Passer-by

I am a downpour
in a sun-soaked beach,
the small spill
on a bottled quink;
I am the blues
in the sunset sky,
and a deer
on a dirt road
passing by;

I am the flares of light
on a photo you love,
and the small tear
on your favorite gloves;
I am the shipwreck
of your peaceful seas,
and the ghost
in your childlike dreams;

I am lingering, living
know nothing of my misdeal;
I am where you are
and I exist where you exist;
I am a piece of life,
disrupting only little;
I am a grey shade of color
in a solemn painting
you mistake for errors.

Inside and Out

I am plagued by the peace
of the outside;
and maddened
by the chaos
within;

blinded by the blazing
rays of morning;
and shrouded
by the dark of
nightfall;

I lay awake
always
wondering,
always moving,
never dreaming;

I am maddened by the silence
of the outside;
and killed
by the voices
within.

An open letter for the next six years and counting

Dear Filipinas,

Generally, I’ve kept to myself all this time. I’ve posted mundane things in the most pretentious fashion and I thought I could avoid the day I’m supposed to pray hard for my own people’s future.

Now that the elections are over I felt the need to remind the general public of my own fears. Hate me as you wish, but if none of these fears happen, then I could only be wrong. I’d be wasting only my time, worrying. In the fair chance that I might be right, then there’s nothing to do about it except fight, isn’t there? I won’t say I told you so–no, never. It wasn’t your fault you were deceived by so many promises made by selfish individuals who only care about dropping the statistics in crime rates but never addressing the economic and social crises motivating the crimes. I don’t blame you if you were swayed to think that grander, fancier malls meant that there is no increase in the urban poor. I won’t even blame you if you think that the rise in the number or rich people doesn’t come with poor people getting replaced by machines, forced to work abroad, or driven into contractual, underpaid work.

Here’s the thing: I’m sorry.

I’m sorry I hadn’t spoken loud enough. I’m sorry I didn’t try. I’m sorry I didn’t campaign harder so we wouldn’t end up electing foul-mouthed misogynists and LGBT-hating individuals. Here’s the thing, I don’t mind free speech, peace and justice, I really don’t–but don’t go around saying hate speech is a justifiable exercise of free speech,  fear to do anything as peace, and killing everyone without due process (it is a right, by the way) as tantamount to justice. Our votes do not imply direct approval to everything you do or say; we have the right to clamor and fight against it. This is a democracy after all, isn’t it? That one thing you all hold most dear? Then why do you we allow disrespectful people to push us around as if we didn’t know what’s right and wrong? We do you we allow them to suppress us from complaining about them not doing every single thing they are meant to do for us?

A mall’s great, thanks. But I really need to go to school. Don’t sell me out to transnational corporations who will one day turn me into a tool they could use overseas. Don’t forget about the books that I’m supposed to have, even if I had to just loan it in the library. Don’t force my indigenous brothers and sisters out of their own lands so you could continue to be dogs of the richer countries whose feet you so eagerly lick . Don’t put priority on “beautification”, use our taxes for some pretty plant, when you could have used that to help out the urban poor living near your malls and hotels and fancy restaurants. Don’t refer to my mother-tongue as barbaric, not suitable for debates, because why would you want to change the entire educational system if you didn’t want me to use it?

Here’s another thing: Why do you hate yourself so much? Why don’t you respect yourself and the people around you?

As a woman in the third world, recognition is one thing. But we are also starving. We’re starved and abused, disrespected and humiliated; and you call yourself a modern society that moves forwards instead of backwards? You make jokes of rape culture and don’t seem to mind throwing it out there for everyone to just laugh at. You are so obsessed by your macho standards that it makes me wonder whether or not you ever loved your own mothers. And don’t make moral and religious arguments about my LGBT brothers, sisters, siblings, etc. They are human beings and are entitled Human Rights. You might not be for gay marriage but at least respect them as people that are equally as competent as you are, as starved, as abused, and as important. The moment we start disrespecting each other is the last knot, and even I, don’t want to imagine the day that would happen.

