We were in the cemetery
Afternoon of June 29
It was his birthday
Another birthday without the celebrant

Mother placed yellow candles over him
And sunflowers over the grass
His favorite color

40 years of life
8 years gone
Or 8 years in another world
If you believe in that stuff

I walked around
And saw others' resting grounds
Some dead before I was even born
Others dead at the prime of childhood
Simple tombstones, mausoleums, caskets

A burial was taking place on the other street
Mourners dressed in dark shades
A priest, the only one in white

I was wearing white
My mother was wearing violet

After the niceties and the prayers
We had a little picnic
Chicken Adobo
Mom tries her best
But can't replicate the flavour of his

I reminisce of my days of innocence
In the green gate of the school
When he picks me up
The gray sand of Baler
Where he grew up
The brown hills of bohol
My first plane ride

I was now 8 years in disbelief
8 years in trouble
8 years in agony

The salt of the meal moves me to tears
Imperfect replicas of perfect memories
But I can't let myself cry

I remembered suddenly the night before
In a quick glance
I thought I saw his face in the mirror
But it was just my tired face
I was listening to "Bato sa Buhangin" by Cinderella

On the drive home
I listened to the same song
It was his favourite
He could play the melody with a guitar
Something I've been practicing for a while now
But fail to do

At home
On the bed before I sleep
It finally erupts
And I say to myself
"Father, why did you leave us!"

I lost myself
In between the months of May and August,
As people sped up to undress, to feel the breeze of the warm wind
As I doubled my layers and was ashamed of my own skin
I lost myself
I let my existence chip away like overdue nail polish
I let you destroy my personhood piece by piece,
I was an extension of you that had to be polished
I let your words dig through what I thought was tough skin and unravel tears
I lost myself
I forgot to smile, I forgot to let people know I was fine
I forgot to lie,
I forgot to lie
I lost myself
My existence was merely a performance
But maybe I was suddenly gaining consciousness
Maybe in the months of the harsh summer
Where every night, crying preceded slumber
Maybe I was shedding the version of me that you had created
Maybe I was shedding the extension of you that you had obligated
She could no longer be, her time was up
She had filled you with all that was in her cup
Maybe I was going through metamorphosis
Maybe the aching was her death but my genesis

Hold me as a doll in your arms because
You always cared for me
Like a father would
Like fathers should

Tell me how you understand
And crinkle your eyes,
Smile at me like I'm
Your baby

once I was a child
but I was never innocent
because when my father told me he loved me
he did it with a leather belt
and a buckle that gleamed
each time it struck my already knowing body
pounding out years of masculine entitlement
I knew there were words he had heard his whole life
and in my blistered skin lied the understanding
women are less
best when subservient and quiet
so quiet I was
while I buried my head in freshly washed soft sheets
and tried to forget that this person
who hated me so well
also soothed me to sleep
told me I was beautiful
and that I could do anything
so quiet I was
he couldn't hear me scream
scream for the pain
scream for the mother who wasn't opening the door
to come rescue me
once I was a child
but I was never innocent

talk can grow some legs
it starts to walk around
it starts hatching rotten eggs
and babies lay on the ground

then they stand up
they start eating each other
they can't find baby daddy
so they all eat their mother

before they starve to death
some walkers start to see
they are riding daddy's back
they could eat all day for free

I check my dad’s breathing while he sleeps.

Meet the sun at the horizon and together we sneak
around the corner,
avoiding the floorboards that we both know have a tendency to squeak.
It’s in these moments that I love him the most,
when his eyes are closed and he’s almost at peace.
There’s still hope for the day so long as he speaks.

Or maybe he’ll sing.

Our lives could have been beautiful,
had he learned how to fight it.
Had he grown past the affliction
that left his own family divided.

And some days he tries,
although he denies it.
I know when he’s clean
because the come down is quiet.
It’s borderline silence
coated with the threat of violence.

On these days all I can do is try
my best to pretend I resonate
with this man from hell.
Not a stranger, I know him too well.
Sometimes I see his anger in my own face.

Desperate to escape his youth, he forgot about mine.
And I’ve had this nagging thought for a while
that he only loves me when he’s high
enough to look down and remember I’m his child.

My mother dresses me in gowns,
stockings, fleece jackets,
She pulls my hair up into a ponytail,
sometimes braids it into conrows,
She spanks my *** when i mess it,
She scolds when my outfit is ***** or greasy,

My father lives in the South side,
He dresses me in a suit and tie,
He likes my hair in a bun,
On the weekends he likes me in sweatpants and a tee-shirt,
***** and greasy in his garage,

I like me having a choice,
I want me on overalls, shorts, jeans and african print on Sundays,
I like my hair messy and short,
I hate the society norms

The world doesn’t know it needs setting right
but we do it anyway
against bucolic backgrounds,
corners of this sceptered isle
known only to types who like to ramble

point to point meticulously planned
by his draughtsman’s hand
our mouths and minds driving us more than legs
words to square away despair at the world
or delight in some magical new tech
to save it

these are footsteps I’ve always followed
always will
despite a mardy heel drag  in my teenage years
the muscle memory - one foot, then the other -
cannot be unwritten
even as knees now complain otherwise