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(never degraded someone before) you have your mother's cruelty. and your father's cowardice.

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"The poem that I didn’t write for you hangs around my neck and suffocates me."

Abhilasha, "your quiet fading love"

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My father’s old man died yesterday. A favorable circumstance when I asked for his trembling hand to bring upon my bowing head. He was there, in the front seat, his face glinted in his last sunrise as the old man was nighing his hour of death. His figure was deteriorating, much worse from few years back. I did not expect to meet him that day. Truth be told, my vexations toward him as a child guaranteed that I would not feel an ounce of sorrow for he left my not as of yet father due to his inane egotistical debauchery—he lived in desolation, only went back to his children as a feeble old man with a portentous illness taking over him.

An elated countenance greeted my arrival, though he could scarcely keep his eyes open; howbeit, he recognized his jolly grandchild. I could even count just how many conversations we had, all those I could not stand. He was frail. The residue of the last milk he drank had coagulated in his mouth, splattering as he used the last of his strength just to talk to me. I offered him the food I just bought. He stared at my lover for the first and last time. He was mumbling words I could not grasp, my father then revealed that he was offering me his milk. He wanted me to have his remaining milk—his remaining milk to mend his shortcomings as a father of my dad and as my granddad.

My father and the old man drove away that morning, dusk had fallen when he bade his final goodbye.

I have been crying perhaps not because of the old man’s demise but because of my father’s hapless life. I, an insolent child, grieve for my father. Sometimes, I look at my father and wonder what dreams he had to abandon. I see the weight he carries, how his old man broke his young heart. Oh the life he could have lived.

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Anne Sexton.

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“I must, in effect, go back a good few years: ten, to be precise, or twelve ... perhaps even fifteen... but visiting them afresh. Perhaps, by wandering through those years, by occupying them fully, the terrors and the trivial details, I can set myself free. Perhaps what I will write will not be nearly as painful as what I have lived and it will bring me some relief. When I come to see how some of it was neither as simple nor complicated as I had thought, I might even find my ardour somewhat shaming ... perhaps...”

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There’s a shame in carrying their name

Carrying everyone who shares the same name

Constant migraines, hair loss, tooth decay, losing weight, sunken eyes

Merely surviving, am I not deserving of living?

Am I just living to keep them alive?

Guilt gets pushed down my throat when I keep myself alive for three days

Provide for the ill

Think of many ways to earn more, be a slave for my ill sister and parents

I am angry

I am tired and hurt

I am dying from exhaustion and their religion

Their religion who votes for corrupt and steals my wage

Who am I to these devotees

I am exhausted from working while attaining my degree

While they unhand their remaining penny

Then ask me for more

Fuck I am so tired and ashamed of this

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I have been thinking of what words to use, to make it all unidentifiable as this what I have left to protect myself. To tell you the truth, I have been scared. They are discerning me; the depths of my body, the only body that I have feels like it’s theirs more than mine.

I am terrified to the extent that it is ineffable. Little noises wake me up. They have been following me even in my sleep. I am ensconced with terror every hour knowing that it is out. Help is languid as we are ruled by elites and oligarchs—I am starting to think that we aren’t so free after all.

I was tricked into it, like a hazy fever dream where I was disassociating—as if I was intoxicated, disconnected with anything that really matters. The innocence I have left that I have been guarding was taken away from me.

To live in this world is to be hopeless for justice.

To be a woman is to live in fear.

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ako ay nasa may aplaya limang taon nang nakakalipas

hinintay ko ang bangsang-dilim, ang hapil ng hampas ng bawat alon

salungat sa aking bawa; alingawngaw ng mga salita patuloy nag-aalimpuyo

maimtim ang pook—may bakas ng banayad na pula ang alapaap

nabatid ko na sa isang taong nagdaan, nasa rurok ng pagkapagod

natutong lunukin, pagsapantaha ng nangyari

hanggang dito na lamang ang mga luha sa kabila nang anino ng kalituhan

nakatayo sa pusod ng aplaya, luhang walang saksi kun’di ang buwan na nagbibigay na senyales ng paglisan

dumaan pa ang mga buwan, isinabuhay kahapdi ng tiyan

aninong nakatali dahil sa pait—dahil sa lusaw na sinag

sumabay sa alon ang pagninilay; ang bawat sandali na binigyan ko ng kahalagahaan hanggang sa huling yugto ng aking kabataan

pumipintig bawat katok ng aking dibdib ngunit natutong hindi na umimik

gusto kong mapag-isa at umiyak nang malakas

dahil nagawi ka na naman sa himbing ng aking pagpapahinga

ngunit sa unang pagkakataon uunahin ko ang aking sarili

hihintayin na lang ang iyong tugon sa aking panagimdim

naglayag ang anim na taon, pumpasyal pa rin sa guniguni

malaya sa umaga ngunit sa pagpikit ay bilanggo ng mga ala-ala dahil hindi nakamit ang pagpapahayag ng lihim—ang pagsambit ng paumanhin

ang nais ko lamang ay makaidlip na walang sigalot

pakiusap magsilahis upang maputol na ang tanikala at mayakap ang bagong simula

gusto ko nang makatulog nang hindi sa akin pinapaalala kung sino ka

dahil kailanman ay hindi kita nikilala

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I exist in places where I do not belong due to the fact that I am always lacking and so—I do not exist in places where I wish to be.

