They said you cannot pour
from an empty cup,
yet you fill me up, overflowing with feelings,
feelings that I have yet to feel,
let alone even believe.

They said you cannot pour
from an empty cup,
yet I find myself being able to give you more,
right when I thought
I could no longer give.

They said you cannot pour
from an empty cup,
so we throw away our old fragile mugs,
take out the fine, gold-rimmed glasses
and we began to clink.

They said you cannot pour
from an empty cup,
so we took out a bottle,
carefully tasting by drips,
and into the night we drink.

They said you cannot pour
from an empty cup,
So we threw a feast,
with only us two as guests,
until it's the dawn
and even then we still celebrate.

They said you cannot pour
from an empty cup,
yet we clink, drink and celebrate together,
finish one bottle after the other
because you know we have
a fair surplus of wine
down in our cellar

I am known to have several hobbies,
as I also have significant prowess in each.
Because in anything that I do
and whatever I want to try,
I always do it naturally and good
just like a bird taking flight.

When it comes to new interests,
I am simply the best student.
I learn and plan carefully with method
and execute flawlessly with madness.
Calling and pulling down rain like a God,
I water my passions like lilies in the garden.

When it comes to new knowledge,
I am a servant yet the queen of this village.
A newcomer gangster who rules the streets,
I am feared in every turn and corner.
Yet an overqualified maiden on the sheets,
I am tenderly adored and kissed better.

When learning about new languages,
I dedicate it only for the arts and letters.
Speak foreign words like it's teenage love,
I've sworn this is only on paper, not my lips.
Sing fluently like my head with heels above,
I swallow my pride and swing my hips.

When talking about arbitraries and goals,
I am never not in the know from the get-go.
I am an angel who sets and builds the stage,
when I show up, nobody feels the breeze.
Yet I am the devil that gambles and trades,
in my refusal everybody finds their release.

Gayuma
ang titig ng iyong mata
ang mga kulay nitong kakaiba,
pati ang labi **** nakakahalina

Nakakahalina
ang pangarapin ka
alalahanin ang iyong amoy sa tuwina,
ating mga alaalang tila ba milagro at mahika

Mahika
ang muli kang makasama
at marinig muli ang iyong mga tawa,
mawala kung saan mang sulok kasama ka

Ang makasama ka
ang pinakamabisang gayuma,
ang pinakanakakahalinang mahika,
at ang aking pinapangarap na sumpa.

My love, I will be here.
I will be here on nights that all you wanna do is cry and all I wanna do is watch you because I enjoy seeing you in pain.
If I could only take more pain possible and let it wreck you from the inside out every night, I would.
I will be with you on days that feels like weeks
and I will try to make the days feel like years instead.
If I could only shove the sun aside and bring forth darkness to your daylight, I would.
I will stay and sit with you through the dark
so I can make sure that you wouldn't find the switch before I do. The only light you'll ever need is the one you'll see in the end of my wrath's tunnel.
I will protect you until the end
from finding your happiness. You are safe enough inside the cage of my pain,
I will not let go of you,
where do you think you'll go other than here in our bed of daggers made from your remorse and my resentment?
I will hold you closer with the strongest grip of my now unable hand everytime.

There's nothing you can ever do to lose me,
as much as there's nothing I can ever do to love and trust you again.
Being with you, I knew I've brought this upon myself.
Messing with me, you never knew you're gonna see this coming, knocking you from your senses.

Through the gloom and in bloom,
for worse and for the worst,
for richer and for poorer
In sickness and in madness,
to hate and wait for you to perish
everyday we'll crush each other's hearts
I promise even death won't keep us apart.

💍

I'm a simple girl,
I only want few ugly things out of
this equally ugly world.
Hot showers on summer afternoons,
frozen desserts on stormy evenings,
old, sad rock songs on christmas day
and scribbling depressing poems on my birthday.

I like the comfort that I get from sitting right beside the door of a moving vehicle,
that the possibility of it sliding open
while I'm leaning on it feels like
my favorite warm blanket from childhood.
The idea that I could be sitting upright one minute
then the next, my face will be parallel to my knees and ankle
feels like my cheat cigarette stick after months of "quitting", it's that good.

And I love thinking about the probability in the fact that I might not wake up after tonight,
that this might be my last poem written.
That if I pop a bit too many pills,
I can just end all of these.
It's like I got magic under my sleeves.
But who the hell needs magic?
Instead, I wish I had a beautifully tight noose to put me to eternal sleep

From my past job
To my previous love
From every cancelled flight
To my concert crowd fright
From car parking overtimes
To cutting into bank lines

I bless and I thank all of you
for my trauma on tickets!

