(𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘊𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘢𝘯 𝘙𝘢𝘺𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘢)

May bakas ng relihiyon sa bawat kalsadang nilakaran mo. Dito sa siyudad kung saan tila naghahari ang diablo, mga dinaanan mo ang sandigan, mga pinuntahan mo ang paniniwalaan, aawitan, papupurian.

Dito, naglakad kang matapang. Nag-lamyerda kang para bang hindi ka baguhan at dayuhan. Walang pag-iingat, o walang pag-aatubili. Na parang naglalakad ka rin sa pananampalataya sa ating Diyos.

Tanong at dalangin ko lagi’t lagi: mararating ba natin ang oras? O ang hanggahan? (o kung may hanggahan nga ba ang oras sa tuwing magkasama tayo? Hindi ko alam, kung may konsepto ng oras sa langit.) Umuwi ka bang nakadiskubre ng buntalang may posibilidad ang pag-iral? Ngunit hindi mo pa ito pinapangalanan, hindi mo pa inaari.

At hindi natapos ang pagiging sagrado ng mga espasyo noong nakaalis ka na. Sa pagitan ng dagat Pasipiko at Mediteranyo, ang panalangin ko ay makakarating sa’yo, mga dasal ko’y hahalik sa katawan mo, dadapo sa silid **** hindi ko pa nararating, at dito, kasama kita, kahit hindi kita kasama.

Liquid to lips, waffles to wine,
every day feels like slowed down time.
Kisses that ****, breakfasts like bomb,
with every minute, I grow even more numb.
Winter may lie, summer far,
every breath is a dagger to my heart.
The heat may cry, cold so sore,
every step is a crash on the shore.
Before my hair grows longer,
count them.
Before my sword tattoos fade,
disarm them.
Before I grow weary in waiting,
caress me.
Before I get older and fading,
help me.
Before I lock myself again,
find me.
Before I let my heart go,
love me.

Maaaring nagsisinungaling ang mga makata.
Nalilimutan ko na ang tunog ng iyong tawa.
Pinipilit maalala ang iyong tinig sa tuwina.
Tulungan mo akong maalala.
Baka nga sinungaling ang makata.
Inuukit sa isip ang mga salitang binitawan.
Binabaybay sa tula, binubuo sa iyong wika.
Tulungan mo akong gunitain ka.
Baka nga isang krimen ang sumulat ng tula.
Kada letra ay lenggwaheng naglalakbay,
Kada pahina ay anod na di matatangay.
Tulungan mo akong lumutang.
Baka nga kriminal ang maging makata.
Nalulunod sa tinta ng pagkalumbay,
sa ilalim ng alon ng paghihintay.
Tulungan mo akong tumula.

Imagine having me stretched, throbbing,
a touch that could soothe and ****.
Yes, it both can.
Your greatest ****.
You simply won’t be able to imagine
just how good it would feel.
No, you just can’t.
Good ******* luck...

The original
The mother pearl of the orient
The mother church
The noble and ever-loyal
A poem in my mother tongue
Songs and dances in yours
People were dying here all the time
Now there are weddings, there’s even a line
People were shooting each other dead
Now there are kisses and laughters shared
López de Legazpi’s lego house
Joaquin’s literary muse
By sword and fire
By the walls of surprise
“But, Manila?!”
For the city we love to hate
And "Ahh, Manila..."
For the city we hate to love
There used to be blood splattered
brains scattered on the cobblestones
And until we’ll walk these streets together
hearts will be shattered in these cold walls
My home, sweet and hot and spicy Manila
Soon yours, darling lover
Through storms of desire
By my walls broken down in sight
My fortress, my quiet night
This is the Manila I want you to see
This is the postcard I want to send with glee
By sword and fire, here, I proclaim you mine
By these walls so high, I crawl, wait, and cry

11:11 wish: for now, hearing you’re okay?

How rude is it to sit on a table, pretend to listen to some new people talk while wishing I’m actually already home and writing this instead? Needless to say, I couldn’t understand a thing they say. How lovely it is to wait for time to pass.

How rude is it to sit on a table with new people, while thinking about the tables we sat around together? How careless my eyes were wandering, could they have noticed I don’t give even half a **** with whatever they’re saying? How lovely it is to wait.

How rude is it to pretend like I even like being with the fleeting company of people I can’t even call friends? How senseless with my ears, I couldn’t feel anything but the pitter-patter of my chest and how nervous I am with the tips of my fingers. How lovely it is to wait for another time with you.

How rude is it to pretend like you don’t even like something? Or someone? How rude is it to pretend to socialize when all I really want to do is curl up in my bed and write? How lovely it is to wait.

How rude is it to pretend like you like something? How rude is it to write poems instead of writing to you but what else can I do? Curl up in my bed with you? But what else can I do but write? How lovely.

How rude is it to pretend that I feel good to be sitting with someone else? When I was sitting with you, I didn’t have to pretend, I just felt good. But what else can I do? But curl up in my bed? Or curl my hair even more? I’m tired of writing anymore. Lovely.

How rude is it to sit on a table, pretend to listen to some people talk while wishing I’m actually homeㅡI mean, already with you instead? Needless to say, I couldn’t understand why I feel this way. How lovely it is to wait for the time that I'll see you again.

But for now, I’m fine with hearing you’re okay, I don’t mind if it’s everyday, I wanna hear it anyway.

I'll blame the internet. Like I blame the high ticket fares by the end of December last year. I blame the waves. I'll blame technology. I blame the cool island air. I'll blame the death-like distance. I blame the way I wanna run my fingers down your hair. I'll blame all these new words coined by the internet. I blame the storm here and there. I'll blame my menstrual cycle. I blame Philippine Airlines again. Lovely lovely lovely!

But for now, I’m fine with hearing you’re okay.

And this is why I’m not an actress.
I enjoy the behind-the-scenes, all their mess.
But it was never my forte to pretend.
This is why I’m a writer.
I create chaos and horrors only on paper.
Between play and pretend, I pick the former.
And maybe this is why I’m not popular.
I simply love my privacy and personal cellar.
Be in the dark, adore the closed doors.
This is why I’m only a poet.
If I should fit your mould, God forbid.
And this is why I wish to remain unknown.
If I must kneel before you, I’d just go home.
And this is precisely why I’m not an actress.
I’m already in so much burden and stress.
I’m a poet, for christ’s sake!
Oh, I could also be fake!
Ah, but I’d rather eat my popcorn,
sit within my pretty little bubble,
while honing my tiny horns,
causing no silly troubles.