literary limerence

pieces of poetic prose and verses



Everybody falls for the charm of a manic pixie. How can you not love those big dark eyes and childish laughter? Kissing in a tent in the woods, frolicking in blue waters and white sand, counting endless summer days – it's the deal that you sign up for when you date one.

But a few weeks on, you notice something strange.

“What is happening to you?” you ask, as her voice breaks over the phone and tells you about something that you said or did which upset her.

It's a puzzle: the beautiful bud suddenly has thorns; the light pink petals suddenly become dark crimson. This isn't the stemmed flower that you plucked and put in a vase.

Maybe you fail to realize that she is, in fact, a multi-dimensional person.

Or maybe you never fully grasped the news, “I've been diagnosed with bipolar, twice.”

What is going on in a depressed girl's mind?

When a bipolar girl gives you the emotional tantrums, it is sometimes a good sign because it means she is trusting you with her feelings.

However, please understand that she might also be thinking and feeling all these other thoughts simultaneously:

She is sabotaging your relationship by being an emotional freak.

Low self-esteem comes with depression. So does self-blaming and feeling like being the root and cause of all troubles and issues.

You are capable of loving only the happy side of her.

Depression has a knack for making you feel worthless. It makes you feel undeserving of love and that nobody is capable of loving you to begin with, because you're such a worthless, pain-in-the-ass creature.

She must not display any form of weakness anymore; it is a turn off.

Thinking that her depression pushes you away, she wears a mask to hide her true emotions, or maybe she will just completely withdraw.

Nobody ever loves a sad, depressed girl.

It's a reality. People with bipolar carry depression – plus a host of other unpleasant symptoms – as a baggage. More often than not, nobody is willing to stay or carry it with them.

Sometimes, they just leave you before you leave them.

“Everybody has a baggage; bipolar disorder just has a name.”

Like all mature relationships, those involving bipolar disorder need endless support, mutual understanding, love, patience, and kindness.

It can be nerve-wracking compared to “normal” relationships, because bipolar disorder can change and affect a person's mood to a point that you could barely recognize them.

The beautiful bud that you met in the summer could become a cactus in the next few months.

How to deal with bipolar mood swings

Should this happens, be strong in your resolve and offer assurance that you will continue to love and stay together.

Never make them feel misunderstood and unaccepted; just let them speak. Let them cry, offer a shoulder, don't be quick to judge.

When the tears have dried and the tantrums subsided, when your beloved has started taking care of herself again — you will again see sunbeams and rainbows shining through her eyes.

Upon learning that she can rely on you to offer support in difficult times, your relationship will grow stronger. She will become determined to do her best and become a better person – for herself and for your relationship.

Maybe someone can love a depressed girl, after all.



craving the scent of salty air, the sight of misty shores; the sound of crashing waves, dancing music for surfmaids.

longing to look up at the sky and be kissed by the sun; to have sand on the soles of her feet and forever salty skin.

there's no sweeter kiss stamps than crispy tan lines, from hours of surfing and paddling to the line up.

glassy waves, white sand, clear skies centerpieces of paradise; an offspring of the sea plays in them

a forever child with uncombed hair, inked and tanned skin, who will always come back to the big blue her true love, forever.


I have this disease of falling into love swiftly, recklessly, thoughtlessly, mindlessly —

over the smallest of things like someone making me coffee or lighting up my cigarette.

I keep pictures and screenshots to hold on to, in someone's absence. I cling too dearly, tenderly, over something

that's really just a dream an infatuation that is all I ever know.


she's never going to become a good wife, don't you see?! she smokes weed, she's slept with over a dozen men, and behind your back —

that dildo mounted on a stool? she fucks till she bleeds!

ah, this woman's hopeless.

born in a cage, recently set free; the tattoo on her knuckles say, freedom – F R E I H E I T

fuck that shit!*

she doesn't wear a bra or a hose beneath her skirt. every night she commutes to work on dangerous hitchhikes.

she never cooks breakfast. she never makes the bed.

this woman's wild. stay away. duck and cover.

don't be a prey. a ring will never be on that finger and you will never hear her say, “i am a good wife, i will serve you night and day.”


This romance can only be found in movies, songs, poems, short stories:

In fiction. In surf trips. In marijuana highs.

“I've never found endless love in people,” she says, “one way or another, everyone leaves, to a point of no return. Feelings, such fragile things, always die.”

Remember the boy who kissed you just before the semestral break, the one you've been holding on to for eight years? He just said about a week ago:

“If my girlfriend asks when was the last time we talked, please say sometime 2016.”

You remember the time when you both drank beer on the couch and shortly after, had sex for the first time. 2017. You declared that he was your one great love some two years ago.

And now you feel as if he's already gone in your life; he's disappeared as swiftly as the coming of a new fuck buddy that you just met over the weekend.

Coming home to an empty apartment, you cheerfully say, “I'm home!” (Perhaps to the ash tray and the mess of worn, but still clean, clothes on the couch.)

LOVE — what a motherfuckery for a monosyllabic word.

Bee Gee's More Than A Woman plays.

We can take forever, just a minute at a time.

This post was originally published in Literary Limerence by Mia Alcantara.


i don't want us to be lonely.

but — it's when we get a taste of happiness that the trap of sadness comes in. it reminds us of what we are robbed as time inevitably passes — people going, moments ending, relationships deteriorating.

the passage of time. the sound of silence.

no laughter to fill an empty room. no light to shine on the dark corners of this hell that's called my mind. i ask for a little warmth, from the sunlight that shines through my window pane but my eyes burn as I sink deep into the fact that it all ends, it all dies, we all die.

and maybe that is why we look for a hand to hold, if only just for a while. you and i, me and you. i don't want us to be lonely.

I looked at them as if I was gazing through a window frame. One sat on a stone bench and looked up at the other, who stood about two feet away. I knew them by names. Even so, I chose to remain hidden in the figures of strangers while smoking my cigarette. I saw them everyday at work, and yet today – they felt so far away.

The distance between me and them was a thick expanse of space that could not be traveled by foot. In it was a dark aura, a damp haze, a mixture of purple and amber swirls that twisted around your arms and legs when you unluckily passed them.

The window to the dark space was right in front of me — I could see it. It made me want to crawl inside my shell and retreat. Toxic gas was everywhere. It made me feel nothing — the menthol of my cigarette was a mere dream. In my chest was a dark hole of apathy and bleak atmosphere.

“That time of the cycle has come again,” I thought to myself.


sticky fingers. sugar on your lips. the scent tastes like pineapple-berries. inside my mouth, a sweet, soft lump finds its way downwards, from an oasis that felt like ocean.

in gastronomic delight i thirst. the sweetness burns my throat, i almost choke.

the lump, synthesized with my saliva, sprinkled with far-out dreams and topped with too vividly imagined impossible fantasies, i swallow.



This piece was originally published in Literary Limerence by Mia Alcantara.

You smile from a distance. I peek. I gamble between life and death, look away before you see.

Flowers don't grow from rocks no matter how long the wait.

I stand here and you sit there — the wall of distance divides and cuts. It sears.

I offer you wordless poems in between your passing by, in uncrowded halls, whenever we half-see, half-meet.



This piece was originally published in Literary Limerence by Mia Alcantara.

From a restless mind this limerence emerged like a dream. Spaced out, in circles, submerged in fantasy.

What I can't say from my mouth, My soul disgorges here. I paint with pretty words, rose-colored ink.

This piece was originally published in Literary Limerence by Mia Alcantara