My Tragic Character Flaw

Getting a broken heart for real would mean that I was finally loved for real. I’ve never had a broken heart.

When it comes to romance, I’ve encountered mainly four types of women:

The Blocker: so afraid of giving the wrong idea that she suppresses her emotions, even for a joke.
The Friend: no explanation necessary.
The Game Changer: really does want something, but eventually changes her mind.
The Perfect Stranger: whose eyes tell a story that the only girls who can love me are the ones who won’t.

And I’m more of a magnet for the Game Changer, which makes sense because everyone seems to think I somehow “get” women, though I’ve never been in a relationship. Once she sees through the charismatic, gentlemanly mask and finds the decrepit body that is me, however, it’s over.

Funny, how things turn out. As a baby, mother said I smiled at all the pretty nurses whenever they gave my shots. It scared their skirts off! The mysterious fascination I had towards the female gender was solved upon discovering what had happened to a childhood friend of mine. Subsequently, the disheartening news inspired me to start giving relationship advice to women online, based on the lessons I learned from Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy. Everyone sought after me, and I, to my surprise, rose to stardom with my brutally honest answers. But eventually, realization came knocking on the door and I grasped that I was the one in need of salvation, not them.

Realization can either be your best friend, or worst enemy. I’ve been made aware, ever since the fog of maturity clouded over me. I was much too young at the time, but life… what can I say? Through experiences, our unique nature is defined.

I remember the first time I fell in love with a girl. Keri had blonde hair and blue eyes and looked absolutely stunning in her white evening gown. When things inevitably erupted on that fateful afternoon, I got a good dose of reality that I never expected to be so necessary. I’ll never forget the tone of her voice.

“Ricky…” she started.

Immediately, I tried convincing her otherwise about the awful rumours. With tears streaming down her face, I realized what wasn’t happening when she talked about ruining our friendship. I was stuck in that dreaded zone, but as my world continued falling apart, the train of thought kept moving in its tracks; the progression of my weakness, being in separate high schools, and how as a boyfriend, I’d only become a burden. I made one of the hardest decisions within those crucial seconds and stopped fighting for potentials.

Although I was in tears when the day came to a close, learning the complexities of my romance was a huge weight, lifted from off my shoulders. I surrendered to the summer breeze washing over me as I watched her walk into the distant afar. My romances would always consist of hopeful beginnings and hopeless ends.

When Jeannie came into the picture, I already had a mindset that included no expectations. She was the girl who had it all, but lost everything amid breaking up with her boyfriend. I quickly became someone she could confide in, and sooner than later, we were on my first ever date, as I discovered. I promised to write about the time we spent together and she looked forward to reading it, but as soon as I revealed the story, she decided she wasn’t looking for anything romantic. This was after she wanted to start something with me. Or was I being super creepy, though asking my parents to drive around town and help stalk a girl actually deters me from being a criminal!

Do I resent her, or any of the girls who have turned me down? I never had an option with this disease, and I recognize the importance of choice. I never had the heart to hold grudges when this cross was mine to bear all along. Love isn’t genuine if you only show affection towards those who share it with you. I encourage myself whenever I make eye contact with someone and simply surrender to the contentment of hope that she is loved, because how could it not be true?

This summer, while shopping at Costco, I saw a lady passing by with her shopping cart. She had a terrible frown on her face, and in my mind, was probably a lonely housewife buying food for her bratty children. She just seemed sad. As she walked past me, I took my chances and smiled at her, and for a moment or two, had a love affair with every part of her precious heart. She wasn’t dressed all fancy and made up… in fact, she looked exhausted and her hair was a bit messy, while her clothes were kind of shabby, but I didn’t care. In my heart, she was a queen, and her returning smile was much too lovely to overlook, if I might say so myself.

On another occasion while leaving for the van, a tiny little brown-eyed girl suddenly walked up to me and smiled. I melted that afternoon because most children normally feared my appearance. I didn’t feel like a monster because of that sweetheart.

Do all good things happen at Costco? Who really knows, but although I’m lonelier than the oceans of time, I still try looking for happiness elsewhere in this bittersweet journey. I continue waiting for her, whoever she may be, despite losing a great deal of hope. In the meanwhile, my tragic character flaw is my unbreakable heart.