Also, I write plenty. Not ready to be Palanca or Nobel prize worthy yet, but I’ll get there. I have been inspired by many writers–including our own. Don’t refer to foreign material as something immediately better. It would sadden me, since that would reflect how you truly view yourself as an artist, a person, or an educational institution. We take so much pride in the people who’ve won international awards for us–beauty pageants and sports alike–but it’s a shame that we could never see ourselves exceptional by our own standards, in our own time space.

Lastly, if you think of this letter as reasonable/brilliant/argumentative because I wrote it in English, then here’s to you: It wouldn’t change anything even if I change the language. My points and grievances will be the same, but what’s sadder is that you belittle your own language. You probably wouldn’t take me as seriously if I hadn’t done this. Wouldn’t have thought I was educated or sensible just because I didn’t write in the language of the “globally competent”.

If anything fails, come back to me in the next six years, and we’ll see where we’ve gone by then.

Midnight Rooftop

I was told midnight wasn’t the best part of the day. I guess they might be right; it was so cold outside I thought I was breathing snow. Nonetheless, I am gratified by the coldness at the tips of my fingers, the shivers down my spine, and the redness on my nose. This isn’t what I thought would happen and it did, so I have more reason to say that perhaps, everything is not repetitive. The story starts when the winds knocked me back down on the rooftop. I was having a pleasant time, thinking about life and how I’ve lived it, and here comes the cold wind that forced me to step back.

Some say I’m insecure, that is true. Some say I’m devastated, and they are right. But when you said I was not dignified, then you are very wrong.

I wasn’t supposed to talk to anyone that day. I don’t like to talk to people all that much. I was cursing, and repeatedly so, for my plans for midnight were sabotaged. Then came Alice. She had her own motives for coming up the roof, I suppose. Who else comes to an  abandoned 80-story building on a holiday? She could be getting some fresh air, but it was midnight, and I can tell from the rough way she was mouthing her words that she wasn’t from here. So, a girl from the southern part of the country doesn’t come home on Christmas, and suddenly decides to come to the roof for some fresh air?

I know she was still in college. No one above twenty could get away with alarmingly pink hair, unless she worked in a tattoo shop, hinted by the numerous tattoos and markings that ran from her wrists all the way up to her neck. She had gold rings on her lower lip, thinned out eyebrows, and a small heart tattoo on her temple.

“I’ve heard about this roof,” she said, approaching me. “Some say it is a gift.”

She hasn’t been talking about why she was on the roof since she came. She looked shocked when she saw me there, eyes wide as if being caught red-handed. Alice tried for a conversation, a way to perhaps reduce the awkward tension in the air, so she went on, talking about her life like it mattered to me.

She said she lived eight hours away from here. She used to be painter, but then she got tired so she started writing music instead. When music didn’t work out for her, she started sketching; but still, nothing seemed to have worked out. She made it sound in a boastful tone, her voice so loud you’d think she could be heard three floors down, but I did kind of like her. She was the kind of girl I try to be, but afraid to try out. Alice sat there, cigarette clipped between her graying lips, eyes looking tired and bloodshot, and hair wildly uncombed for a few days.

Interested, I decided to ask a question. “You think so?”

“Having control over your life?” She grinned. “It is a gift. There’s no other way one can do that. We are dictated by the decisions made by other people, you know?”

“Go on.”

“My math teacher in high school thought I was worthy of graduating, that’s why I’m here in college. My dad decided to marry my mom, and with genetics, I became who I am. You’re mother decided not to use protection, and then you came. Hell, who ever knew the fastest sperm in the race would have to be you?” She laughed roughly, the kind of laugh you’d only hear coming from people you consider friends. “Of all the decisions the world makes for you, what’s one that you can make?”

I look to the darkening skies. “To live?”