Climbing a mountain on a rainy day
inspires you to embrace
the light showers that comes your way,
and humbles you down enough
to appreciate walking in the city streets
on a regular sunny day

Your sweat dripping and mixing with mine
Your sudden ramblings and whine
The uneven summer sun tans
The reds and scratches on your back
All natural, and all I ever want
These are the things
I daydream on the daily.
These are the days
I imagine myself living.
Your absence,
the single worst lethal threat
Your face,
so close while catching our breaths
Our hands,
always there for each other to hold.
All these makes for the moments
that makes our love worthy of it all.

Oh I beg you to please annoy me.
Cause me all these inconveniences.
Come closer, stop being such a tease.
Make me the most vexed woman to exist.

But he's out there standing tall,
making a difference
while I'm sitting here, falling short,
staying the same.

But he's far away, far-sighted
and breaking new grounds,
while I'm at arm's length, half-blind
and on the verge of breaking his heart.

And every day he's fulfilling
a bigger purpose.
And come what may, I am only
writing of sad proses.

And he's moving relentlessly,
he's ever-growing.
And I'm staying stuck and dry,
I am simply withering.

From his stares,
I would most likely seem small.
And I think he knows
by now he have won.

With his touch,
I would most likely feel like a little girl.
And I'm trying to grow
So I'll try to go...

Stop.
Don't puff.
See the ocean?
Run and go.
Want to make a new friend?
Put down your phone.
Or do as you please,
but please don't smoke cigarettes in Siargao.
Don't make an irony of your stay
and a fool of yourself here.
Don't disrespect her sweet air,
don't bastardize her fresh breeze.

See the ocean?
Run and go.
Make a friend.
Do what you please.
Breathe in the sweet air.
Feel the kiss of the fresh breeze.
Don't smoke cigarettes in Siargao.

Here in this castle,
in my tower,
no one and nothing
can hurt me but myself.
Walls are built out of silver and gold
that I begged the laws of the universe for.
I might be the princess that sleeps,
but will never feel the pea
that lies underneath my piles of bed
made out of skeleton bones.
Now yes, I lie on them...
they reside not in my closet
but beneath my frail, sorry body.
Some nights, I am one of the skeletons myself.
I might be the very monster
that I have been fearing for the past two weeks.
I might be making the very noises
that keeps me up until morn.
Have you ever seen a fortress
with the enemies lurking within?
Gates with the robbers
who are playing cards inside?
Welcome to my little world,
welcome to my tower.
Where I can craft deadly words,
in here I hold the most power.

Have you ever longed for a stranger?
Do you find yourself zoning out, looking forward to remembering their mannerisms and quirks?
Writing of memories from a time yet to come—it's both hopeless and hopeful at the same time.
To get excited about something or someone coming from a time and place of uncertainty, that should make me feel something else aside from excitement itself.
Fear? I fear not. It's all anticipation running around my haywire of a head.
When you see me or when I see you for the first time,
What will you be wearing? In what color?
Would I be sad and sober? Or would I be happy-drunk?
As embarassing as it would be, we know we'll have to talk to each other, exchange a few words or we could say things enough for both of us to fall in love with each other right then and there.
Would I passively tell you how I hate that week or would I start to tell you about my contradicting dreams of setting out a life of restless travels
and living in a quaint little apartment that sees a good amount of morning light and how it's going to be filled with wilted flowers, antiques and fifteen cats?
I know I would want both although it's careless and contradicting. But this is just one and I have a house full of them.
Do you even think dreams have to be logical?
Do you believe that we have to be careful in order to get to our dreams or do we go the exact opposite way?
I hope you'd share some of your dreams, too. The more careless, the better.
Would my heart still be beaten up to a pulp by then or would it beat foolishly once more like a brand new snare?
How about you? I wonder how your heart would sound, even now.
Is it punk rock one minute and classical the next or perhaps Disney when you're spacing out?
And I can only wish you're not even half of the lunatic that I am, because I know I need a bit of a balance in my life right now but hey, whatever and whoever you are, come as you are anyway. It's just a wishful thought.
Would I even get lucky enough to come inside your room to dance and spill my last ounces of colors in every corner?
To splatter your walls with my poorly-written poems would be another careless dream to add up on my long list.
Would we like the same music? Would you like drunk dancing as much as I do? Would you prefer watching the moonlight or basking in the setting of the sun? Would you fancy my humor? Would we romanticize escaping reality and the city because we know it imprisons us like nothing and nowhere else? Would I hesitate or anticipate seeing you for the second time? Would you anticipate seeing me over and over again even after seeing me cry because I'm too drunk or too sad or too happy or everything at once? Would we surf with the currents or confine to the safety of the shore?
Or do we stay friends?
Or do we stay friends for only a night?
Or do we become strangers, just strangers?
Or do we become strangers again after being fiercely in love with each other for so long, after being there for each other through the sunny days and storms, after being friends, after we were strangers?
If you see me for the first time, I hope my made-up face and my ever unruly, hand-combed crazy hair would make up for my much crazier mind, to say the least.

