Villain Instead

I had saved millions
But no, never call me hero
Because it was thoughts I saved
I had let them be miserably safe in the castle
When they should’ve been battle-scarred
In this war ground of words
Fighting for their death
So they could be buried deeply
Into their reader

I think I save her

I think I save her
but wrong
I drown her to death
as my vase holds her in the company of the gallant water
before I can understand
that this single she cut from her garden
has abandoned her jubilant existence
and has been slave to the one who pleases me
by killing the beautiful

The vase is urn

No Promise of Return

He first heard his voice one wintry midnight.

He was ill, almost dying, when he fell to the icy ground – an invitation to the man beholding his terrible sickness to come to him. Devoid of the wish to waste a moment, despite of a seemingly apathetic mask, the man ran to him and said, “You ought not to sleep here.” The illness creeping, he could barely say a word. He could barely move. He could not say he did not plan to sleep for this was not the place to. So were not beds. The man saw days of death alive in his every vein that longs for that flowing sensation, graceful and lovely, from the lips and the cherry stick. The man figured out what he needed to do to help the sick him. Yet he would forfeit the invitation.

The man was the food for his hunger. The water for his thirst. The warmth for his freezing. The man was someone who could give everything a creature who had not eaten for eternal months needed. The man was his sole chance in a lifetime of a hundred years.

He was willing to help him. But he was not willing to be helped. Helping would mean danger, pain, death. His illness would either infect him or kill him, if between the two, make him suffer long enough. Helping would mean giving his all to him. All he was, all he had. Helping would mean unity of the cosmoses through the teeth.

And the man knew this. That he could die or that he could live a death. But that did not matter to him. He desired to help the sick him at his expense, or could it be at his pleasure? Either way, he made his decision. So he never let him go until he gave in. He embraced him, securing his head on his arm, locking his one hand with his, sheltering his body with his. Then slowly, with the least discernable tremble, the man drew his face nearer to his patient he now claimed his then offered his neck, preparing for deep punctures and endless consumption of his whole.

To heal, he must take him. In agony he was. He struggled to win over his strong cuddle but because of his disease he always lost. He had no strength. His source of strength was at hand, nevertheless, can be touched and kissed without even moving an inch. He had no choice. The man left him with none but to indulge with his generosity and passion.

It was him now, slowly opening himself to the man as he was about to grant him the kiss of death. A kiss! An immortal kiss. A pleasurable suffering. They heard their hearts beat in terrible rhythms which drummed their bodies and their souls. It was pain and bliss dancing. It was the man singing his breath to the tune of his incessant sips. Cosmoses collided then united.

For sure he was healed. He pleased his nature and he pleased the man. He was not thankful or thankless. He thought it was okay to spare his life. He felt he would need the man again but hoped not to ruin him again because in the man’s ruin he was saved.

He parted with no promise of return even if it was love they made for all he wanted now was to hear his voice for the second time in a warm daylight. And it was impossibility.

sir is now sleeping

Incredulity, sir, was what consumed me when I heard
My core couldn’t bear it
Nor could my eyes open from dreams
When that breathing figure was still before
And beside me

That breathing figure
That once taught me how to solve problems with shapes
That danced me to the different beats and eras
That awarded the thespian in me
That was the reason of my first ever-toss to the air

That breathing figure
Who had shared inspiration
In my crafts
In my excellence
In my heart

That breathing figure who had made me a star
Not once

But now, this mournful youth have to wake up
And face the darkness of light
And the melancholy of joy
Filling the hearts of those celebrating your legacy

Was it His intention to show me that breathing figure
Few days before he’s gone—and for the first time
In a long time—
So he could at least bid farewell?
Alas! I seek no answer now.

But, sir,
You’d forever be here.
Here.

May you rest in peace.


It was almost a year ago yet the pain is still here.

And Yes It Was Done

 and yes it was done

…Yet it must be done.

And yes it was done.
The murder,
The murder has been done.
But it wasn’t a perfect crime
For there were bloodstains every here and there.
The knife was seen bloody,
The heart bloody,
The heart was the knife,
The knife was the heart—an irrefutable evidence.

But it wasn’t a perfect crime
For witnesses’ eyes wouldn’t shut
And they almost died with the victim.
They’d gotten into the mirror.
They’d been accessories to the deed.
And they surrendered
As they testified.

But it wasn’t a perfect crime
For there was breath left.
The victim wasn’t dead
Or will it ever be?
A reflection couldn’t be assassinated but done a crime.
Still it laid there in the scene,
Unmoving, cracked, frozen
Lifeless

But with life—
Still breathing, still sensing.
The sharpness of the knife couldn’t penetrate
The hardest flesh
So the victim was spared.
But it has the greatest poison that soon
Will rot that flesh
Softly Killing it… taking its life…

And killing it.

It takes time to spread through the veins
And through the knife itself
Poisoned by its own poison.
And in this death is where life begins
But without assurance of a perfect death.

