To my innocence, naivety, and viridity
Childish ways, high school days.
A mere three weeks, I say good bye
With a cry, a tear, a sigh.

To blue slacks, and a polo
Black shoes and white socks
To my pink skirt, and white blouse,
Pleated, soon to be folded.

To the OHS rooms of our first and second years:
The broken windows, and tantrum-kicked chairs,
The broom box behind the spider webbed chalkboard,
Messages on the wall hand printed in red and green.

The broken doorknobs, and broken floorboards,
Carved armchairs, and eaten chalks,
Missing brooms and dustpans and garbage cans and rugs
That show up in who knows where
Stolen by jani- we know who.

The witnesses and victims
To our random laughter (from some Chinese-looking girl’s corny joke).
Our random tears.
Our not so random learnings.
The pillars of our memories.

To the PF rooms of our third year:
The storage room turned gigantic garbage can and dressing room (maybe because ours keep being stolen)
The exploding socket causing sparks to fly (and us to fly away from it), and
The amazing “alambre” lock; who knows who installed (as if that could keep us away).
The earthquake resistant rooms would be missed.

To the New High School Building of our last years:
The kicked door (not our fault!), and cancerous blinds (like hairs falling after chemo),
The jigsaw floor (not sure if better than broken floorboards),
The “Halayan 2012”, and
The mind-boggling “no key needed” lockers.


The UTMT with its fair share of mango sentences,
The old guidance office now turned “tambayan”, and
The Computer lab with its fragile yellow chairs and bruised bums.

To Ibong Adarna plays, and the half cooked uncooked Teriyaki,
Generation X (and Generation NOW! and Generation Facebook),
Jai ** dances, and cheerleading,
Kalagon Kamo Namon,
And Mickey Mickey Mouse Kabit-bintana memories.

To the NikJep Tandem,
Kanlaon Boys Behind the Flowers,
D.H.A.I.N.G. (not sure if they remember this),
Fred vs Gino version
And DewBheRhieTart.

Keep the volcanoes of memories burning.

To blue paint, and blue shirts,
And Geometry teaching us
“There are a lot of solutions to a problem.
We just have to find one that suits us.”

To saying “***”,
And cooking imbutido.
And wearing (for some designing) reduced,
Reused, recycled clothing.
And dissecting.
And parrot-Filipino teachers (she gave me P30 for load though).

Keep the river of rumination flowing.

To being scared of one whole sheet of paper,
Two becoming one,
Party rocking to make up for the tears,
And knowing we should have won.

To the hand sanitizer girls,
The Cream-o-holics,
The Canterbury Crusaders,
The Valenciana eaters.

May our tree of friendship continue growing.

To our winnings!

The glow in the dark madness,
The Lakan at Mutya clutch-heart-moments,
The Sports Fest *******,
Basketball girls’ coronation!

To the fieldtrips and failed trips,
To air conditioned crammings,
And space and time bending
To comparing notes (and sometimes other things)
Copying notes, sometimes photocopying
(Not Xeroxing)
Sharing words, phrases, sentences
And giving pictures (via Bluetooth).

May you keep walking on the right direction,

To the expectations achived,
Broken, overtaken.
All the skepticism,
Constructive criticism.

All of it.

The in-your-face-we-did-it-baby-
We-are-awesome-you-can’t-bring-us-do­wn-
Coz-we-rise-back-up-attitude.

To Arielle
And Mhae

To Amica
Marie
Narzcisa
Cyan
Fred
Theo
Alvinson
Anthony
Faith
Karmil­la
Matt
Jeffson
Lourince

To Carolyn

To Makayla

To the thirty-five castaways in this room
The thirty-five castaways who struggled
The thirty-five castaways who persevered
The thirty-five castaways who fought, cried, made up, laughed, shared, gave, back-stabbed, and front-stabbed, celebrated, suffered, passed
Thirty-five
Thirty-five castaways who loved,
Thirty-five

Thirty-five castaways who made it, who did it.

To Nikki
Hazel
Alyssa
Gef
Veni
Alex
Jaykee
Bernard
Myra
Vince
Chanta­lle
Josen
Jerian
Shaira
J
Uriah
Ihra
Renz
Bless
Steffany
Angel
Fl­orey
Bernadine
Antonette
Rency
Owen
Majah
Gino
Marcelo
Ney
Keith
­Joselle
And Jessa,

We did it guys.
We really did.

something heretical in our sera
a peeking thing, half mischievous
and i, trying to see if you are my mirror if you
recognize the streak in me as your own something familiar smelling like the sweat beneath your arms the
glossy glint off your scleras the
trail of forest on your body
heretical
something wild in the the skin that slips beneath my hands like a
many-worn silk of some old god like a
selkie would feel about the centuries old earth and the
neverchanging of days, darkbrightdarkbrightdark

something freeing about the sting of winter air in my nostrils something
ripped away from my long exiles in the city something
replenished in the true empty fullness of a silent tundra a
dirt-covered snowbank a
grey iceflow on the water something
dissident and infidel about your soul and mine together something
potent in our marrow something
wild and
freeing and

dying

unblemished smiles wither swiftly
crisp smile creases line the cheeks
and adorn the eyes
as youth fades into age
and age fades into oblivion
then the rest is dust and ashes.

breath is ephemeral
transcendent, even.
viridity is fleeting
foliage browns even as we speak
and soon folds into a worn leather bag
along with baubles from days of yore.

but there is a moral to the story
that these trinkets tell
they remind those remaining
of what has passed
and what is sure to come again
reminding the new to memorialize the old
and savor each moments as it comes.

Behold, an ethereal incarnate.
Soulful, astute, and delicate.
Her sight instills inspiration,
Her touch strokes with passion.

Callow, pure, and wholly innocent,
Inwards, she sprung, fully vehement.
With a handful of zealous volition,
And hopes to earn love and ambition.

Dazed by a benevolent trance,
She danced with pristine stance.
But, oh, so little did she know,
******* pierced like an arrow.

Lo, gone were the days of viridity.
Past was learnt, hence gained clarity.
No brand of man, no spoil of deceit,
Can cull her stead like maize and meat.

She who dons an exuberant shield,
Whose mighty foes will surely yield.
Brandished crown of newfound glory,
Behold, a Queen—hear her story.

A deep, verdant green
shy stems and ivy cloaked in the penumbra of half-lidded eyes
Leaving even the daisies
Trembling in the shame of their own viridity

Aching for the sun's touch
I trace my own hand in the quiet night
To feel that again

The night is a sanctum
for the unsettled thoughts
to linger
I plexure memories
into cobwebs of sillage

Trickling down my cavern,
venom of lies
gifted yore

I hang them as amulets
to elude cozen
But the ways of guile
can never be elucidated
they're protean in nature

You were the puzzle
I longed to unsnarl
Recounted chronicals
alew.

Thrum of your cordolium
struck me stiff
An open book I am
I let you in
clysmic your lesion heart.

Renewed in soaring spirits
you sung sonnets of love,
recited "Ain Soph"
the esperance of morrow.

Beguiled,
I lay my viridity bare.

Metamorphosed to your true self,
gloated in glee
"I am Siren,
lured you into my entrapment"

Walloped by your mordacious cruor
Stifled, my lips eat silence.

And now whenever I hear
the word 'Love'
All I see is
how damaged people are,
All I notice is
a hollow visage.