But may we hurry up a little if we can, answer these careless questions before they pile up.

The way you have a way with words,
I bless every book and every poem
that has ever graced your sight.
I praise the letters you've strung thus far,
if I could, I'd stitch them with my own
to make a blanket of letters that would
cover and protect you in the next winter.
Now I am writing astray,
but from my original pseudonym
I am never too far away.
You are the one writing these poems,
I am just your hands and the veins on them.

I didn't even ask him
what kind of music he digs,
for his voice alone
is my new favorite record.
I didn't bother finding out
his kind of taste in music,
for my newfound orchestra
comes from his lips.

I didn't even ask him
what kind of films he watch,
for even reality feels like a movie
when he came from the side door,
that's a film I've never seen before.
The ****** is when I was falling
and he was there, ever ready,
waiting and willing to catch me.

I didn't even find out
what kind of books he reads,
for his way with words
is already a novel of poetry.
I didn't even dare ask him
what he thinks of the bible,
for his articles and greetings
alone are my homily.

I didn't even find out
if our taste in music, cinema and literature matches and if I should go otherwise.
You only do that in shallow,
short-lived connections.
I didn't even bother finding out
if our taste in things aligns,
for he already spiced up my
underseasoned life.

Sweet envy,
I'm envious of how she was blessed by the gods to have looked into your eyes, eye to eye. To study their color and watch how they look when you lie.
She knows the way you blink and how you close them when you sleep at night.
I hate thinking how you've both spent some nights.
The thought of her taking granted of breathing the same air as you boils my blood.
I'm jealous of how she was able to graze her fingers upon your skin, let them travel across your back
and how her hand once held yours... only to foolishly, finally and thankfully let them go.
I curse and bless the day she broke your heart.
I curse each day that I have to live with this jealousy.

Holy jealousy,
I'm jealous of the kind of jealousy you've made her feel, like when you would glance at another girl when you're together.
Or how you'd talk to a girl in a cafe or bookstore when you thought she wasn't looking over her shoulder.
Or how you'd talk to anyone about anything at all without uttering her name.
I'm jealous of how you two probably used to stand across each other in a room and throw blames.
I could imagine countless of scenarios but then
I also imagine I'm the one feeling that too.
I can take that any day, as long as we're together too.
Because the only jealousy I feel is jealousy of your past. This fiery envy towards your history.

****** history,
I'm reading into every words you said like memoirs and piecing every excerpt trying to look for answers. Answer as to how and whyㅡhow she broke your heart and why she did it.
Would you change a thing about everything you did?
I ask and scream these questions to the moonlight.
Yet if you tell me and show me the answers yourself, there's not a single battle that I would win and fight.
Yet I search for clues in every old photo, in every message and through my sly, secret ways.
Must I scour every corner and highway?
So I can come up with answers to my own 'how and why'? How can I mend your broken heart?
Why do I love you this much?

Because above all, I am a revolutionary.
I acknowledge my envy, work through my jealousy and respect your history.
But then again, with every dark history comes the need for revolution and change.
And I am the catalyst who will spearhead that game.
I am your new age.
I am your renaissance.
I am your vengeance, nirvana, revolution and everything at once.

Sung epics from afar
Half-shouted prayers nearby
Cat's meows by the window
and familiar howls by my bedside
Jesus christ, won't you
hear my cries?
Shut all these noises,
hush all these voices.
I want none of these songs
for these won't pacify me.
I want none of the prayers
for these won't save me.
But please thank your father
for introducing Joy Division,
The Cure and Morrissey to me,
for me.
They're the best substitute to noose,
knives and pills.

Your jacket with your trademark scent
Your deep-set eyes makes my knees bend
The sonorous sound of your laugh
The accidental touch from your hand
Occasional, yet each are monumental
These are the things I dream
of having even just once.
These are the moments I crave
the taste of, even just an ounce.
Your hands on my hair
Us breathing in the same air
Our hands, intertwined
These are the turning moments
I'll play on my turntable on rewind

Oh spoil me, please spoil me
Give me all these life's luxuries
Come closer, hold me, give it all to me
Make me the richest woman to ever exist.