Very loudly, she snorted. She made her way to the edge of the rooftop, her feet dangling into the air, 80-stories of nothingness below her. “Didn’t you get it? Living is not a choice. You live because you’re born. We are crowded by millions of people because others frown upon contraception and infanticide. You go to school because the state says it is what is right.”

“I make my own decisions from the moment I wake,” I said. “I don’t want to sound crude, but I’m a bit contented with what my life has become. I graduated with high honors and got myself a nice, good-paying job. I am the boss of my large company, and a friend to everyone around me. I made better decisions, some bad, but others good enough.”

“Which is why it is surprising to see you on top of this building,” Alice shook her head. “Perhaps, you received high honors in college because you get to be that one girl in class that doesn’t have family problems. If you weren’t, then you must be the lucky ones who didn’t fall into depression. But that’s why you’re up here, isn’t it? You’re living this perfect life where no mistakes are made. It’s too perfect that it became a bit repetitive, a boring cycle that made you wish that perhaps you did something more than just come home from school after acing a test you’ve been studying weeks before.”

Feeling slightly harassed, I tried for a comeback. “Perhaps, you’ve mistaken ‘to live’ with ‘trying not to die’.”

“Am I?” She smiled. Her teeth were crooked and some missing, others white and some silver. “What does a plain girl in her early twenties do up on an abandoned building’s roof top, then?”

I frowned. “From what I am told, I am hardly plain.”

The girl laughed really hard that for a second, I thought she was going to fall over. “There’s you, letting the world dictate you once again. I slap a label on you and you counter it by telling me what other people think.”

“What do you supposed I do?”

“Look into the mirror.” She said. “I’m sure you’ve done it, otherwise you wouldn’t be out here on the roof, with me.”

I wondered what could have driven her to come to the rooftop. I remember my mother warning me about the temptations posed by an abandoned building in the darkest corner of the city. It is, as she had said, a thing of sadness. It was once home to the biggest construction firm a hundred years ago, and it was abandoned as soon as the economy failed. There’s been signs on the windows implying that it was on sale, but no one has ever been interested in it. Some say that the building grew old, with age came its beauty, and no one else dared to ruin it.

“You think I’m reacting a bit too much,”

She paused from lighting her cigarette, her face looking very humored. “Does it bother you that I think so?”

“No,” I said. “We both came here for a reason. What is yours?”

“Do we need to have a reason for taking control over our lives?”

“If you think my life has become too repetitive, I can assume that you started to lose control over yours. Too many things are happening to you, and you hate it. You want to control it. You want to laugh in front of life’s face to show that you can outsmart it. This is not living, my friend. This is called exaggerating.”

She made a sound that sounded like a very offended snort. “Look at you, trying to lecture me about exaggerating.” She said. “Oh, I know what this is! It’s age, isn’t it? I know a lot of you. You think that the world is crueler now that you’ve become older. The world demands more of you, so you think you had it worse than anyone else. You lack the energy and opportunity; one that’s far from your youth. You wished you were younger, you wish you could turn back time, but you can’t. This isn’t a game, my friend, you can’t just quit just because you feel like it. This is not a fancy rug of yours that you can just throw away when you find a fancier one from Paris or Turkey…”

“You look a bit young yourself,” I say. “But that is why you’re here. You must have been beaten as a child, violated by the people you trust, left alone to take care of two younger brothers at a very young age. You must think you’re wise, otherwise you wouldn’t be lecturing me about what I should and shouldn’t do.”

A flash of red and oranges filled the sky. People were setting off their fireworks now, a customary thing to do on Christmas eve. Alice stared at the display for a few moments, distracted by the very loud sound, gazing at it like it was the first time she’d seen them. “And if that were true, don’t you think that people like me are much older than we’re supposed to be? Why do you count age with years when some years are much harsher than others?”

“I was beginning to like you, but you just contradicted yourself.” I said; and couldn’t help but smile. “But ‘harsh’ can mean differently to others, you know. I’d much rather get in trouble and make a good story out of it than to sit in the corner, contemplating.”

