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.