neon lights
skyscrapers
busy streets
blank faces
empty pockets
innocence lost
in thin air.

overturned truck
honking cabs
bumber to bumper
broken rib
missing tooth
bruised eye.

rotten flesh
distant shadows
scattered bullets
cardboard signs
wailing women
hushed tones.

pinch of salt
freshly squeezed lime
shot glass
vape juice
white cloud
euphoria.

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.”

“Nice ***.”
It might be obscene to begin a poem
with *****
the way strangers in the sidewalk
begin conversations with Anatomy
or Algebra when they ask
for an exchange of numbers
like old friends meeting at the subway
on a hot Sunday afternoon.
Quit Science
when the only thing you know
is to scrutinize a woman’s body,
identifying which parts would satisfy
your carnal desires.

When I was nine
and the curves in my body
were not yet defined,
when “***” was just a word
I read on forms we used to fill to know
if one is male or female,
I happened to pass by a group of boys
who laughed at the top of their lungs
over a bottle of *****
after one of them remarked something
about my “flower”
when I wasn’t even holding one.

I did not fully understand what they meant
but then and there I felt fear,
then and there I learned
that a flower’s not a flower in the context of
profanity
how they grinned as they
masked their grim faces
with laughters and remarks
like predators lurking in the shadows
of their sisters, wives, and daughters.

Looking back
and thinking how I was violated
the first time when I was nine
and my curves were not yet defined,
I laughed because twelve years later here I am,
still replaying inside my head
the voices of men who acted
as if they own my body,
who decided to steal from me
what is only mine to give
as they wait for another prey
to caress their whiskers in the sidewalk.

dolorimetry
n. The measurement of pain sensations

How do you measure pain?
a gasp
a step or two
away
from someone whose
world used to
revolve around you
a tear
a sigh
a stretch of arms
that used to wrap
a soul so tender and warm.

How do you measure pain?
a stomp
a slap
a finger pointed like
a gun or a dagger
on your chest—
accusing
complaining
tired, frustrated
infuriated.
How do you measure pain?
the distance
from A to Z
a tick of clock
a grain of sand
blown by the wind
a drop of blood
from a blade-stricken wrist.

How do you measure pain?
a smile
a laugh
a response telling
them you’re fine
but hell, you’re not.

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.

’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.

morning light spills upwards from the horizon,
salt lingers in thin air
tangerine skies watch over as we take the road
filled with anticipation
we turn the stereo on
sing to our favorite song—
there is no other way to escape
but this—
you, me, the road and the wind
brushing against our skin.

we pack our bags,
wrap our soap bars
spray our favorite perfume,
laughing as we peek inside each other’s purses
like Pandora’s box
wondering what else to try—
yellow sunglasses, ball caps
an oddly familiar feeling
like rummaging a newly-cleaned closet.

wind-blown and sun-kissed,
we take the path to paradise
in bikinis pastel and printed
hair braided,
glare of sunshine touching our faces
building memories from scratch—
nothing but the sand and the shore
and the splash of the waves
against the grainy surface.

your head rests on my shoulders
as we watch the daylight fading—
hues of pink, orange, purple, and blue
painted on the sky by an invisible hand
thinking there is no goodbye as beautiful as this.

below is a bed of asphalt, surveyed
by a creature covered
not in velvet, nor in silk flaunting
in muted strut
deafening silence
preparing for hunt or coming home
no one knows.

illuminated, the creature casts a shadow
against the grainy surface
bleak, distorted reflection
that mocks you with its
empty mercurial gaze
like a soul trapped in ebony cage
an empty space, a vacuum.

the absence of light is darkness
darkness is haunting
light in itself is haunting
the umbra, an illusion
of a phantom in the middle of the night
perplexed by reality and apparition intertwined
if curiosity kills, I bet the nine lives.

crimson blood
flowing through the gutter
white cloth
folded in two
half-covered body
bruised eye
swollen lip
broken rib
missing tooth
pale skin
strands of hair
scattered on the floor
scent of flesh
lingers in thin air
silence.

droplets of water
falling from the patched roof
little creatures
squealing, screeching
over a piece of bread
ragged children
slumped on the corner
they call her mother
tired eyes
fixed on the walls
in deep thought
tears unuttered
silence.

red carpet
laid along the aisle
floral-filled rows
people dressed in pastel
empty the halls
one by one
man in suit and tie
golden ring held in hand
a letter on the other
words scrambled on sheets of paper
but all he could see is “Sorry.”
church doors shut
silence.

pen and paper
half-empty cup
ten pages of enigma
blank spaces and question marks
staring on the floor
in search of an answer
trying to recall
a missing chapter
clock strikes nine
time is up
silence.

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.

you stained me
like napkins you

wipe around your lips,
crumpled and thrown away.

a lump in my throat
some nights you set me on fire

some nights you freeze me
with your words

i couldn’t walk away
i couldn’t set things straight

for each time i take one step forward
i take two steps back.

i made a thousand paper cranes inside
my head hoping that wishes

could somehow
be granted because legends tell us so

i guess legends
are legends for a reason.

i am not a phase of your life
nor a moment that would just

pass like days and nights i feel empty
after you shoved the life out of me.

i am not a jolt,
a spark, that surprise you

for a moment that’s soon forgotten
i am more than a moment—

i am an experience, i breathe life,
i am capable of reading between the lines.

Drink responsibly: don’t spill it.

They said what doesn’t **** us
makes us stronger.
I guess I was strong enough
to overcome the idea
of ending my life
haunting me like a predator
clawing its way through
the rubble
of my conscious belief
that life indeed is a gift
so precious, I don’t think
I deserve having.

They said a half truth
is a whole lie.
The truth is
I am half afraid of dying
and half afraid of living
for I haven’t figured out
which is worse:
living or leaving the ones
I care about.
So I resorted to drinking
as a sort of escape
from this catastrophe.

They said suicide
is a permanent solution
to a temporary problem.
I say alcohol
is a temporary solution
to a permanent problem.
Intoxication is the best
antidote to pain,
lost in space
grasping, babbling words.
It disconnects us
from ourselves
momentarily.

They said numbing the pain
for a while
will make it worse
when you actually feel it.
but what is more rewarding than
the fleeting sensation
of happiness,
of guiltlessness,
of chastity from
caring and crying,
loving and trying?
Waking up with a blinding headache.