Eto ako ngayon,
nakahiga kama ko
isipan ay walang laman kun’di ikaw.
nababaliw sa bawat senaryo
na kasama ka.
Ilang beses ko na naisip
at na plano ang gagawin
sa oras na dumating ang
panahon na kailangan gumawa ng desisyon
kung pagpapatuloy ba natin
ang ating pagsasama.
at ilang beses ko na ding
nasagot ang sarili na
oo.

Kase wala lang naman akong
hihilingin kung’di ikaw
na nag papatibok ng puso ko.

Ang taong pumupulot sa mga basag kong piraso,
at binubuo ako, gamit ang ginto.
Kase ang mga hapon ay may sining
na kapag ang isang bagay ay nabasag
ang ginagawa nila dito ay
ginagamit ang ginto bilang pang digit.
Para sa kanila,
ang bagay na iyon ay mas maganda at kabighabighani
kesa nung eto ay hindi pa nababasag.

Ikaw ang ginto
na bumubuo
sa mga basag kong piraso.

Salamat.

Mahal kita.

I was broken.

Shattered remains of what I used to be.
Random misaligned pieces, sprawled all over the floor, crushed more by whomever would walk over them.

And then you came.
And you saw.
Each piece you knew was a part of something greater.
"Something beautiful," you said.

You helped me pick up the pieces, ignoring the cuts on your hands.
You kept me safe, so noone else would hurt me.
You found a broken girl, but you saw *Kintsugi.

You said, that I have a heart of gold.
I just smiled because I know that
since the dawn of our time
you have broken it so many times;
shattered it into oodles of pieces
which I tried to repair - time after time,
then it could no longer resemble its true self.
It became something different,
some kind of kintsugi artifact,
something golden, yet something hard:
completely useless for its predestination.

You used to tell me that beautiful things come from pain and adversity.
Like motherhood, unconditional love, and true stories.
As I stood in the middle of a room painted white,
Staring at the remains of rolling hills burned to black,
I saw you staring back at me.

Burnt fields like black panther fur
Shining against your bones
Velvet black
You’ve changed
And changed and changed
Yet your love still remains
Burnt fields like black panther fur
Whiskers are the needles on a compass
Always pointing to the azure sky
You used to sing when I cried
Rolling your r’s over rrolling hills
A haunting melody startling black birds into the night
Feathered constellations against a sliver moon
And lips pressed to my salty cheeks

You told me that your favorite skin tone was chocolate,
As you laid out in the sun hoping to melt. “A quarter black” is what you say when you want to feel proud,
Even as you tell me stories of how your mother was called negrita,
The girl who stood too dark amongst the crowd.

Burnt fields like black panther fur
Black like the broken wings of mothers before you
Who had hands with scars from cotton seeds
And blue veins like uprooted trees
Stretching all the way to their tired knees
Burnt fields like black panther fur
You criticize your aging beauty
Speaking in envy of the color gold
Like you are a broken bowl in need of kintsugi
Yet silver snakes still slither
Over the pebbled river beds of your black curls
Dripping down the small of your back
Until they reach the base of your ivory spine
Burnt fields like black panther fur
You criticize your aging beauty
Because you never thought
Cocoa lips and sun spots painted on sculpted clay that never cracks
Could ever look as stunning as it does on you

You told me that it is better to speak my truth then tell pretty lies.
So I told you mine and you cried,
And cried and cried.
But look where we are now,
Standing beside each other with the same eyes,
Just different reflections.

Burnt fields like black panther fur
Tongue like a sword set ablaze
Tempered in pools of milk and honey
Blood red sun grazing the tops of your eyelids
Still reminiscent of those in old photographs
Where you saw the little girl you search for in me
Burnt fields like black panther fur
I am sorry I made you cry
But even when our backs are turned
We are still
Black birds singing in the dead of night
Free
Thank you mama for my broken wings.

I am a tea cup delicate and intricate.
There are beautiful patterns covering my surface,
but if you look closer you'll see the cracks.
Every time you fill me up just to leave me empty again,
those cracks grow.
They grow and they grow and they grow,
and eventually they grow so big that I am no longer a cup.
I am just pieces of a cup, chipped and broken.
And you, having left me like this, having caused my utter and complete destruction, will not see the value in my remains.

But someone will, and when they do they'll help piece me back together understanding that the gold they use to mend my wounds only adds to my beauty.

I am afraid like everybody else.
Afraid of life, to be swallowed into an ocean of oblivion.
Sometimes I imagine my own dreams fall down like a fig from a tree just to
land on the ground to rot.
What’s the solution hugging a bottle. Probably not, but still
better then hugging nobody right?
I am not even an addict I just romanticize about the idea of being one.
I like the idea of fighting back into life, to stand up from
the ground to  grow stronger and bigger
. I want my life to be a metaphor for Kintsugi.
I want to shatter myself into a thousand pieces like a bowl.
Put them all back together, so that the new bowl will be even more beautiful than
the original one.