All began with
…In
spite
of
my rage,
I’m still
just a rat
in the cage
“Physically you look fantastic---”
“---And you’re not angry anymore…But shit, what you have is ennui.”
I laugh, “That one, huh? You and your love for words. What’s that other favorite word of yours? Ah, acquiesce.”
I was smoking one holiday, looking at the empty streets, and I wanted to walk out and never come back.
But I went back.
Oh my Princess Leia.
“I like better how you used to… Before”
How to explain the language of change--- it is not lost, just this metamorphic clay for now. My hands have not stiffened, they are flexing, I sigh and laugh back, it’s play.
“I want to fuck you Dude”
Dude, I get that--- just when you play good and you love---really love---the person you (or fate or age) chose to love—that person tells you: I want to explore, I want to be young, I want to have fun, I want to date, I want to fuck around, I want…I want…I want…Not you.
I get that. And it hurts because this time you loved.
And so I tell you--- you know how it is, how I am, I am your friend—- I always think that anyone who doesn’t see, doesn’t choose to love the person I love---then that person should be killed, bitch-slapped at least. I can curse with all kinds of stupid and mayhem but we’re older and I am older and so I do this instead---
Tears.
“Hey, hey, are you ok?”
I snivel, “Dude, I’m sad for you…Oh hell, I’m just hormonal right now…”
To accept a choice and you are not it.
“What’s with the mixed semaphore?”
Read:
A long time ago time disagreed.
Read:
Now.
Read:
Now what?
Read:
Up to you.
Read:
Not ready obviously.
Read:
Too fast, too soon, it’s a push.
Read:
It’s all pissing me off.
Read:
I fucking hate it.
Read:
I should have said NO, THE RULE STAYS.
“So, what’s the issue?”
Official Question:
Is it true that big blank said offending blank to you and blank? You’re a witness.
Answer a sputtered exhausted laughter:
No such incident happened. So why are we even addressing this gossip from lucky mongers who have time for it? Because, see, I don’t have time for this shit. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and do my job now, thank you.
“Here’s a diagnosis of IF”
The woman is not seen for herself. Rather, she is seen as these roles she portrays. And now, after all these years, she finally chooses to be herself and that means the death of certain vows in her life.
The woman is finally alone.
It is painful.
She begins.
If.
“Ah, imagery!”
“How was the FAMAS Awards?”
Well,
I was worrying about letters.
Well,
I was angry about drivel.
Well,
Beastie Boys booming about the system that needed proof that it is rushing miracles.
Well,
Ay wash waendering on how in froob daht humahn beh-ings anlorn laypthime habeets in pibe dis so dat bi-cam sufer pankshunabel roo-vots.
Well,
I was puzzling about how one feels about awarding surprises because I couldn’t feel anything except this exhaustion.
Well,
I watched their faces.
Well,
Thank you so much for the greetings and salutations, Be well, I just need to smoke and drink in peace, It’s Friday, Time to breathe.
Well,
I got drunk.
Well,
I was a matador and there was a bull singing “Shamown girl! Hee-hee!”
Well,
I cannot waltz.
Well,
I passed out after.
Well,
Go Minotaurs!
“Perhaps---”
She and I have always had this distance. Perhaps I came too soon after her and she was never babied. Perhaps it’s even the stories of my bullying her when we were toddlers. Perhaps it’s her being constantly in pain with this and that illness most of her life. Perhaps it’s being the antithesis of expectations. Perhaps it was all those times that she was asked to stop reading her pocketbooks and do chores because I couldn’t do them when I was studying. Perhaps because she thinks I cannot be reprimanded for it would set off a ticking bomb. Perhaps because she thinks I’m favored. But I do love her and she understands. Last Christmas, she said, “That is the beauty of your soul---how could you, who was so lost, broken, wounded and emptied, have the grace to love and give love.” I do not write about her, about her healing hands, those frail hands who could lift weight, me. Those hands that would run home to place them on my womb and back when it feels as if demons and claws were raking me open, from inside. Only then would I become still. I do not write about her and she does not read me. I want to say, “I’m sorry I missed your birthday.” But I can’t. She and I have always had this distance: Perhaps.
“You got too fucking comfortable”
A pup says, “What will you do if I touched your---“
I say, “I’ll probably slap you.”
Touch.
Spring a slap---Stop---Snap, “When I tell you not to touch me, don’t fucking touch me!”
Trailing behind me, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”
I grit my teeth in silence.
I feel dirtied.
The old man sighs in my head, “How many times do I have to tell you: don’t stop yourself. Hit the fucker.”
I unclench my fist.
“Ah shit”
A little man with a temper who’s about to turn five years old huffed in a fit, “Sunugin natin!”
His mother’s shrill to me, “See?! See! I told you!”
I wince, laugh, “Who and what pissed him off? Don’t worry, I’ll talk to him when I come home.”
Well, that’s my boy.
“Where have all the insomniacs gone?”
The list is sleeping from exhaustion.
A twig woke, “What’s wrong?”
I say, “I’m sorry I woke you. Don’t worry, it’s nothing that can’t be handled.”
A twig asks, “You sure?”
I say, “Yep.”
I do not say what I want to say.
“I miss you too, Baby Girl.”
Are you healed enough for this---
All began with
The world is a vampire…
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