"Large fruit salad with condensed milk, please."
"Your name, ma'am?"
Whenever we order our favorite coffee, milk tea, frappe, fruit juice, shake, slush or food, it's been a conventional thing nowadays to have our name written on the container. That way, other people would know that it's ours, not theirs and they would just step back.
I never wanted you to be one of those comsumable goods that I will just savour and devour merrily, and in a blink of an eye, you're gone. No. Never. I don't want you gone.
But somehow, I wish, like my only order at Fruitful, I can also write and plaster my usually-mispelled name on the part of your body where everyone could see it. I want to brand you mine. I want everyone to know that they cannot have you because somebody already owns you. And the name is Myka. Not Micah. Not Mayka. Not Mica. Not Mika. It's MYKA.
The other night, I've found out something unexpected and it lead me to writing this. I know it's inevitable and I cannot grab someone's eyes in case she looks at you like you are some damn blue ocean, beautiful, calm, charming and inviting, because you actually are. And I cannot blame and stop girls from having a crush on you because, in case you forgot, I am fucking one of them. It's a truth I've come to hate as time passes by. It's a truth no one can question because of the clear evidences I indiscreetly write and post about on social media and writing platforms and on a notebook I didn't even bother to hide from everyone's eyesight. It's a truth my history cannot deny because this is remarkably one of the highlights of my boring life.
As much as I loathe the fact that I'm so into you, the most heartbreaking part of this dilemma is the veracity that I never once crossed your mind as a girl who'd call you hers. My name will never come out from your mouth as someone who reigns on your mind. You will never declare Myka as the girl who owns your heart.
And so I sit here thinking about how this life is never fair. Yes, I've caressed your handsome face with my palms but I can never be the last girl who can touch it. Yes, I've held those warm hands but I can never be the last girl who can lock them with mine. Yes, I've kissed those soft, irresistible lips but I can never be the last girl who can taste the heaven it brings. Yes, I've once lingered on your thoughts but I can never be the last girl you'd think about all the time. You live every day as if I don't exist in this world while you became the life of my dormant world. Your face is my drug that gets me high whenever I lay my eyes on you. Your touch ignites my cold and lonely heart, setting me on fire. Your kiss is the sweetest of all I tasted and I will never get enough of it. I think of you before I close my eyes to sleep and think of you again as I wake up the next morning. You are the wish I whisper in every penny before I throw it in a wishing well or fountain. You are the man behind my beaming smiles and overflowing tears. Above all, you are the words to my poetry, be it about bliss or misery.
I know I've been through a lot of unfair situations since time immemorial and this is not the first time, but how come it feels like I've been denied with something I badly want? It feels like I've been declined to the biggest request I've ever made. It feels like I was never a good girl so I didn't see you under the Christmas tree. This is injustice! This is painful.
I guess this is going too long. Before I end this never-ending rants and write-ups, let me remind you of the late hours when I told you I am yours. Let me remind you that I still am even without your arms pulling me close.
Always,
The Girl With A Usually-Mispelled Name