letters to my father (i)

Let's say it simply.
I learned the hard way that money can't buy happiness. Sure it can buy you mint chocolate-chip ice cream with oreo topping but still --when I'm not happy I don't even consider getting out of my bed to buy a tiny cup of ice cream.

I learned the hard way, that having lunch at a place that cost 1/4 of your college tuition doesn't make you happy. Nor the nights you spend looking at Hong Kong cityscapes that cost 10 times of your monthly allowance --for a night. I learned that I was still unwanted. I am still unwanted after all these times. No matter how many tons of gold dust you sprinkle on a dirt, it's still a dirt.

I learned, in the most precise way, that the term 'crying your heart out' is somehow a correct portrait of how I spent last night crying. I learned that six tiny cubes of ice in a plastic bag can help reduce your puffy eyes efficiently.

What I learned the most was, how pathetic I was, for thinking I would be happy after I move out from your place. How stupid I was for thinking you hate me--when afterall, being angry and over-possesive is what love is for you. How terribly I long to go back to you; to your embrace, to your love.
How pathetic I am now, missing you like there's tomorrow to laugh at, to think that a dozen of tissue sheets can absorb all my liquidized feeling.

I miss you, like a rotten apple with gold painted on her body and words 'For The Fairest' tattooed on her soul missing her tree --a tree that she can't go back growing from anymore.

letters to my father

on how money can't buy happiness

My Perfectly Pathetic but Poorly Produced Past-Valentine Post

"It’s funny how artistic we become when our hearts are broken."

— Hotel Books, I Always Thought I Would Be Okay

I guess it must’ve been nice having a black sheep in your family.

Because you thought making me cry on my own birthday and feeling guilty all the times must’ve make you feel better about the daughter you lost approximately 20 years ago. I am not her replacement, you know. I might address you as mommy and whatever but I, for heaven’s sake, have feelings too. Maybe I'm a doll to this game, but I’m not yours. Might be broken here and there, and needs some patching up, but not yours. Never were.

Why do you have to make me guilty all the times? Your angel-disguised judgemental stares and mockery to everything I did. I’m always the wrong one. Never the right one. Never the one deserved your abundance care. Unmistakably pain in the arse. Spend too much time in my room. Spend too much time going out. Spend too much time living.

I guess being the black sheep kinda nice except the fact you need to broke down in once a while and cried silently in your dark bedroom —because you don’t want anyone to know you’re in there, and then washed your face and pretend like nothing ever happen, just to remain strong. Just to remain intact.

In hope you won’t break me anymore seeing how unbroken I am. Oh, the paradox.

I guess I’m not tough today because I type this down while crying.

I wish I was enough, mommy. I wish you would read this —but seeing it’s you, you probably won’t because you don’t know me that well. You don’t know my favorite song and my strangest pet peeve and you don’t even know I have moles in some secret places I never told anyone. You wish I was her. You wish I was the perfect replacement doll, but dolls have feelings too sometimes. I call you mommy, but you’re not my mother. I have my mother, and father, and even though we’re not perfect, I have my family. My own fucking family.

I wish I was enough was my other word for leave me alone, but I really do wish I was enough.


(Originally written in my tumblr blog, then re-edited here. I know it's been a while but for the past months I lose interest in writing. Might come back here for extensive word vomit, and yeah, I miss this blog too. Changed back the font. Hope you like it. 'Till next time, okay.)