Forgetting is an act of human will
An animal does not forget the scent of a blood trail
Nor the track of lightning through the trees
It’s the smell of survival
The sound of another day existing.
What is thicker than water
But the blood of our brothers and sisters
Who had forgotten too soon how
We were weaved into a common thread?
The bloodline we shared, forgotten, taken in vain
They have conquered from us the land of our ancestors
Centuries old, stories left untold
They shoved the life out of us
Leaving us indelible marks of shame.

Forgetting is an act of human will
But we have not forgotten how to blame
So we blamed the gods,
We blamed our fathers and the fathers of their fathers
We blamed the books
We blamed the espresso machine
We blamed all that was to blame
We blamed because we were helpless.

Forgetting is an act of human will
But we remember. We do remember how we spoke
To faces with perfect set of teeth
They showed us the rooms of dark wood floors
They stood on the doorway. They moved when our
Eyes passed them. Showing us one corner
Like every other corner.
They showed us how to turn on the water,
Where the light switches are,
Which door would lead to another.
They took our money. They smiled.
“Here is my face,” they always said.
Some hollow, some swollen, some sagging
Flesh and bones. “You will know me by this face.”

Forgetting is an act of human will
But we remember how we mastered the language
Of the wild
A jungle with no trees, they call it “metropolis”
Where streetlamps shone brighter than the stars,
Where shadows aren’t made of animals
Meant for bedtime stories
Where men’s faces, pink and stained
With camouflage, shined with the sweat of the hunt
Their dogs knew us by our accents
The plight wasn’t over after all.

Forgetting is an act of human will
But we chose to remember
We’ll never forget.

My recurring dreams typically involve myself running in slow motion
being chased by butterflies
their wingspan as wide as the atlas mom stores on top of filing cabinets
on the section labeled, “General References”.
Those humongous creatures with their sinister looks
protruding eyes as if breathing a life of their own,
their wings containing poison powder
a speck proven to be fatal.

Sometimes my dreams involve myself hanged upside down
being pecked to death by crows
those hungry devils feasting over my flesh
my innards slipping into their mouth like spaghetti
some of them even sharing a strand like that classic scene
in Lady and the *****
never in my life have I seen such a lovely spectacle
caressing feathers, rubbing beaks, sharing warmth
So lovely I could have written a fairy tale out of it
except that, of course, they’re crows.

I have deactivated my nocturnal juices
allowing every monster under the bed to trespass my innermost thoughts
Clawing their way out of the depths to take form
in all sizes and shapes
screeching for attention, strangling, suffocating,
“My body is not yours to own”, I protested.
Led me to the edge of the cliff, those devils
Pushed me into the abyss, nothing to hold on to
called out for help, somebody save me.

Woke up screaming, rushed to the kitchen
emptied the bottle of melatonin
those **** pills, minions of menace.
I don’t want to sleep anymore.
Keep me awake. Keep me awake.

The truth is I have no idea how to begin this
because I don’t even remember
how or when exactly you began to invade my consciousness.
you were an uninvited guest, a gatecrasher, an intruder
filling my mind with paranoia and endless dilemma —
how I contemplate about going out or not
because I get overwhelmed with crowded places
like public transports, and malls, and fast food chains,
how I s-stutter whenever placing an order,
or how I could not finish one sentence without repeating
repeating a word or or two.

It might sound funny how I find a sea of people terrifying,
how I feel a dagger or a gun pointed at me every time I step
outside my comfort zone,
how I would replay failed scenarios inside my head like a broken tape,
how I would apologize for actions that demanded no apology.
I often get nightmares about being asleep and not being able to wake up
and sometimes I dream about waking up in a strange bed in a foreign room
filled with people with the strangest faces talking in tones barely audible
but when the voices would all stir together
I would run out of air and pass out,
but I still wake up though, screaming, trembling
signaling another episode of survival.

If I could drive, I would take you away with me and bring you to a sunset beach
tell you that everything’s gonna be alright
that it’s okay to knock me down sometimes
but not too hard to break me
just enough to remind me that I am, after all, human
Or maybe I would drown you or maybe not
because I get too overwhelmed with the waves
I struggle against the current,
and I am the one who gets drowned instead.

I hate you, no, I mean I love you. I should love you
because they said those we love are meant to leave
So I will love you, I will love you until you get tired of me,
until you no longer find me appealing
I will love you obsessively, until you get sick of me,
until you run out of places to run to, until you run out of air
I will love you until I run out of words and metaphors
and rhyme or reason,
I will love you with the hopes that one day I could finally say:
“My anxieties have died beautifully, with dignity,
in their sleep.”

’tis the time of year
when the sky appears bleaker
than it did
day has closed
its eyelids tighter—
longer nights
shorter days
bears of the North
pulling their blankets
for hibernation has come.

’tis the time of year
when things wrapped in gold,
red and blue
surround the tree
adorned with things
sparkling and shiny.
‘Tis the season
of merry-making
of thanksgiving
to Him whose love
has sent a Boy
to save the world.

’tis the time of year
when sock-adorned windows
wait for the potbellied man—
he wears red and white
his beard as white as snow
they say he rides on a sleigh
with reindeers pulling
Rudolph leading
flying, gliding
but none has ever seen one.

growing up, I learned
that ’tis the season
not made for kids
but a time for all
to laugh
to love
to celebrate
to breathe
to forgive
to accept differences
to give hope.

when winter wind
has breathed its first
December clock
will tick and tock
on longer nights
and shorter days
it’s time to pause
and ponder.

’tis that time of year.

my recent panic attacks must have alleviated
because even though
I still wake up in the middle of the night
screaming,
I could finally put myself to sleep
after taking three pills of what they call
sedatives
cradling me with its lullaby on my veins
as one by one
I count my frustrations
crawling towards me
hungry for attention
like an infant on its mother’s arms.

the sheets have been drier, blankets hotter
the pillows don’t talk too much
although some nights
I spend an hour
or so
listening to their exchange of
countless narratives and sometimes
futile perspectives
in rather hushed tones
it had come to me that these fluffs
must have resolved their trust issues
good for them.