A Reason for a Kiss

Sometimes I wonder if dignity can actually exist within all this death I call my world. It was only several days ago that I decided to stop eating so I might leave this place for good. I aspirate on everything and can’t even comprehend the notions of life without proper food. I used to tell people that I’d rather be dead, but now, I’d rather die than to feel the agonizing pain of that sharp catheter going down my lungs for the millionth time. I refuse a feeding tube because I never wanted to be one of “them”, the muscle wasted genetic freak shows, hopeless, yet sooner than later, you realize that you were always them.

As I spoke to Wilma about my way out of here, how I could go into a medically induced coma while dying of thirst, I decided to stop the neuropathic painkillers, in hopes of strengthening my swallowing capabilities. The torment has returned, even with a couple less pills, the burning of fire like a continuous pouring of alcohol on an open gash. How am I to endure when 2100mg of numbing drugs that only take away 10% will be reduced to zero?

I am weak. I am courageous. I fall. I stand. I’m brought down to my knees. I push forward. I can. I will. I’m relentless. I’m unstoppable. I am power. I am human. I am imperfect. I’m skin. I’m bone. I’m life. I’m death.

When you realize that you’d rather have cancer than this wretched disease, and how much of a blessing it is to gasp for your final breath, you also realize that you’re too young to be so old. I tire of worrying that the ones at my funeral are too damned naive to understand the difference between giving up and letting go. If I died of natural causes, then to hell with their stupidity…

How do I rise and rise again from the darkness? As I learned not to fear anything, growing up with Duchenne, I became a god in my own mind. I must unlearn all of such fantasies that have kept my sanity intact throughout the years and harness my fear of having nothing near my mouth again. I must divert it and be afraid of dying instead.

No longer can I walk, no longer do I have the use of my arms, my hands, my fingers, with the exception of one and a half… and I can’t feed myself, I can’t even have the luxury of my own breath, I can hardly use the bathroom, and I choke on everything I eat. Screw this shit, dignity is MINE to make!

I’m angry, but I cry more often. I just wish I could be a hero, for once, for real, in someone’s eyes. And I wish she would hold me in her arms until this conflicted rage subsides, this perpetual torture, the unrest. If only I had a girlfriend, so she might kiss me and take away the misery. It goes against my beliefs, but I need a reason, and someone to love me too.

A Moment to Remember

The soft and tender underpart of her upper arm grazed my fingertips last night. I surrendered to the memories of her telling me some weeks ago that she started using a different kind of deodorant. Enchanted joked that she wouldn’t make me smell them, but what she didn’t realize was that I longed to get a good whiff of her cherry blossom pits. Another missed opportunity, I suppose…

I had a moment with her though. While laying me to bed, I looked into her eyes and she looked into mine.

“You don’t have to be jealous about Lisa, by the way,” I said to her, referencing that I was excited about another one of my favourite nurses coming for several nights in a row. “I love it when you come.”

Truth be told, I can’t be angry at her, no matter how hard I try. I just make excuses so I think I’m on the verge of getting over her. She is indeed one of the kindest people I’ve ever met, and falling for her is a cycle that never seems to end.

“I feel safe whenever you come,” I continued while she took a sip of water.

“That’s good to know.”

“You’re special.”

“I try to be,” she joked again. “Just kidding!”

“You don’t have to try.”

After turning to the other side for the continuance of physiotherapy, I was relieved to discover that if I wasn’t her client, she’d have considered me to be a friend, instead of brother or cousin. She later said brother, but I denied her change of mind when I said she was too pretty.

“You told me once that your boyfriend never wrote you a love letter before, right?” I asked.

“Well,” she started, “he did leave me a note once with my lunch.”

“That’s not a love letter.”

“I know, but…”

“He’s an idiot.”

“My boyfriend is an idiot?” she grinned.

“He should write love letters to you all the time! Girls love that kind of stuff. I know I do.”

“I’m old-fashioned,” I explained. “I’ve never received a love letter though.”

“I’m too romantic for my own good.”

Eventually, I confessed that I had given up on romance, following the number inquiry at National Sports. Honestly, it had been a long time coming. I wanted to use the scenario to let go of the hope for my romance for good. Yet as I told her, I realized again that comfort would never be a luxury of mine because she had nothing much to say. I think a lot of times, girls are afraid of mending my heart, in fear that I might get the wrong idea.