Maybe I don't wanna be better?
If your definition of "better" is to risk
this spark of joy and trade it
for pangs of burn and bouts of pain,
then maybe I don't wanna be better.
My darling dear,
life is already painful as it is.
Maybe I wanna surf where it wouldn't hurt?
And if being around
other hurt surfers would,
I'd very much fancy riding the waves alone,
catch a break or break down on my own,
so I wanna surf where it wouldn't hurt.
My north wind,
reality cuts deeper than reefs.
Maybe I wanna stay in the shallow?
If your depth is where I could lose myself,
yet again, and break my back,
skin and bones
and swim back to shore
or drift lifeless alone,
then maybe I just wanna stay in the shallow.
My grand sea,
love should not hurt and bleed.

My most beloved,
I've always known, it makes perfect sense.
Why they all want to take you,
away from my arms and from the lull of rest.
Why they all want a piece of you,
it's because you are simply, utterly the best.
My dearest,
it's all because you are heaven-sent.
Because of you, I am brave and I can win.
Your waves are weaved by God himself.
Because of you, I can surf, sink and swim.
But my love,
for you, there is no war I wouldn't fight.
There is no battle that I wouldn't triumph.
No forefronts I wouldn't lead.
No enemy I wouldn't bury dead.
My most beloved sea, my dearest,
𝘔𝘢𝘵𝘢𝘺𝘢𝘬 𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘣𝘢𝘯 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘢 𝘬𝘦𝘯𝘬𝘢
For your laughters, waves and sunset,
𝘐-𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘺 𝘬𝘰 𝘣𝘪𝘺𝘢𝘨 𝘬𝘰 𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘨𝘢𝘯𝘢 𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘢𝘬𝘢𝘭𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘢𝘯.

You can kneel to pray,
before you commit one more sin
as you do every hour and everyday.
You can pray to avoid the calls of sin,
before you take on a bigger atrocity,
throwing both law and faith down the bin.
But rules are meant to be bent,
just like my body against the table,
or across the vastness of your bed.
But I am the revolution, your new law,
and you would learn the best way
that without me, you're as good as lost.

My kanluran is your nán
but my seas are my sons
and my seas are mine.
It's spelled as seas,
not to be misread as seize.
Feel an unforgiving mother's wrath
through the heat of my sun.

When was the last time you've wondered what's out there waiting for us two?
Was it last year? Or the last time I thought I left again only to return and redeem myself from you?
How cruel must it be if we really are meant to be together?
We always chase and tug between time,
bet and roll dice on distance and its false promises.
Where do we even go from here?
Further away from the winning streaks
or closer to the losing games?
When was the last time we made wishes for each other?
Will I even ever find another whole crazy person to share all my little victories and enormous troubles with?
Someone who would not keep record of all my wins and losses,
someone who would meet me in the middle of the plays and pauses.
Someone to run across continents with, chasing chances and begging for nuances.
I'd rather chase and run with you between countries and cities and stolen moments than between life and death.
But as I reckoned the chase with you right here is nonexistent,
my own life and my own death would be chasing each other instead.

First stanza, my upper lip
Second, his
The chorus, our tongue dancing
to the momentary rhythm.
Third stanza, my lower lip
Fourth, his
The bridge, a bite and a little pull,
sending us both to the brim.
Oh, this has to be my favorite song,
our kiss

Here's a piece of advice
from a lover who has gone through madness and back;
Don't say you're in love,
unless you are screaming for their name in the middle of the night like a madman,
writing sonnets with your blood; unless you are dreaming for death to take you together in the heat of the high noon,
unless you cried until your tears bring forth end to their drought,
unless you aren't singing for their pain until you get thrown out to the gutter, howling louder than the wolf who cried for the moon.
Unless you're willing to wreck what's "better",
don't proclaim yourself to be someone who's in love.
If you can still think straight,
if you think your words still make sense, come and be my guest.

As if on cue, on my second step out,
one bell rang; that of the sorbetero's cart
and on my sixteenth,
that of the bell by Dominican.
I sighed "yes, I know, I'm going."
I appreciate the practice.
I appreciate the background music.