“I never said your life was worse than mine,” she smiled. “I couldn’t–and shouldn’t–compare one from the other.”

There was silence for a long moment while the fireworks went on. Alice was covered in shadows for one moment, fully illuminated the next. At times the reddish glow made her look severe, the yellow lights made her look serene. She wasn’t wearing any make-up that night, dark half-moons prominent underneath her eyes, a small scar on her nose.

“If you think…” her eyes snapped back at me, surprised that I was the one who spoke first. “If you think that the world dictated that we come here on the same night of year, then what must we do?”

“The world perhaps wanted one of us to stop the other,” she laughed. “But I’m supposed to be here to laugh in front of life’s face and show it who’s boss.”

I looked to the darkening skies, now very quiet. It must be almost midnight; people saving their fireworks to welcome Christmas. And then, all of a sudden, I laughed. “I guess I’ll have to do the same.”

We didn’t know what else happened after that, didn’t know why we sort of agreed after hours of bantering. We didn’t know who grabbed the other’s hand first, who nodded to signal our fate, and who was the first one to step unto the farthest edge of the rooftop. We knew, that no matter how strong the winds are or how loud the fireworks were, there was no way we were going to be knocked back down.

Alice grinned, held my hand tighter, eyes looking toward the infinity below her. “Are you ready?”

Overkill

I remember putting on too much make-up that day. I do not know why. Whatever I did seemed a bit too little or too much; but you can never go wrong by doing too much, right? I mean, if there was a small family gathering and you prepared too little, wouldn’t it have been a lot better if you had more to spare?

So I did that with the rest of what I did to prepare.

I wore too many laces. Too many jewelries. I bought a new pair of plain-looking shoes and figured that the most expensive one would work best. I don’t know why. The price tag seemed unreasonable but unreasonably cheap seemed a bit suspicious. I wrote my speech and noted every pause, every stop, and spell checked every sentence just in case anyone wanted to see it. I’d been too friendly to the guest. They say it wasn’t necessary to come to people and talk to them. It was common courtesy for the guests to come to me. I didn’t listen. I didn’t know what else I was missing. Had I scrubbed the floors until they shined? or did I miss a figurine? What if it wasn’t positioned among the other figurines so it’d look right?

I cooked enough food for a hundred guests, though I knew half of the fifty we’ve invited wouldn’t come. I bought candies for the children, just in case they decided to feel a bit bored and I really didn’t want them to get in the way. I made sure the welcome mat was clean and thick, so it could absorb as much water and dirt possible. I cleaned the toilets and wiped the mirrors. I remember moving some of the mirrors from the living room; I heard Sally and her sister had an eating disorder.

I’ve lost so much weight in the past few days that my shirt began to look weird. My best friend Anna said it looked fine, but I could see it not fitting very well around my torso and it bothered me a lot. I was glad I moved the mirror. I would have been horrified.

“You need to stop fidgeting,” Anna said. She was pretty, dressed in all-black and her hair covered in a fish-net looking hat I didn’t know what to call.

“I am not.”

I knew for a fact that Danny loved her more than I. She was always the one to burn the brightest among all of us. She was equally intelligent as she was smart. Danny did not mind that she goes through a pack of cigarettes a day; he understood why she did it, although I never did. Anna looked gorgeous in her pink satin dress when we were at a high school prom. I remember Danny looking at her like she was the only thing in the world that existed in that moment, but he did not say anything.

Anna and I went to Boston University together. She was lovely as always. Teachers still loved her. People still looked for her at the parties. Danny didn’t get into Boston. He went to a community college, but I still didn’t know where it  was. I could ask Anna about it, but that would be a bit humiliating. If she knew more about my husband of ten years, what does that make me?

I stared at Danny amidst the sea of people in front of me. I asked the minister to let me take the back portion of the rows and rows of seats.

“Honestly, Sanders. You are a bit of an overkill,” Anna said, sounding weirdly cheery. I don’t know if she’s supposed to do that, but we were best friends. I knew she was just trying to make me feel better.