“At times, I wish someone could just say ‘I would’ without fearing that I might get the wrong idea,” I wrote in my upcoming autobiography, “but even the ones who tell me it’s possible could never say those words.”

I don’t like being right sometimes. I don’t like settling either, especially for women who have sticks in their hair!

“If I had a girlfriend, she better be prettier than you,” I exclaimed. “But that’s sort of impossible!”

“It better be,” she laughed.

And then it happened again when I looked at her, so I told her for the first time ever.

“You’re a little shy, aren’t you?” I asked.

“Me?”

“Whenever I look at you, you immediately look away and giggle.”

“I remember when you first came,” I began saying, “you were tired and you made two fists and rubbed your eyes. I loved that.”

Her face probably hurt at that point!!!

“My heart is numb,” I said. “But it melts every time I see you.”

Before falling asleep, I made one last confession: “I think I tell you too much sometimes, but if there was someone in the world that I wanted them to know who I am, it’s you.”

“Goodnight, Ricky,” she smiled.

“Goodnight, Enchanted.”

Last night was a moment; a series of moments to remember. I admit that it probably wasn’t ours, but mine, another creation fabricated by my foolish, lonely heart. I love her too much, and yet, there is no hope.

The Silver Lining

Letting go isn’t easy. Truth be told, I’ve never gotten over any of the women that I loved. I’ve been trying with Enchanted for the past while, without much success, not surprisingly. However, I’m slowly allowing myself to be released from her spell. Another failed romance, another friend to gain…

But this is a good thing, I suppose. I need to be cleansed of this hope, tainted by the undying fractures of my heart, which continues to haunt. I haven’t even had a moment with her in several weeks. The last time we did, I was telling her once more about the girl I love and made her cry.

“On the outside, she’s the most beautiful girl in the world,” I told her.

“On the inside, she’s the most beautiful girl in the universe.”

She started wiping her precious teardrops away. And while sharing photos of her late father, I made a confession.

“I love your Dad,” I said.

She started smiling at that point.

“Why?” she asked.

It was then that I held her hand in eye contact as best as I could.

“Because he gave you to me.”

At that moment, I realized again that her diamond droplets weren’t salty at all. They were in fact, the sweetest cries that my heart had ever tasted.

I admit to being caught completely off guard when I discovered that she donated only ten dollars to the Walk for Muscular Dystrophy. It had nothing to do with money, just that I was surprised at how she seemed as if she didn’t want to give. Though, it stabbed like a knife when she told me that the doctor from her work suggested making a donation.

“So of course I told him he didn’t have to,” she explained.

Was she purposely trying to hurt me? Like the time when she told me about the house that she and her boyfriend might be purchasing in the future. As I hesitated while still being kind, there was a guilt trip awaiting me.

“Or not…”

She has to know that I’ve been in love with her since a long time ago, right? Then again, it might all be a misunderstanding. I guess what frustrates me most is that she’s still with that jerk of a boyfriend. What kind of guy jokes about getting engaged? Enchanted had to tell him to stop.

Last Thursday, I went shopping for a cap at National Sports after getting sunburned (the consequence of not listening to mother). As I made the swiftest turn to take another look at the gear, one employee caught a glimpse of me and smiled. I stopped to smile back, but hers was so darn cute.

Upon seeing the beauty that defined her existence, I wanted to love every part of her. I daydreamed about lying next to her under the bluest skies, surrendering to the sunshine that made the golden curls of her hair melt into her darker roots. In my fantasy, I whispered in her ear how much I adored her everything.

“You’re strangely beautiful,” I softly spoke, “the way you inhale and exhale, how your shiny eyes blink, and the way you’re so alive.”

“How could such loveliness be real?”

Oh, how I wanted to exist inside the rhythm of her sweet breath. Was I in adore again, with the girl without a name? In reality, however, I turned around and gave her my giant mechanical ass when she walked past me, following our strange glances. I needed to redeem myself.

So obviously, Mom had to blow my cover, revealing to Dad my little secret. It was utterly embarrassing, especially since I was in the shower at the time, naked and blushing. Then she started explaining about the birds and the bees, and how young men were attracted to pretty ladies!