Dad wouldn't go to museums with me anymore
Dad wouldn't pick me up from school anymore
Dad wouldn't buy me my favorite sweets
anymore
Dad wouldn't take me to the mall
anymore
Dad wouldn't play pretend-princess-and-king with me anymore
Dad wouldn't go see movies with me
anymore
Dad wouldn't finish my popcorn before me anymore
Dad wouldn't force me to eat my peas and greens anymore
Dad wouldn't sing and rock me to sleep
anymore
Dad wouldn't let me sleep peacefully and soundly anymore
Dad wouldn't kiss my boo-boos goodbye anymore
Dad wouldn't help heal my scars
anymore
Dad wouldn't wipe my tears anymore
Dad wouldn't stop them from flowing for a few years more
Dad wouldn't piggy-back ride me up his back anymore
Dad just wouldn't carry me up anymore
Dad wouldn't fight the dragons in my head anymore
Dad wouldn't break down the walls he had built himself anymore
Dad wouldn't let boys hurt me the way he did anymore
It's been nineteen years, dad, wouldn't you want to be a part of my life anymore?

This isn't home to us, just an illusion thereof.
An illusion we love to play in,
eat in, sleep in.
And when it rains, it doesn't pour;
it is but ever dry.
When it's dry, all I do is die.
I die. I die. I die.
Only to live tomorrow and yet again
play, eat and sleep.
This isn't love, just an illusion thereof.
An illusion we love to pour in, die in
and live in again.

On one Tuesday, you asked me
why I check the words you use,
why I analyze the things you say,
and you also pointed out
how I see things before you do
And I might seem like a know-it-all,
but ironicaly, I do these to learn about you.
And unlearn my past mistakes and habits,
to learn how to love you better
so I can be worthy of a future with you
and be so good for you.
teach me. help me.

My heart has had enough
My mind had its final run
But my body
Oh god, my body,
My poor body...
It remains unsullied, untouched

Years have passed
and the past have yearned,
spells were cast
and lessons are learned.
Still, my body remains hungry
It remains still, and it's still at rest
Still, it's been at rest painfully
I remain unfed, receiving only less
And it wants to run, climb and fly
it wants to bleed, shed and cry

My body;
not only does it ask me for more,
but it demands the most.
It asks me to tour down the earth's core,
commands me to find what's lost.

The exhaustion
The falling
The soreness
The failing
The bouts of pain
The flying...

Everything my heart has fought with,
everything my mind has battled with,
my body wants every taste,
craves every punch and hit.
It craves some kind of feigned balance,
it craves a round of some dangerous dance

Yet I wait
I wait for nature to grant me the green light.
I wait for the stars to lull me into the night.
I wait for the trees to give me some reason.
I wait for the moon to pull me into seasons.

Oh it's for sure a delicate time.

For me and you both.

He softly touched her cheek
the same way cold touched
the first few mornings
of Februaryㅡfrigid but somehow fleeting.
Full of adoration
yet full of uncertainties.
And like the whispers of warmth
on some mornings,
he's almost always anticipating to leave.
With those cold hands of his,
he softly touched her cheek
and like the fury between
the cold and warm,
he kissed her
while whispering goodbye
at the same time.

I study and read about it
Sing songs in the glory of it
Carve it on your tongue
and lips
Tattoo, etch and kiss it
on my hips

Interpreter of dreams,
you see the future
once a cynic but it seems
with you I am sure.
So I kneel and crawl
slowly towards your temple,
I am a broken statue
that only you could reassamble.

I pray, please do not humble
yourself before any god,
for you know your words
are worth more than gold.
I praise and worship you
as my one and only king,
even your sins are the
absolute truth I'm praying.

For you I would blindlessly
find a new Babylon,
for in your holy name
I saw eternal salvation.
Darling, there is no more
unbearable exile
than being far away
from you in miles.

Still I exalt you and in you
I put all my faith,
for you are the beast
my demons see as bait.
Yet you call on me
like an angel from your dream,
my songs are whisper,
while my poems are screams.

I found you one fateful,
raging night in the lion's den
we ran away with the wolves,
never returned again.
My religion is loving you
and blessing your name.
One touch and forgetting you
is a losing game.

In your quiet I found my
passing repentance,
yet our love is a loud,
deafening covenant.
On my knees,
I cast away your burdens,
in your name
I can move mountains.

What I'd give to see that one weekend all over again
In a film
or perhaps read it in a novel
ㅡa year's worth of tears to feel the warmth of that riverlike stream again and a half-year's worth of winter in his eyes

a half year's worth of anguish to have him watch me fall asleep in a cold rainy night again and tuck me in for a month's worth of his familiar warmth.

a month's worth of thrown up food to get a taste of the liquor in his lips once more, to get intoxicated by his touches' week's worth of sweet summer in September.

a week's worth of disappointments just to have him light up a day's worth of my cigarettes again.

anything.

or maybe a few more sticks will do.

