#filipino writers
There’s a woman in the steamed glasses of my window and she’s staring at me. She carries a force within her mightier than the raging storm outside. I close my eyes; she’s too much. I just listen to the roaring thunders instead. Suddenly she screams! I pop my eyes back open. She’s furious. You can see it in her eyes. They’re burning with anger, with passion. She doesn’t like to be ignored. She’s begging me to look at her. I can’t; she’s too much. She starts pounding on my window. I turn my back at her and move farther back into the room. The pounding grows louder. I climb onto my bed. She’s screaming now. I hide under the covers. She’s crying outside. I close my eyes. She could break my window any second now. I brace for the impact; I wait. And wait. It doesn’t come.
I peek outside my covers and…she’s gone. There are scratches on the window where she used to be on. ZZZZZZ PANG! Lightning strikes the empty window and it finally breaks into pieces of angry shards. It is defeaning; pieces falling to the floor and thunder howling in the night. But then, in the absence of a window, I see…a glimpse of her. On the skies. The wind fighting her hair, the moon brushing her face in silver glow. She’s running in swift circles, chasing lightning all on her own—because I was too scared to chase it with her.
I shiver, but not from the cold. She is magnificent. The world is not ready for her, I thought. But I know that’s not true. It’s just me. I am not ready to show her off to the world.
they never taught this child how to cook
for father was always away
busy chasing all his summers
and mother was never at home
catching up to days before the fall
they never taught this girl how to cook
for father was too occupied, screaming in the rain
slamming his fist through the red closed gates
and mother was too absorbed, locking herself in
crying while her tears glitter on broad daylight
they never taught this woman how to cook
and yet father would complain
“you should know how to cook” in mockery
and mother would get mad
“why don’t you know how to cook!” in irritation
but they never taught their daughter how to cook.
he told me i was scarlet
royal, fierce, and shit
well i thought he was crimson
with the depth and profundity
of murky waters, but darker
in truth though we were both just red
in different hues and different shades
pretending to be eccentric
when all we both were was
red; plain pathetic old red.
red like my favorite worn out dress
red like the rotten apple i had thrown this morning
red like the freshly cut bruises on my knees
red like his favorite color.
there was nothing magical
nor special about red
like we made it to be
words are just fancy versions
of the truth.