When I made my return yesterday, I was a nervous wreck, but forced myself to make the move… after telling my parents not to follow me. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. I just zoomed towards her way.

“How may I help you?” she asked.

“Can I tell you something?” I asked back.

“Sure.”

“I think your smile…” I said, as I timed my next ventilated breath.

“Thank you!”

Somebody kill me now!!!

“…is adorable,” I continued. “I saw a part of your heart last week and it was precious. I had to come back to see you.”

“Can we talk sometime?”

I don’t think she heard me as the conversation halted. She developed a huge grin on her face, but kept doing her thing. I refused to give in.

“Can I have your number?”

“I have a boyfriend.”

In fear that she felt like a horrible person, I immediately asked, “You know how people feel guilty about letting someone in a wheelchair down?”

“Don’t feel bad, okay? I’ll be fine.”

I didn’t know if she was in fact worried. I simply had to make sure she was all right. I drove back to my parents all red, with ears burning.

While shopping around, Mom dragged back to that girl to ask where we could find the Nike sportswear I wanted. Nosy! I smiled at her from a distant afar and witnessed how lovely she was, one last time.

Before leaving the store, I looked into the mirror and puckered up at myself. I realized that I didn’t have balls. I had grapefruits.

“I love you, Ricky,” I whispered.

During the van ride, Dad mentioned that it was a lost cause, so I explained the importance of looking on the bright side. Although the outcome wasn’t one that I desired, even when anticipated, I proved that I was indeed a big shot, unafraid. I needed this because sadness, above all else, is the catalyst for my great romance, in life and literary form.

Save Me, Someone

I think I’m going to grow boobs pretty soon.

It was only on Friday midnight when Enchanted couldn’t stop talking. Ever since she started coming once a week, we’ve been chatting like there was no tomorrow, but it was different. She was so much more comfortable. In fact, she just stood there next to me, holding my pee, and kept yapping away. I laughed at how adorable she was being, but soon realized again why I could never fall out of adore with that girl. When she finally left my room for the bathroom, I couldn’t help myself.

But that wasn’t an isolated incident, at least recently! A few weeks ago when she was giving me the urinal, she started talking about her boyfriend. She said that he kept teasing her about proposing and had to tell him to stop, or else her heart would be disappointed. I wondered to myself how someone could be such an idiot with her and realized that if she could still love him, I’d never have a chance.

Why do I have to love her so much? She keeps making me cry… can someone give me a hug already?

You know it’s funny because while a handful of inspirational cripples are all focused on sex and prostitution, all I want is a girl to talk to and hold hands with. What the hell is wrong with me? Absolutely nothing! The real question is what the hell is wrong with the rest of them?

Apparently, I’m a chauvinist pig for not respecting sex workers for their choices, and apparently, I just need to “get laid”. Sad, really. I was watching a repeat episode of Dragon’s Den a while ago and this entrepreneur wanted them to invest in her hair salon for men with female stylists that would dress up in scantily clad fantasy costumes (i.e. business woman, schoolgirl, etc.). How is that different from opening a “massage parlour”?

Such people always tell me that I’m a hypocrite because my “opinion” is opposed to my respect for women. Well, let me inform you how I respect women! I don’t respect all women, just like I don’t respect all men. I respect women as human beings, for the choices they make. I respect women who respect themselves for who they are, not their bodies, and if that makes me a pig, then so be it. I don’t really give a damn anymore.

I respect women enough to know that sex slavery and human trafficking is real, while participating in paid sex is also a potential of participating in rape. I respect women enough to understand that you might be taking advantage of a girl who had been sexually, physically, or emotionally abused in the past. Yet “men” are so afraid to have an opinion because they fear losing their chances at getting laid from offending some loose girl who might be willing. Pathetic.

And I just realized that I missed our one year anniversary on March 17! I remember during one of her first shifts, Enchanted unknowingly wore scrubs that were too revealing. I asked her to wear a T-shirt underneath the next time around because even though I really liked her, I didn’t want to see her half naked. I actually never thought of her that way and didn’t ever want to. I refuse to conform with the Duchenne-AIDS Muscular Dystrophy mentality because being a gentleman is something I strive for. Call me old-fashioned, but I still believe in marrying the girl I love before making love with her. I might end up a virgin for life, but I’m saving myself anyway.