I have been walking in a dark cave
for quite a long time,
Never felt more caged and jailed,
as if I've committed a heinous crime.
Defeated and bruised
from the gold rush,
I heard songs of victory
in your calm and hush.
Little did I know,
I was just passing through,
forgetting all the woes and blues,
I walk towards my gold mine,
Threw all of my lights on the line,
Left my knives by the door, risking my life.
And little did you know,
you wouldn't just walk with me
through the dark,
but would even dance with me
right on my mark.
When I felt like I was
in an eternal night,
you came marching along,
my valiant knight.
Now we walk hand-in-hand,
I can see the light from our land.
Waiting for us there is our *** of gold.
I have all the riches in the world
from your kisses and by your hold.

Dear Reader,

If your winter becomes unbearably colder,
your summer a little less hot,
If your spring lacks flowers and colors,
and your next autumn full of drought,

remember that it's summer all year here,
yet my nights are colder since you left.
But I'll be waiting until you're back or near,
to go where or do what,
we'll just have to wonder and guess...

You think you'd have another chance
to make a dying wish
I was thinking I would take an endless glance
over some long lost art
We thought our tongues could have another dance
with an exceptionally good dish

We think we'd have another go
over things involving me and you
You were thinking there'll be more tomorrow
until tomorrow becomes "please, just go"
I thought I can have another taste of you
until your restaurant updates its new menu
until finally, there's no more me and you

For every gaze,
old wounds open once again.


For every unanswered SMS,
scars freshen up like new from yesterday.


For every unintentional graze of
your fingers,
the old wounds heal themselves.


For every shared laughter on and offline,
scars from yesterday springs back
to years ago.

As I breathe the taint Manila air in,
I knew I was about to fall in love again.
Oh how I craved for the smoke belching out of the jeepneys,
how badly did I want that signature smog to have me begging for fresh, precious air?

Ah, nothing would beat the musky, filthy smell from the streets and the constant fear of being pickpocketed that no feeling in the world would ever compare. The last time I felt my heart beat like a wild beast was when I was walking alone down Raon to fetch my first few vinyl records.

Commuting is a breeze. Except that breeze is in the apple of the eye of the storm that I would gladly, willingly look straight into. Quiapo is but an irony; the only place in the world where you would feel safe and protected by the church and the very same place you would feel fear of being mugged or robbed or both.

But the food, dear God, is incomparable. The blood enemy of my melancholy. I find peace in Binondo, a haven that makes me forget all the political dysporia going on with our good old neighbor and ***** lover, China. Let's take a breather and bask on our shared heritage and cuisine instead, shall we?

Manila. Her chaos, her charm,
her history and the dreams she holds for me...
these are what I will always come back here and battle death for.

You are my summertime,
my burning sun, my tropic,
my morning dew, my sunshine.
You are the reason why
my sunset and sunrise became one,
meeting in the middle of my equinox.
You are the reason why I felt again,
why I can feel the seasons all at once
like feeling both pleasure and pain.
But when winter swings by,
I'd hold your hand close
to my chest like a locket.
and pull you closer to me
like my favorite jacket,
take in your scent
like my mug of coffee,
consume you
for your warmth and ease.
In the morning if our porch is piled in snow,
we'd greet the cold with laughter and glee.
I would wrap you around me
like my thickest scarf,
hell I would even be
the fire to keep you warm.
You are my summertime,
but when winter and cold comes around,
I will stay beside you in the blizzard,
eternally blessing the day
that I have ever walked your ground.
This is a promise I am making
right in the middle of summer,
that I would be with you
in any season and every weather.

I am filling my days with tick boxes
and to-do lists
Entertaining myself with others' inconveniences.
To save my heart from further
crack and freeze,
I play games and reward myself
with my own prizes.

I am burying every lingering question,
like you kept yours
locked inside the closet.
Like disposing our shared laughters
of their echoes and sounds,
I cover my own mouth as I cry
so no other soul hears it.

I am reducing my feelings to logic
Even my poetry and art have
become awfully calculated.
Compartmentalizing my daily plans
into sorry yet efficient lists,
I survive the nights by believing
losing me makes you elated.

I am weighing in the pros and cons,
like dancing with my own body
on a brittle balancing act.
Whispering lullabies
to my own weary heart and soul,
I find comfort in knowing
it will never come back.

