A Penny For Life

I usually get the picture of this because I know very well what it feels like. It's more than just merely crumbling from your toddler shoes. As if to drown from the drain of your tragically-woven clothes for several torturous years. And eventually, like any normal bruised human being—you heal from something frightful and recover by giving the exact amount of affection to others that you have suffered to attain for yourself. To what extent can something so real bring about half of the population to a complete genuine embrace? Or maybe love does the ruining.

Insane thought, yes? Although, I think some broken people just can't chew yet the decency to be humane to others who have cost them their lives. Because I too, cannot stomach such a thing. But I also think some others who were shredded like a bleeding paper inside of them tend to choose mending in just a blink than any sort of tempting anger to feed their infected soul. And that's fine. I know, because sometimes no matter how grave we have grilled our skins to the deepest parts of our rage and hell, we still hurt as if we just bruised our knees from childhood. But we know it's more than that. It stings deeper than just a scratch but we have endured it every day as if a natural thing like breathing. Still, either way, it's a coping mechanism for every wound that we have failed to hide from the naked world.

It's just that what boils down to the tiniest bits of my patience and humanity is a violent curse to everyone who exceeds nothing but pure greed and evil. The true value of the world, that's what they say: just the right amount of kindness to compensate for all the vile spirits making up almost the entirety of our souls. I know humans weren't born from it but the amount of chaos today made me skeptical. Maybe cruelty is what's being passed onto generations as if a bygone curse from our kind and not genes or other magically-made ambitions.

Perhaps yes, I may have known that we're mostly sleeping underneath a bed of untold skeletons and attempting to bury them in our graves. Be of the same evil in some way. Enraged in a familiar kind that we have mostly gained from trying to exist in peace no matter the impossibilities. But agony and suffering in light-year gaps do not fire up the globe for some scientific logic but the people in it who are just plain barbaric. Mayhap we burn in a poetic sense or literally, nothing is different when we graze our own lives with the same ruins over again at the expense of trying to figure out who was hurt the most.

I speak on behalf of those lives that were cut short just because they once bare themselves in exchange for a tiny hope. But instead, lost to the surmised fate of disguised salvation. I wail for my silent sobs that probably resonated in someone else's eyes whilst they make rocks from their hearts. Just because they have to be awakened with strength and other godly forces for having loneliness in their veins and weaknesses flowing out from their limbs. And I want to lividly unveil each one of their sins that made them this way enough to wreck someone's life for absolutely no reason at all.

Self-satisfaction. Is this what some call it? Perhaps if we were treated with the same burden a monster could haul, should their wounds close one by one. And in the slow pace of life, I will be like them and repeat just the same. I am bred from the flesh without leniency and made a lot more disintegrated than my own blood. As if a brutal way to exist within a relative soul as if an endless life of patches and blood.

And after all this time of being seen helpless, for a tiny drop of humanity to lay awake behind my tongue—I am just ruined fathomless like a trigger of some sort. And I despise it so when people try to scathe what I can offer so willingly as if I was kind enough to never experience hell after I have chosen compassion over revenge. I despise the life I have to live in exchange for a futile faith. I am beyond my anger for being able to exist in the name of ever-fading devotion as bits of me are made up of hideousness a lifetime could ever permit.

“Really?” I could taste the rebuke and betrayal around it. “Is this all that takes to be of worth like a beating heart?” What priceless destruction to ever cross paths with the humans! Havoc in existence is a sin in the sense of life—way more deadly than others that were named underneath the gods. And we have committed it day by day with another price to pay as if what we are is not just enough.

@rks.wuhdrelis

_{A warrior of liberty. With ink stains on her mind and soul. Maayong adlaw! This page contains the information you might want to know about the author. She goes by the name Arques and is under the username @rks.wuhdrelis. She lives in Cebu, Philippines, and is a proud Bisaya. She is a listener of music and is currently drowning in the rhythm of her pop-punk playlist. And she reads too, either depressing or hilarious books. Words from MJ, btw.}

_{Arques is an 18-year-old girl, on a mission to her dream college and a writer wannabe is her reputation. There's a thin line between writing and music that enthralls her mind to scribble every time she has a chance to. To write is to dream and to dream is to be free. Except for nightmares, she believes so. She fancies writing prose poetries that is usually about childhood, life, love, tragedy, something peculiar, or even unnamed emotions. Stay tuned!}