Then again, although I stand firm in my values, my life isn’t the whimsical, positive fairytale that everyone makes it out to be. People think having a wheelchair means that I’m living in lala-land because I don’t need to worry about the darkness of human existence, but there is… darkness. I just didn’t tell you.

This disease has rendered me so strong that I’ve become liberated from needing anyone, but the nightfall of my heart remains unseen. You want to know the cold, hard truth? I want to need someone and be free of this emotional independence I had built since years ago. My heart is hurting, but not to the point where it’s broken. I’d sacrifice with death for a chance at something broken because a broken heart would mean I was loved for real, for once.

There is no eloquence in this romance of mine, this conflicted reality that conquers my heart. Why in the hell do I seek love when there are those who’ve died from DMD, and I should be grateful for the privilege of existence? Are my thoughts and yearnings invalidated because of my imaginary selfishness that is hopefully imaginary? Do I have the right to them? How do I get over these… demons?

Oh well. I was never meant to be another wheelchair angel who would please everyone. People keep telling me that I’m running out of time, but in fact, it’s being wasted. Every time I awake in the morning and realize it isn’t a nightmare, I feel like I’m growing too old. I might be living, but moments wither in the presence of this merciless illness. I want to go back because while all my friends are getting married and having children, all I see is the clock ticking faster.

Not that I want to play games. I don’t care for the devices we use to experience love. I don’t want meaningless sex. I nearly busted a tear duct when Enchanted was sticking a haemorrhoid suppository up my ass because her breasts were enfolding my chest while leaning on me. I wasn’t excited, only wanted to be with her, yet in that moment, there was no dignity.

This living death is agonizing, and so much so that I can’t be numb like I thought I was. I long too much for her to love me. I long too much for our shadows to collide in the winter shades of blue, beside a window where her lips come close to mine as her sweet whispers are breathed into my mouth.

Could someone ever love me? I can’t take this anymore.

Be Mine, Valentine

Dear Valentine,

When I look into your eyes, there is a path that unfolds. It leads to a journey of romance. There’s sadness in them, of modesty and kindness. As I discover your radiance, it takes me away to another realm of existence, one without darkness from these winter shades of blue. You’re my escape to a place of orange marmalade skies, and bittersweet fairytales of now and evermore.

There’s nothing more I want than to lie next to you, taking you away from the death within your heart. I want to show you how elegant it is, and that every extension is a key towards unlocking the secret gateways of redefining love. It’s to reveal that your tears aren’t really tears, but beautiful heart cries from dreamland, and touch your every teardrop, catching them away. I shall return them as shooting stars, making them free so you may wish upon them once more.

In the wake of my dreams, I see you from a distance, smiling in the sun. The surrounding pitter-patters melt into your silent whispers. As my eyes are brought down to the midline of your bottom lip, I find a bridge that links to every part of you. It gives me a new understanding that it’s not to simply love you as a whole. To love is to love every fibre of your being, and every crevice of your smile, individually and completely; learning to love you more.

Dear Valentine, whoever you are. There comes a moment in life when we realize that someone like you is never enough, where you alone are the only truth to discover, time and time again. I long for your touch. I long for you.

The truth is when I look into your eyes, I don’t know where to begin. Yet as I’m drawn to look deeper, I realize I’m not seeing the mysterious wonders of the universe, or infinite magnificence of stars and galaxies; the things I thought I’d see. I don’t even see the girl of my dreams. I see you, and you’re more beautiful than anything that dreams may conjure. You’re all you’ll ever need to be if only you could fall for me.

Will you be mine, Valentine?

As he takes your hand while you look towards my way, I wonder if you could ever know of my silent whispers. As I wonder if you could ever love me, I realize that the sadness I saw was from your missing another. The death inside your heart isn’t really yours at all. It’ll always remain to be mine.

Yours,
Ricky

Why All Girls are Super Gorgeous

Fat girls are super gorgeous. They’re like squishy pink balloons, shiny and glimmering, soft, delicate, and adorable. Your only desire is to protect and squeeze; hoping that she never gets hurt with a pop. When she cries, all you want is to kiss her tummy and look up at her to say:

“Baby, you’re my plump and juicy meatball, now and evermore.”