𝘗𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘺 (𝘯); 𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘰𝘨𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺;
𝘴𝘺𝘯𝘰𝘯𝘺𝘮𝘴: 𝘴𝘭𝘶𝘵, 𝘨𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘥𝘪𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘳,
𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘰𝘳 𝘸𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯 𝘮𝘦𝘯'𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘦

I know who I am
Yet I don't mind being contained inside a stereotype
I'd even laugh with them or crack a harder joke,
if that means with you, I'll get to spend more time.
I know that in surprise of my truth, they will all choke.

I know myself
I've sworn with blood I won't throw my heart so far
like a boomerang that mindlessly takes flight.
But I don't mind being inside the comfort of your car,
especially being found with you there late at night.

I know what I want
I chase my dreams daily, men only every two years
And I don't mind the name-calling and naysays
Because what I want can't be bought with tears
and all they'll ever know about me is my name anyway.

I know what I'll get
But if it's you, I'll take what I can and hope I won't need
Even if it feels like looking into those eyes of yours is a crime
Because life before you have been stereotypical indeed
So I don't mind, no I don'tㅡin hundreds of jails I'd merrily do time.

I know what you'll get
And if it's not me, there are always the girls
waiting for you back home
or the ones who anticipates you
wherever you may cross, dock or land
Because I have a feeling life after you
would feel like I've always been alone
But would you mind? If I ask you
to hold me longer and take my hand?

Do we know where we’ll go next or what we'll both get?
If it's not with you and me,
there are thousand other pretty faces and luscious lips...
But can they ever fill the void I've left?
and will I ever stop thinking about what they lack?
Because I have a feeling there's more to this,
I've never missed anyone's hand on my hips...
But would you mind? If I ask you
to give me another night, will you ever come back?

Je sais que tu ne peux toujours
pas m'oublier, comme ta belle histoire.
Tu ne peux pas oublier mon nom
non plus, c'est comme chuchoter "bonsoir".
Je veux oublier comment tu prononces
mon nom, mais je n'arrive pas à me souvenir
d'admettre que tu l'as dit le mieux.
Peut-être que je le ferais enfin si seulement
tu me disais aussi s'il y a quelqu'un qui
pourrait t'embrasser mieux que moi.
Même si mes amis me coupaient
la tête parce que je pense encore
à toi dix mois plus ****,
même si le monde entier
me faisait un procès parce
que je continue à essayer
d'écrire sur toi après un an,
je me brosserais les cheveux,
remonte mes seins,
je mettrais mon trousseau,
réparer ma jupe
je me tiendrais devant une vitre et je dirais:
"Qu'ils mangent du brioche!"
mais pas après que tu aies
encore goûté à mon gâteau.
Mais pas après que tu aies
encore goûté à mon gâteau,
encore et encore...

I believe I've written of the sun, sand and sea countless of times;
even when it's pouring down and even when the cold december wind is tugging at the strings of my heart.
The last time I wrote of my summer,
I told myself that the next time I would, it would be from experience and not of make-believe.
Why should I write of the seagulls' noises when all I ever heard this year were the familiar chirps of the Maya birds?
I just trick myself into thinking that the chirps of a Maya is much more relaxing anyway.
Why should I write of the heat that burns past through my skin then onto my heart when I get to feel the same heat while walking the streets to and from our old house?
I could achieve my dream tan by doing that twenty times a day.
Why should I make poems out of the waves and shells when life here in the city is enough to drown me lifeless but could also leave me so dry at the same time?
Even more ironically, I never went out of my room—my safe shell that I never actually felt safe in.
April and May, farewell and apologies.
I took you for granted and now I must wait another weary, barren year and daydream for my summer.

The people from your hometown and I
got something big in common;
we always wait for you.
And your words.
They complete and make our days.
If not all, then most days.
We await news from you
like a rooster would wait for sunshine
before it sings in the morning.
Like I would wait for you
to tell me you adore me before I can sleep,
and wake and repeat this all over again.

I said,
"This is only gonna be a summer thing".
For six weeks, you can have me
as your shiny bling.
I would let myself get lost
in your ocean's blue,
but only until the first drop of rain in June.
I would let myself drown in joy,
be your new toy, but boy,
I never thought "summer"
would be our most favorite ploy.
"This is only gonna be a summer thing",
But then we live in far-flung distances,
stretching and bending from east to west.
Summer is here, spring is his,
when it's rainy where I am, he's at ease.
And when I'm feeling the summer breeze,
It's as if I could almost hear him sneeze.
And when summer comes where he is,
I am the one who's cold and about to freeze.
"This is only gonna be a summer thing",
but when my summer is over,
his summer is just beginning.
And when his summer is around the corner,
my summer is yet again just starting.
"This is only gonna be a summer thing",
says she who lives in the tropics,
where summer is all-year long.
"This is only gonna be a summer thing",
says he whose heart she has melted,
summer is forever and winter is long ago.

