I am oatmeal with
two tablespoons of sugar topped with
a strawberry freshly sliced, thin enough to
slip between my lips and slide
down my throat
without me having to chew
I am trying my best not to spit out seeds.

I am a pair of faded shorts
a charcoal cotton sweater
an ugly red scarf and a pair of
frayed black Toms, but
sometimes I am a vintage dress
or camouflage pants, and
some days I am a string of pearls
I am still trying to find the perfect shoes.

I am a Philippine history book
repeating the same mistakes
refusing to learn from those who
now kiss cool marble
but there are days when I take
three steps forward where
I see they took one step back.
I am trying to scrape off towers to read the letters
our grandfathers wrote in the dirt.

I am a missing pencil
that drew lines and traced figures
under the bed and wrote
stories of empty seats being filled
and now that the fountain pens have dried up
I've been found.
I am scared, but I am giving until my lead runs out.

I am a fervent prayer
longing for redemption to win
and for the fighting to end
please, I just want to see
hearts beating to the rhythm of
the stars being breathed into place
I am hope,
or I am trying to be, I am
trying to be a lot of other things still
testing, still throwing, still keeping.

But most of all, I am still
the choices I make and
maybe tomorrow I'll have
some rice and tapa
and a lightly salted sunny side up
instead of oatmeal and I promise,
I won't be spitting out any seeds.

Every time I look you in the eye, I see thunderclouds. Yes, your laugh is silver bells on a spring day and your smile could have caused Mona Lisa to grin all the way in, but they’re right. Your eyes are the behind the scenes and your body is a movie. I don’t enjoy watching movies.

2. I can’t keep up with the storyline. Chapters fifteen and sixteen were about homecomings, and now the main character’s digging his own grave again. You never explained to me how he went from dancing in the moonlight to rubbing ash on his head, just when I thought we were getting already to the ******.

3. The wounds are reopening. I thought you knew better than to pick at the stitches.

4. Your heart must be handcuffed to mine. I feel it every time you hurt, every time you pull, every time you cry out and ask God, “Why?” The only difference is that every inch you move away is a sucker punch in my gut. I’ve never had a high tolerance for pain.

5. Do you know how many poems I’ve written about you? Try walking outside at night and count every street lamp from here to the opposite side of the sea. My words burn too, but they never seem to be bright enough for you to see. You’re still tripping in broad daylight.

6. I’m tired of standing behind you.

7. Hope is an anchor, but I’m starting to drown.

8. Sometimes I scream in frustration because the seeds are taking too long to grow. It’s so easy to forget that they will. It’s even easier to forget that I’m not the savior. But I try to be, so I’m putting down this yoke, little by little.

9. Seeds do grow and their trees make enough rings to tell stories to last generations.

10. I heard in a song that love alone is worth the fight. Maybe I’ll continue this battle long enough for you to see that we’ve already won this war, so that the next time I look at you in the eye, I’ll see the northern lights.

No, I am not a Christian, rather
I am a child adopted and chosen
I am a friend, He is my buddy
I am a follower, humbly obeying the Leader
I am a disciple, carrying my cross daily
I am an heir of the heavenly kingdom
I am a steward of the gifts that he gave me
I am a servant, loyal and faithful
I am a princess, set apart and of royalty
I am a citizen in but not of this world
I am an ally, no longer an enemy
I am a soldier constantly in battle
I am a conqueror, for He has won the victory
I am a slave, not to sin but to righteousness
I am an ambassador, representing peace
I am a new creation, gone is the old
I am a handiwork, a grand masterpiece
I am a branch yielding much fruit
I am a temple, the Spirit lives in me
I am a light and salt to all the nations
I am His possession, bought with a price too heavy

When I was sketching this afternoon,
my strokes seemed unsure
and my lines were all wrong and
I realized some things about you.

The reason your fingers
always seem to be slipping
every time you try to catch a
handful of waterfall
is because once upon a time
the rocks that your soles were planted on
crumbled.

You used to be a deer,
the way you stood on new heights
and how you looked on
with a steady eye, so
when was it that you decided
one more step was too much for you to climb?

The burying must stop.
It has been proven time and time again
that no matter
how deep a grave is dug,
the flowers will give the bones away.

I don't understand why you
confuse seawater with fresh, because
I know that you've already stuck out your tongue
and tasted the sweetness of real freshwater
or have you?

You are dust
walking in deep shadows
where I cannot find you.
I have only a candle
and my words, but I will wait.
After all, in the beginning,
something beautiful was made from dust
and from a word
sprung a world.

And lastly I realized that
I hope that you someday read this poem
and we will sit together in the afternoon sun
and you will listen to the sound of new things
as I sketch with sure strokes
and just the right lines.