“Sanders isn’t my last name anymore.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Very well, then. You are an overkill, Mrs. Wells.”

“Thanks.”

If Anna did something different much like what I do, Danny would have understood. He understood her weirdness. He understood her rudeness. He didn’t mind having to escort her to a party and had to drive her back home whilst she was very, very drunk.

Danny sent a letter once. He was drafted somewhere to go to war. I did not know how he came to be chosen. I did not care much about it. Anna was devastated that day. We were in out shared apartment watching a pathetic show on T.V. when a breaking story came up. The hungover-looking reporter said that there was an encounter between whoever our country was up against and some weird names for a battalion. I did not understand why she started to cry. She must have thought Danny was dead.

A year passed since the news story broke and I found a letter at our doorstep. I did not have anything on it, just Anna’s name and our address. I did not know why I started opening it. Did you ever had the time where you stare at something, your mind goes blank, and then suddenly you were doing something you shouldn’t be? That’s what happened. I just ripped the envelope open. And when the small stationery fell on the door mat, I did not know what to do. Afraid that Anna might get angry, I snatched the letter and hid it under my bed, and I did not open that letter until three years had passed.

That’s when I saw Danny again. He looked a lot thinner than the last time I saw him. He had a scar on his neck and anxiety in his eyes. He stood tall and was a bit stiff, not the same Danny who loved to slouch and laugh very, very loudly. He did not ask about Anna. Did not ask where she was or how she was doing. He must have assumed that Anna never really cared about him. We talked. He laughed; although looking a bit stiff and uncomfortable. He took me to an old Cafe and we talked some more.

Months passed and his suspicions were perhaps proven to be true. He saw Anna again, eyes widening as if they would fall out of their sockets, and then his face turned blank when Steven came in. Steven was Anna’s husband. He inched closer to me, secured for a fact that he was not alone, and I made myself feel better, by making up for what I did years before. If I hadn’t opened that letter, things would have been different. If I hadn’t thought that Anna would be mad at me, they would have been happy together.

And so, as a way to fix the mess I’ve made. I married Danny. I was second only to Anna, but it would be the closest he’ll ever get to seeing her often. Anna was a free spirit, and she started to move on without him. Not Danny. I hear him whisper Anna’s name at night and embrace me. I never told him about it. Danny was a good man. A good husband. A good father. He did not deserve to be sad.

Anna nudged me to focus, elbowing at my ribs. I gasped in pain for a short moment, and then I saw guests looking at me, waiting for me to stand, get to the podium, and deliver a highly-scripted eulogy.

I am an overkill.

They will not know I am lying. They will not know that the great memories or Danny and I weren’t true. They wouldn’t know we haven’t gone to the Alps. They wouldn’t know that we didn’t go to Machu Picchu, where Danny always wanted to go. They wouldn’t know anything. Including that one letter the opened. That one letter, that wasn’t mine.

ashes to ashes

rolled paper to ashes
burnt fingers pressing down hard
I am bent down
scribbling on a blotted page
where a world should be found

dried leaves to ashes
I knock the caffeine aside
wondering how
it isn’t working
at this time of the night

filters turning to ashes
I spilled grey dust
on the paper and coughed
I haven’t noticed the fire
burning the cotton once again

ashes to ashes
I am done for the night
maybe once I am finished
I am no longer
breathing to see what happens

Indestructible

Diamonds were made
beautiful by cutting,
burning and polishing;
made valuable by years
and years of hardening;
but why would you
think the opposite
of my heart?

Adoration.

I adore you
I adore
your beauty
In sadness,
In darkness,
and in pain.
I adore you
your frailty,
your weakness
and your shame
I adore you
in every
moment and
with every
word I say.
I adore you
no more words,
just a kiss
and embrace
day by day.

*because I have been looking into writing something a little less heavy these days.
Have a nice day, lovely people in the world.