A child who was too scared to sin and treated God as her only friend because they made her believe that he was enough. She rarely had any friends; she only had Karen and Sunshine during her first grade.

They would spend their lunch time climbing up the outdoor stairs—the remnants of a church long gone. These steps lead to a patch of earth, shaded beneath the tall branches of tree. It was our little nook, our voices were as soft murmur as the rustling leaves. And on the days when one brings a food, we pass it like a sacred statue. Hand on hand, waiting for our turn—a quiet communion.

Little girl was always alone in Lola’s house. She had a gated spacious garage, kubo on the side, and a garden that had left us paralyzed. To pick the flowers up is to desire a set of twigs to land on your buttocks.

I only played with my siblings; not allowed to socialize with other children who had different Gods. I wanted to be more, I wanted to do more, but I was afraid of him—I could’ve been bigger, brighter but I was a mere slave that must kneel.

I loved laying down on the roof of our jeepney in the night especially every time when the power was out—made the stars appear brighter like what I aspired to be; dazzling at liberty.

When I tried to be bold and loud, they would react with such disgust—like it was too off putting and not proper for our kinds. A disgrace they would say; oh let me be one and let me shine.

I have always dreamed about having group of girl friends who would treat me fairly and hand me a colossal amount of love—the same amount of love I have crammed in a body of a 5 year old child.

But I have always felt like I was not too feminine enough, I wanted what they have.

My mother once told me no one would tolerate such, they will always leave because I am the way I am.

I hated being a little girl, felt like I was an adult trapped in a kid’s body except now I feel like a kid trapped in adult’s body sometimes.

I desire womanhood as much as I wanted to experience girlhood.

I am uncomfortably upset because I do not have them to experience this stage of my life and I am missing out.

I guess it’s my fault for rejecting femininity at such a young age and so I have no idea how this is supposed to work.

I long for it.

It will come.

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i still dream of things, of people that happened abruptly

as if my brain’s trying to create a denouement

to mend the agony of the fleeting moments that ceased but continued in the stillness of my core

as if ive left something behind but cannot grasp onto them anymore

in my dreams, i still speak to you while he hears me grieve on our bed

he says i dream in a language he does not understand—like there’s a whole place inside me that he cannot reach

he knows me best but im still trying to put them at rest in my sleep

mellowed sun; little specks of us in my dreamland but i just want to greet the dawn and leave the infinite loop behind

sing my heart out while he patches the rifts and sews together the pieces

he made peace with people who once were part of my dance

my shame inflamed as he fixed my hair, kiss me with warmth

let’s get stuck in a boring traffic, orange lights

put on my jacket, rest your head on mine

it’ll be fine my sweet august, he said as i close my eyes

he tells me that im always ready to leave

while he is someone that stays

but in this layer, we are the ones who stayed

i made his world bigger while he made mine sheltered

in the softness of your dim light, my world found its rhythm; steady and calm

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I weep for her life—I weep for a better life she could have had

The life she didn’t get to live because she wanted to be a good mother

Only to be deemed as lesser

A lesser child

A lesser wife

She cries when she sings her favorite songs about her father

The way her eyes would glisten when she talks about their little adventures

She has no one

Not even me

Because I’d choose to mourn for her in silence than give her a kind child

I hope I won’t be late this time

Make her live without sorrow

While also mending mine

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para na tayong mga sirang plaka

paulit-ulit na lang ang mga hinaing nating mga nasa laylayan dahil paulit-ulit din ang umuupo sa taas

pati kapwa mo ay nanlalamang

pinagbabayad ka ng lupang hindi sa kanila

o hatiin na lang daw at bayaran mong pagkamahal-mahal ang bodega para gawing parkingan ng tangina nilang dala-dalawa sasakyan

papa mong isang dekada nang di nakakapunta ng dentista

mama mong matagal nang di nagpapatingin sa doctor niya dahil nahihirapan daw siya huminga

ano raw? dadagdagan pa raw ang porsyento ng kaltas ng buwis

putangina san nga ba to napupunta

tumatagaktak na tong pawis wala man lang diperensya