While lust is a sweetened latte
Both in their own ways good
Though one easier to swallow
One is healthier, the other a desire
One gives a sugar crash, the other pure coffee flavor

Sometimes you find both your Americano and latte in one person
Sometimes you don’t - and that's okay
Sometimes you need a sprinkle of milk and sugar every now and then
Sometimes having it plain's enough to get you through the day

But no matter how many ways I’ve had my coffee
I always come back to you, my Americano
Simple, bitter, and just right

because others could not have it
Guilt taught me I could not watch videos of people ******* because ******* was a sin
And that my body was sacred so only a man I loved
and was married to could touch it

For as long as I remember
He was there, smiling

When I was seven,
My mother told me I was born a sinner
And guilt was just the desire to be forgiven from this natural condition
So every time my body pressed against a pillow
Rhythmically
In my grandmother’s room
With no one
but the sight of Guilt judging me with His piercing eyes —
I did not question it

I was a sinner
Simply for loving my own body

Pasayloa ko… pasayloa mi sa among mga sala, my mother chanted in every prayer —

I repeated it, obeyed it, until I came to believe it

So when I stopped believing
When I knew I stopped believing
He was there, patiently
Bidding me to come back

Even as I rode through bliss
Rhythmically
Hair pulled back, the bed damp
Used condoms at the side
Breathlessly eating and being eaten out by
this man I just met

His piercing eyes, unflinching stare
****** me harder than anyone ever did

Guilt was my religion —
And I was His prodigal child

Isn't it crazy
That we cross paths with some people
For a mere moment in our lives
Never to see them again
How big the world is
How many stories untold
If I live long enough
I wish to listen
To all these stories
I wish to experience
The bitter, sweet, painfully ironic
blip it is
To be human
7.88 billion more times

One time I saw an intricate bouquet of blue roses by the garbage room
I wonder how many other roses have been thrown out
Because of our human tendency to hope, to love
Or to hurt, with or without meaning to
It could have been a couple fighting
A rejected somebody
Someone who simply hated blue roses
A frustrated florist
These are stories I will never know

You may not always reach the high notes
but you try
and that's why I love you

Sharing an imaginary kith
Through straws
I may be getting older, but boy does
That give me schmetterlinge