And yes it was done.

There was

There was I. I was walking with your crowd, chasing your hearse unhurriedly, walking slowly. Slowly. I was chasing both your hearse and the time, hoping powerlessly that I could do something to catch up—with all those time I hadn’t seen you, hugged you, kissed you. Sadly, it was not in my power to rewind everything or to travel back in time. Much sadder was the fact that I could’ve at least visited you despite the very busy schedule I had. I could always choose to leave my tons of work for they wouldn’t die anyway. They wouldn’t. You did. And a part of me did too. Saddest thing was that part of me wasn’t even able to thank you for the childhood memories. I could hardly remember how we lived together when I was just a kid (maybe because I was so little back then) but one thing was for sure, you loved me.

There was the rain. It poured hard. It sympathized. It blessed. It wetted everyone. It drenched us and our hearts. And I meant completely. But walking under the rain made not one of us cold. Walking under the rain made us recognize all the more that you had been warming the people around you. You had been a shelter. You had been a refuge. And because of that you were loved—beyond words, beyond a blog like this.

There was Kuya. He was someone who perfectly showed how much you were loved. There he was, staring at you with love in his eyes that couldn’t be compared with how he had looked at his girls. He was watching you not move. He was watching “yunglalakeng” ‘yon (that had been his father for more than a decade since our parents’ separation) as he slept at his casket.I could barely imagine the grief he felt. And I admitted it. The pain I felt was just a tenth of his. I could never have the same sorrow he had for you were with him all those days. You took care of him and bought him pandesal. You woke up for him and gave him baon every single day. You were the greatest father he never had. And so the pain of losing you was in his every tear. Watching Kuya cry broke my heart. More than for my own sadness, I cried for him and his misery. Perhaps the only thing I could boast about being pained was that he was luckier for he had been with you longer than I had. Was it far much painful to cry over something you couldn’t even remember well?

There were the songs. They played as if they wouldn’t end. They did not entertain us as how songs would do. They reminded us of you, how you lived, and how wonderfully you touched people. They were playing the messages of our hearts to you and perhaps yours to us.

There was Maymay. As the songs played, I felt so helpless before her when she began to cry. As she wailed, all I did was hold her hand. I wanted to make her feel better for I knew you didn’t want her sad but I couldn’t do anything else to ease her pain. I knew I needed not to though. If wailing would be the only way that she could tell you how much she loved you, I would let her do it. I wouldn’t shut her up. I perfectly understood how wailing helped. I did. Often inside. I reminisced how May told me how she used to kiss your forehead before going and now that you’re gone, she couldn’t do so anymore. I envied her. I gladly did.

There was Ate. She was behind me when we were walking you to your burial. She offered me a bottle of water along the way for she knew how tired we were becoming. As she handled me the bottle, I barely looked into her eyes yet I was able to see she was crying a lot too. But I hadn’t heard her wail even once. It was maybe because, as the eldest, she was trying to be strong for us her siblings. Well, I guess no one had to try to be strong. I guess too that we were all vulnerable before a death of a loved one.

There was Bebe Boy. Inside the church, all he did was cry (since minute one!).I did not know this boy before your funeral. One could say we were total strangers. But when I saw him cry so hard and wail, I felt the immediate need to comfort him. He, after all, was my brother. It did not matter who his father was; all that’s important was I was her Ate. I embraced him. Tight. I wanted to make him feel okay and say everything’s gonna be alright. Well, I didn’t say that. But I knew he understood me. He sure did.

There was Mama. She was thanking you for paving the way for a reunion, a reunion of a broken family. She was thanking you for giving us the opportunity to be together again even if it lasted for just a short while during your funeral. You were so unfair! You allowed me and Ate to hug Mama again but you did not allow us to hug you. You were mean. But kidding aside, we owed you bigtime!

There was the shirt. Designed especially for you, it said “We ❤ Papang”.

There were your children. SilaTita and sila Tito.There were their children, mgapinsannamin. There were your siblings, their children, and their children’s children. There was everyone. Damp under the rain, they were all mourning. Yet they, we, all celebrated your existence and its beautiful end.

There was Mamang. Her hug so tight and her kiss so sincere tickled my soul. I always knew my eyes were hers. As I stared at her staring at you, all the memories came rushing back to me. My two or three year old self (if my memory serves me right) was eating, sleeping, and playing with you and Mamang, my beautiful lolo and lola. I was sorry if I could not do anything to stop her crying but to hug her and hold her hand. But I was proud of myself that I had promised her I would visit more often. This time, I would set aside those immortal loads of work. I would not want to regret again for things I had not done. Not anymore.

Then there was you. Sleeping. Resting I should say. You were at peace. I knew you were also pained seeing all of us grieve. We were sorry for this was all we knew to express how we needed you, how we treasured you. But Papang, each of us meant what’s on the shirt we were wearing. We did. We have. We do and we always will.

Magpahinga nang mabuti, Papang, ha? Goodnight.