it's kind of scary.
you can feel it too, can't you?
the words you see flashed as headlines
feel like they're already being written down
on our tombstones.
everyday feels like it's going to be jotted down
by students somewhere in the future-
a history class on dictatorships.
perhaps the reason history books are so heavy
is because they are thick with the weight of our sins.
they gave our rights a pittance because
they no longer pretend to care.
it's called human rights
as in human.
maybe it's cause they don't consider us human anymore.
i can see that.
it's hard to see a person
wrapped in garbage bags and duct tape.
this is why there are checks and balances-
protections against the state's monopoly on violence.
it's just sad that we were stripped of them as easily as
pulling a trigger.
how much are we worth to them, i wonder?
i suppose the math should be easy.
one thousand divided by one hundred three million.
that's how much our individual rights are worth.
around zero point zero zero zero nine seven pesos.
not even enough to buy a lottery ticket.
and certainly not enough to buy us liberty.
i'm hoping the last time i see you
is not on the other side of a history book.
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 11:46 AM UTC
your name means stars:
YOU ARE A STAR IN THE SHAPE OF A PERSON
and every breath you take draws a little bit out of my lungs
THEN, I LEARN WHAT IT MEANS TO DROWN ON LAND.
your name means blood:
my heartbeat stutters to the cadence of your footsteps
AND STAINS MY CHEST WINE-RED.
the light of your gaze bleeds into my soul
AND SWOONS DOWN THE CURVE OF MY NECK.
your name means muse to me:
BECAUSE YOU ARE A WORLD IN MOTION
and yet you are stillness; the moments between heartbeats
AND SOMEHOW YOU ARE MORE THAN YOURSELF
but this is because you are more concept than person
AND WE REALIZE THAT EMPTINESS DOES NOT KNOW ITS OWN SHAPE
because you were too good to be true
your name means fiction:
because i could not find a word for someone that was never there.
understand this.
you may be all the stars in the universe
but the emptiness between them is greater still.
and you cannot love someone you made up
no matter how hard you try.
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 8:35 AM UTC
we were too free, they said.
and as jealousy is wont to do
they built a prison.
but as you know,
there is wonder in movement.
to hear the wind sing
and trample the ground underneath
and feel the blood rush in our veins.
four walls can never be enough.
we break out, again and again,
until they force us to keep still.
and
yet,
keeping still has taught us how to remember
being drowned in shades of concrete and asphalt.
cities that crowd us in
until we forget to breathe.
keeping still has taught us that safety has a price
that if your feet never learn to walk new paths
eventually
they forget to walk at all.
keeping still has taught us to dream
of escaping the grey—
staring up, past the trees and clouds,
and, eyes widening—
seeing for the first time the color of the sky.
realizing,
that even the sky can be trapped
by the borders of a window.
and despite knowing that,
wishing to see the sky
one more time.
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 12:29 PM UTC
somewhere in the twilight of your life,
you will begin to look back.
you will look to the sea of stars
and find that slowly,
one by one,
those white dots are winking out,
and the night sky is now an unfamiliar place.
they say that the past holds a different country,
but the future holds a different you.
a you that is tired,
clothes tattered from the running,
a brow used to sweat and a collar used to tears.
a you that is happier,
content in the hours of the morning
when the world speaks to you in its silent rumble.
a you that is jaded,
shoulders sagging with the weight of a life time of memories
heavier than any burden or chain.
a you that is wiser,
words wrought from the experience of burned fingers,
coffee-stained dreams, and unlit cigarettes.
a you that is older,
with a tapestry of stitches and scars
scribbled haphazardly on the skin of their back.
life is meant for mistakes.
after all,
the best stories are written with your feet,
in the pages between passports,
along trailing tattoos
and on the back of a paper napkin.
maybe in the future,
there will be a you
that doesn't remember home,
in the rush of the present.
home might look different now,
faded in sepia and steeped in the color of the past,
but always remember
it's been waiting for you since you left.
don't forget to visit.
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 12:23 PM UTC