The monsoons of the heart
The cyclones of our whereabouts
It's all brewing and burning
at the same time

Within the all-seeing eye of the storm,
the haze and hail over my island are born
It's both evening and morning
at the same time

The violent destructions on the east
The threatening strong winds on the west
It's all beginning and ending
at the same time

Tell the church,
the priest can speak and yap all he wants,
his words aren't the truth, he's another man;
at the bottom of it all, he will never be God.

Tell the church,
the believers are not blind followers,
the church is not perfect, it's an institution;
sometimes the dark at the end of the tunnel.

Tell the church,
the people are not their pets to parade,
we are God's children, not church's slaves!
if worse comes to worst, it's because of the church!

God is absolute, the church is not!
God is loving and freeing, the church is not!
God's love is unconditional, with the church, where's the love?!
And God is divine, kind and perfect, and the church will never be!

So tell the church,
they can make an enemy out of me,
burn me at stake or hang me until I bleed;
at the end of the day, to God I'd still believe!

And tell the church,
they can silence me or bind my arms,
dispose of me, turn my bones to charms;
until the end of the world, all they do is harm!

How my hands will reach to grab the demons' hands out of your body,
pulling you, redeeming you as close
as I can possibly get.
How our lips will utter the words
we cannot say while pressed together.
As your teeth mold against the
skin of my neck,
the stars shall hold me up and make me forget the word 'wrecked'.
How we will leave each other breathless
but still screaming for more,
how we wanted to curse so loudly
and also softly whisper our 'thanks'.
Both of us are shaken.
Broken, but finally fixed too.

I hope we both bruise lifetime bruises.

Rain was pouring hard
when my cheap fastfood coffee was full,
my cold sweat does the same
as soon as I finished the cup.
Bringing an umbrella in Dapitan
is not necessary.
At least that's what I said
before I was all soaked and in dread.

I can't see them, can't hear their chirps even.
They can see me, best believe they can hear my cries
in the teasing of the morn after eleven.
Maybe they even hold my secrets as tightly as they cling onto that tree next to my tower;
a tower I've built out of the very secrets
they know of and keep.
Secrets as dark as the Manila night sky
in the middle of the week can be.
They are but wary visitors, as I am myself.
Stuck between a new world and old,
roaming restlessly in an uncharted territory.
Only one can see the other
but we can both smell fear from each other.
Swinging and lounging across
but we're never parallel, we're unnamed.
We're untamed, in the detachment
from the grounds do we bask and dwell.
They're not out to get me;
they don't even have to try.
They get me better than my friends ever would.
They get my sleeping habits
better than the planks of my bed.
They understand my poor diet
better than the plastic utensils
that ever touched my mouth,
they've memorized my daily routine
better than all those cigarette butts.

What do you say to fear when it settles in?
Do you ask it to leave?
Do you run away from it?
Or do you look it in the eye
and crawl closer in?
Do you befriend it?
Or do you swear it's enemy?
Do you set it on fire, cover its tracks?
Or do you run your hands
tenderly down its cheeks?

What do you do when fear takes over?
Do you fight it?
Or do you ask it of its favorite color?
Do you talk to it too soon
about the weather and the future,
hoping it leaves on its own so soon, too?
Or do you savour it slowly day by day,
and pray every night that it will stay?
Do you decide that you are bigger than mere emotions, or do you embrace that such a feeling can overpower even your body?

And what do you do when fear
finally runs away?
Do you kneel and thank the good heavens,
or do you bow and beg hell for it to return?
Do you stay in bed, curl up and cry,
or do you defy and run
the hundreds of miles?
Do you ask for it to stay
and settle down with you?
Do you surrender
and ask it to take over you?
Do you stay and surrender,
do you settle down and take over each other?
Do you accept the where and when
of the right here and right now,
or do you decide that there is no forever;
that even fear can flourish into brand new feelings, take you to new heights,
so new that you have no choice but to embrace it,
accept that such feelings can indeed overpower
your body, mind and spirit,
and encompass your logic, reason
and instincts?

Tell me, look me in the eye...
Crawl closer in...
Set me on fire, run your hands tenderly down my cheeks...
What do you say?
What do you do?