so we did. Seven kilometers long. There was also this one night you told me about a funny man who sells dirty ice cream on the street. We found him along the honking and crawling cars. A man in his 30s wearing a slim-fit white t-shirt and faded blue tight jeans. This time you waited how I’d react. Did I tell you it hurts to suppress a laugh? And how could I miss last night’s sundae? Down with cough and cold, you said you it was nothing. Stubborn man. You talked your way out with politics, laws, and secrets. And I found myself in silence— yet again. Eating my ice cream, in muted words, my eyes screamed: damn how I love this human.

Moonlit silent nights
Memories of you and I—
Burning senses, sigh
MS


In response to dVerse’s Poetics: Sounds of Silence hosted by Dwight Roth who challenges usto write a poem about the human condition that eludes to silence, especially the sounds of silence. What is being said when nothing is spoken and no sound is being made?

Head over here to join the fun!

dverse

Smithereens

b&w, couple, cute, hands, holding hands, relationship

And slowly it all made sense—
Like puzzle pieces building up
One piece at a time
A laughter shared
Coffee in hand
Portions, memories
Guesses, moves
Finding possible connections
In similarities and differences
To see the bigger picture
Until the smithereens fall into place
MS

In response to dVerse’s Quadrille #61: Puzzle hosted by Mish.

It’s been a while since I’ve written for dVerse. YAY! Glad to be back. 🙂
Image Source: Favim

Head over here to join the fun!

dverse

 

Up ↑