Then again, skinny girls are super gorgeous too. They’re like a melodic waltz of colourful sparklers, intricately designed to twinkle in their exquisite abode. Your only desire is to embrace her with fingertip dabs and defend her darling flame so you might wish upon her star forever. When she smiles, a twirl of rainbow glitter appears, inspiring you to kiss her on the forehead and say:

“Sweetie, you’re my spaghetti noodle, and I’ll always be there slurp your pretty heart.”

But average girls are also super gorgeous. They’re like silky white bed sheets, fresh from the dryer, sincere and honest, yet warm and inviting from within; a reminder that women should be appreciated for their individual selves. Even the sunlight glows in her radiance, while your only wish is to wrap her around until the end of time. Her gentleness inspires you to show how beautiful she is, and say:

“Darling, you’re precious like cheesecake, healthy and nutritious, yet fattening just a little. I want you all the more.”

TRUTH: Every girl is soft and gentle in her own super gorgeous way.

Her sweet embrace might make you surrender to the nocturnal wake of loving arms, but it’s when you close your eyes that you’ll finally see the light. As you turn your head towards her neck, the tender part below her ear will graze upon your shuteye. In her softness, you’ll catch a glimpse into her tender heart, guiding you to want to love her for everything she is.

In Search of Eloquence

Some call me the grammar police, even a Nazi… I say, language is a beautiful thing. There’s a saying that rules are meant to be broken. However, I appreciate their beauty because if I’m to engage myself in a matter, I’ll always give a hundred percent, or I’d rather not waste time.

You see literature has everything to do with improvisations, and nothing of the focus on restrictions. It’s about working around the guidelines in order to create poetry with words that are not only sleek and chic, but also clear and concise. As a responsible writer, it isn’t all about me when I care about those who make the effort to listen to a part of my heart. Working for readership is a necessity in the system of ethics of who I am.

Following the loss of my ability to draw, I took up this art form as a secondary dream, and although I’m unable to write with my hand anymore, I inevitably fell in adore with these squiggles and lines. Duchenne isn’t a part of me when I begin to lose myself in a blank document I call my home. I forget that I can’t walk. I hope when she comes along, whoever she is, that my literary fingertips might love enough to reach her pretty face.

Goodbye, Hello

It was a little over a couple weeks ago when Enchanted told me what had happened. While helping me pee, she said in great excitement that her boyfriend found the time to give her a nice surprise after mistakenly going to work hours earlier than usual.

“He brushed off my car,” she exclaimed. “And he even got me coffee.”

“My mom was like, ‘He’s doing a lot of stuff for you.’”

“It should be a given,” I smiled. “He is your boyfriend!”

Inside, I thought to myself, Awww, he’s a romantic retard! Deeper inside though, it stabbed like a thousand knives because I realized that no matter how much I did, and no matter the effort I put into making her happy, I’d never be deserving of her precious heart.

You see I know for certain that I’d make a good boyfriend, and keep thinking that I can do so much better than him. However, maybe this is why love can never happen for me. I’m so damned arrogant that I probably don’t deserve to be with someone, but I can’t help but get angry sometimes, being reminded about not having a chance. At the moment she revealed the aforementioned, I knew I had to finally let her go. I got beat by a hot beverage, which made me rethink my entire existence.

For years, I’ve been dealing with extreme physical agony on and off, but over the past several months, it was at its peak. My sister, along with primary nurse Wilma, has been trying to get me into palliative care for chronic pain management. They had a conversation last week and Wilma suggested that I get referred to their nurse practitioner to see if she could help. She then mentioned that Francis would ask if I wanted to sign a DNR (Do Not Resuscitate) form, meaning if my heart or breathing stopped, they wouldn’t try to revive me. I had always refused during routine checkups, but seeing as how much I’ve been through in the past year, including hospitalizations, near death experiences, and the “romance” department, I considered it. I was tempted to give up.

