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REY Jun 6
My heart is a nest of a thousand moons,
each one, a fissured marble of hope
each one, a chunk of prayer
my tongue cannot chant on its own.

Tell me, how can you know
you’re not going to break tonight
when your chest shrinks against your bones
as if being pulled by the gravity?
Tell me, how do you know
your light’s not going to fade tonight –
you’re not going to be dragged by the wave?

My heart:
it’s a nest of a thousand feeble moons;
it’s a chamber of all brittle hopes;
trembling, crumbling against my skin –
and this evening,
as the ocean replaces the blood in my veins,
Bakunawa rises, slithers,
she rips her way into my heart,
biting one hope after the other,
devouring all of them whole,
until I can no longer handle the pain,
until I can no longer feel a beat against my chest.

These shattered cries,
they’re no prayers to fend off the monster,
they’re no rituals to cease the tremor;
I no longer know if my voice
is just a crack of the moon
or a thunder I cannot hear.

I no longer know if my tears are just blood
seeping out of the splinters of the cloud.

My heart –
it’s but a nest of a thousand moons,
weight all falling down on me;
and yet my heart –
its beat is running away from me,
it’s pumping all away from me.

My heart –
it has lost all of its hopes;

So, tell me, how can you know
if the moon is shining back again?
REY Jun 6
Scream loud enough
to make the demons crumble
and fall on their knees.

Scream loud enough
to shatter these chains
that bind and block our pleas.

Scream, so these monsters know
we will not yield to empty roars,
we are not a flock of preys in a lion’s den,
for we are the lions ourselves,
we own the den,
we rule this battleground;
these staccatos of gunfire aimed at our hearts –
these will bounce back to them,
they will writhe in pain,
their throne will explode
with the bombs cast by their very hands,
they will drown in fire and brimstone,
we will rise from our very gravestone.

Scream, loud enough
our hearts are heard;
Scream, loud enough
our rage and fury are stirred;
these demons, these monsters –
they will give in to fear,
they will learn to cry,
their voices will learn to beg –
to shake,
to pray,
and their tongues will burn
from these prayers they chant mindlessly.

Scream –
louder to break the walls;
Scream –
so we won’t be silenced, anymore.

Scream –
we can’t be silenced, anymore.
REY Jun 5
I won’t mind turning into a chrysanthemum
falling from your grimy hands –
collapsing, decaying, losing its petals,
its scent, its every season of sanity.

Here, with you, I won’t be afraid to break;
so long as your heart is a beat away from mine,
my bones won’t mind crumbling,
escaping their way out of my flesh
to disrupt and be fallen to the ground;
these frail bones,
they are no seeds to be cradled by the earth,
but, out of them, I’ll create a garden
to which all of the feelings growing inside me
will yield on their own.

Here, in this high-rise,
stars a blink away from our eyes,
stars a kiss away from our skin –
here, like a moonlace,
I’ll surrender to the moonlight
bouncing off your irises.

Here, in this high-rise,
I won’t be afraid to be a misguided star
crashing fast off the sky;
you know I’m afraid of heights,
but tonight, I’m ready to fall,
to jump off the clouds,
to crumble, to collapse,
to feel the pain of breaking,
because honey, falling for you feels like
breathing in the flowers from your lips;
and honey, I won’t mind
if you refuse to fall for me too;

I don't know what will happen
after my very heart kisses the ground,
but tonight, in this high-rise –
right here beside you,
I won’t be afraid to fall,
I won’t be afraid to break.
REY Jun 2
These monsters,
someday, they will taste
all the fire their own hands made,
all the bombs they've ever thrown;
and their tongues will melt
at the very words of their own.

These monsters,
this color will be their grave;
by their skin, they can't be saved;
they will fall, crash,
they will all learn to kneel
to beg
to not choke on their slurs;

And someday, darling,
you will be able to breathe,
you will live;
you will feel you matter,
because, darling, you do.
REY Jun 1
You are more than just the flower
you bury inside your closet,
you bury down your poems;
someday, your petals will stop bleeding
and no thorns of your own
will come blustering into your heart,
telling you to blink back the tears
begging to come out of your eyes –
to hide the softness, the weak spot,
the beaten part of yours.

You are more than just the flower
afraid to embrace the daylight –
*******, feeble, afraid to touch the soil;
and darling, someday,
no rain inside your veins
will make you sag and dissolve
into thousand pieces of loneliness
and fear and doubt and solitude;
darling, someday,
you’ll no longer be afraid
to drink the heaven’s tears,
and you will learn to tell yourself,

“I’d rather cry with the rain outside
than be drowned by the rain inside.”

Someday, you will be the flower
you are ever afraid to become,
and the sun will welcome you,
touch your petals with so much adoration,
and your heart will beat
for the rainbow you’ve never seen
inside your closet and poems
and other graveyards
you used to cage yourself.
REY Jun 1
There are headstones resting in the paper
for all the words I left dead
but still unwritten.

Lately, I couldn’t force my hand
to write poems that could heal my heart,
for all I could ever think about
was to start a burial rite under my skin
for this very soul of mine
I’ve buried in my wounds.

All I want to think about
is how to stop this cloudburst of compulsions,
this storm raging in my nerves;
all I want
is to let my bones stop crumbling
to a funeral song
and let my body evade my own thoughts.

My head, it’s filled with plans –
several ways to rip my heart into tiny pieces,
crush it, pound it,
until I can no longer identify
which part does hurt,
which part does want to hurt more.

Yesterday, I went to sea
to make its calmness run my insides;
for hours, I kept sitting on the shore,
but I couldn’t stare at the water
without feeling drowning –
without wanting to drown;
its waves kept rushing and rushing
like the dangerous words swirling in my head,
like the poetry making me feel dead.

Lately, I couldn’t force my hand
to write words that could heal my heart,
for there were headstones resting in the paper.

There are headstones resting in my paper –

And tonight, I’ll raise one inside my head.
  Apr 24 REY
c a r o l i n e
I've got to fall to fly
Reaching new heights
Seeking new sights
I embrace the fall
And land into your arms
Just like the stars
That come out at night
#falling #love
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