Years ago, before I got hitched, I had lunch with my gf on Valentine's Day at a renown steak grill.
Cute waitress sat us on a table and took our orders.
After a few minutes,
she came back carrying the sizzling steak.
Borne more out of famish than anything else,
I exclaimed,
"Wow. Smells good!"
To my elated expression,
the pretty waitress replied,
"Tastes better than it looks, sir."
"Oh yeah?"
She mused,
"Definitely!
We cook it with love po, sir."
Fast-forward 5 minutes later.
I called the waitress back.
Showing her the teppan of bloody beef,
"Sobrang hilaw yata pag-ibig niyo, miss."
I am a book
written on pages
made from the skins
and flesh
of sacred sinners,
bound by the bile
and discharge
of their entrails,
knotted together
by their vacuous veins;
covers glossed
by their fat and tears,
adorned with
their evergrinning teeth,
embossed
by their boiling grimace,
foreworded
with the bliss
of their anguish death;
their bones
used as quill,
its brush
their hairs,
their blood
its ink;
the tales
of their agonies
retold.