As we continued talking, I said that sometimes, even when I feel great, I start to panic and have to take an antianxiety pill just to calm my nerves. I told her I was so afraid of dying alone that it made my heart beat too fast, and I could hardly breathe. I’m more afraid of not fulfilling this dream than death itself, than never walking again. She was so surprised, that after nearly ten years of taking care of me, she didn’t grasp how serious I felt towards love and getting married.

When I explained everything to her, it occurred to me that I couldn’t sign. I wouldn’t. I refused because I can’t die without my great romance, even one real kiss. Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy will not be the end of me, not until I fall madly in love with the girl of my… heart.

But truth be told, I’ve never gotten over any of the girls I’ve ever fallen for. Of course, it might sound unfortunate, but in fact, I’m eternally grateful to the feelings of adoration and despair that they’ve given. I learned what it meant to love, to be a man because of them, from Janine showing me the art of writing through the dotted alphabets she drew in grade one, to Jeannie taking me in her arms and being the first girl to hold my hand. Those experiences didn’t exactly end well when they eventually changed their minds, yet I’m grateful to them because they showed such kindness in the beginning that I saw their hearts and it was impossible to become bitter.

Janine started giving all her attention to six year old pretty boy Ryan, while Jeannie… well, she didn’t have it in her heart to tell me, but I figured she couldn’t imagine herself in a relationship with someone like me. What matters is I learned that when you really love a girl, you have to take in her heart and show the same kindness, if not more. I can’t let myself get over because I’m forever in love with a girl’s intentions, actions, dreams, hopes, and fear to hurt others.

This is the reason I have no resentment, despite all the fractures that have become who I am. I’m stupid for beautiful and innocent and softness and home. I’d rather be hurt than to hurt because all I ever wanted was to be a gentleman and deserving of her sweet love. Letting go of Enchanted is the beginning of my romance all over again.

Last Friday though, I was talking to her and she told me that her sister had broken up with her boyfriend. He, apparently, was incredibly mean and indecisive, but she, even though a highly self-conscious girl, gave him a firm “NO”. I nearly blew a tear duct when I heard that story, and in an attempt to be a friend, asked Enchanted to write her a note…

“Dear Enchanted’s Sister,

You don’t deserve better because you deserve the choices you make in life. I don’t know you, but I’m proud of you for standing up for yourself. Thank you for setting a great example for women by being you.

Ricky”

I hope I made her feel good about herself.

Dear You

Dear You,

As their bodies collided in dance and song to music that kissed the air of romance, I watched on from a distant afar, wondering. Enveloped within the artificial moonlight, its melodic illumination was breathed upon by silence. Curtains painted with beautiful people unveiled, I surrendered to a blank canvas where every untold dream remained. I wondered where you were, my love, if someone would ever claim your voice.

You asked me to tell that everything would be fine, but darkness has already awoken me. It continues to manifest in a way that I never thought possible. All that I’ve built, all that I’ve fought for are falling apart. I’m lost without you, yet afraid that you might not exist.

Darling, I remember the summer of your whispers for the very first. I was only a small child, fallen to the pavement with nothing more than a metal pole in front of me. I was stranded inside the confines of a playground, without a soul to hear. It seemed an impossible feat, but I had to find my ground, somehow.

Placing my tiny hands on the steel touched by fire, tears were almost shed. I tried finding my grip with every ounce of strength, and continued in desperation with no success. That was until I heard your soft-spoken voice…

“Ricky,” you said. “Everything is going to be okay.”

Your words saved me that day, and resonated to become a reminder that possibility outweighed the impossible. I never cried once.

And here I am once more, searching for you. I often awake from my sleep, panicking and out of breath. It fazes me that I remain alone. How can I save you when I can’t even save myself? I’m so exhausted, tired of all this endurance, but I fear dying without solving the mystery of your graceful silhouette.

Sometimes I catch myself fantasizing about my first and last kiss, as I gasp for my final breath. I dream of closing my eyes to your quivering lips and opening them to your face in sunlit radiance. When will you take me away from this death so I might finally find life?

Dear You, whoever you are and wherever you may be. As I gather the shattered fragments of who I once was, all I see are the broken reflections of you. Through millennia and aeons in space and time, I have loved and longed for you. One piece at a time, I shall find your romance, your mind, spirit, and soul, for you are with me, in loneliness and in unity, now and evermore.

With adore,
Ricky