Ready or not, I will
die, you said –
the clock ticking, the sound
of footsteps nearing.
Ready
or not, here,
I said,
not thinking, here
here
is
my
life.
A heart beats,
and then a flat line.
—
Writer’s note: I joined a poetry workshop recently where the prompt was “old habits die screaming” (from Taylor Swift’s The Black Dog. We were given 15 minutes to write, and this was what I came up with.
Falling into the abyss doesn’t feel
like anything after a long while.
My days are no longer
distinguishable from one another –
flurries of functionalities mixed
with blurry faces that just breeze by.
Everyday, the same pointless whirlwind.
At times there is
a flashback of a past life,
a past me, a universe
of possibilities. The world
a vast wonderland. There
used to be longing.
Used to be.
I can’t remember how many times
I’ve screamed for help
only to keep hearing
a barrage of voices telling me
my words are nonsense. I’m just
imagining the fall, the abyss.
Everyday, the whirlwind.
My feet never touching
the ground, unable to
walk forward. Days keep
passing. I no longer
recognize my face.
There is no escape –
only submission.
Note from the author: Isagani is a fictional character in El Filibusterismo by Jose Rizal. The name is an anagram for nag-iisa.
There is a door in this city
you’re certain that will open for you
regardless of the time of day,
whether you’re drunk or sober,
whole or otherwise.
Three knocks, and finally,
you can be yourself without fear
of judgment.
Many a time, that door
meant a new beginning:
unpacking of silent burdens,
breaking of old patterns,
a profound understanding,
a deeper connection,
a healed heart,
a newfound hope, and
a tangible sense of peace
And yet, you choose
to keep quiet about this
door. After all, no one
wants to talk about doors,
especially those that have
already been closed.
In the quiet – during
the wee hours of the night,
you find yourself lingering,
longing, that one day,
that special door opens
again.
There you are:
lost in time, unsure
whether you’re drunk or sober,
whole or otherwise.
Three knocks on that door –
your knuckles hitting the cold,
hard wood. There is
no answer.
Remember: a closed door
is not a scar. Inside,
someone still
bleeds.
Hell is the light at the end
of the tunnel, your lips
touching the rim
of a beer bottle, the pink
pill with a smiley face on it,
the touch that keeps you
wanting for more.
Hell sheds light on you.
You’ll feel the heat lingering
on your skin, in your body,
the kind of warmth
you’ll always want to hold on to.
Hell is beautiful, every bit
of your fantasy turning
into reality, making you
do things you never thought
you could. Hell will take you
out of your shell, and
you’ll do it gladly because
Hell empowers you
like no one else can. Darling,
you are strong. You can take any hit.
Hell will give you bruises, and
you’ll take them as marks of love.
It is a familiar place, and it is also
everything you are not: fair-skinned,
blue-eyed, blonde hair, petite.
Hell will bring out your capacity
to love, will get you chasing after
sunsets, teach you that maybe,
just maybe, if you learn how to
fit into small spaces, you’ll earn
the love that you are looking for.
Hell is the ignited fire at the end
of your cigarette, your companion
when you feel like your life could be
better, should be better, the heat that
fills your dungeon-cold crevice. Breathe.
You just want to breathe. Elsewhere,
they said, there is a place
with unlimited fresh air, unwavering
warmth, and vast meadows.
But Hell is the home
of those who believe
they are undeserving.
LOVE WRITE TIN 