six years later

I can remember her clearly.

She had red hair, a request from the man she thought she loved. Hadn’t she always been defined by the things people asked her to be? Good daughter, giving sister, honor student, girlfriend with red hair – all her, all not her.

She had empty eyes. Well, that’s what they said anyway. They said her laughter never reached her eyes. I remember she barely laughed. She hated the sound of it, so she avoided doing it. She hated her smile too, so she repressed it. Always.

She was on top of her game, though. She was good at school. Professors were either awed or scared of her. “Where did you graduate, Miss?”, and she’d answer the name of a little town no one had heard of. “You must make your high school proud,“. A repressed smile, a shy “Thank you,“. They never saw through her, I remember that clearly too.

What else? What else do I remember after six years?

Hate.

The hate was the clearest.

I remember how much she hated. The object – herself, her boyfriend, herself, the world, herself – wasn’t nearly as important as the feeling itself. It was the feeling that drove her. She hated. She hated. She hated.

I remember her being a liar. I am a liar, too.

And I’ d be lying if I said I remember her clearly.

I barely knew her, this much I know.

I remember her hair, I remember her lies, I remember her repressed smiles and stifled laughter, and I remember her hate. But I can’t remember her.

What made her, her? Who was she?

Why do we select the memories remember, especially when it’s about us? Why do we mentally recoil when we’re confronted with the truth? Why do we see different versions of ourselves when asked to remember?

I remember clearly. I could not remember clearly. Both are true in the way that both are lies.

I couldn’t remember who she was, but I’m envious of her.

Because I’m pretty sure she wasn’t as lonely as I am now.

I’m pretty sure she loved living, even if she hated life.

I’m pretty sure she knew how to fight.

She isn’t defeated.

She isn’t lost.

Sure. she’s been called “damaged” more times than anyone should ever be called that, but she took it anyway, and turned her broken pieces to poetry that cuts, that grows alive on stage. She took her blood and made art.

I’ve outgrown her, this much I know I too, and this is both truth and lie.

I am not her anymore. I have lost more than I’ve ever wanted, lost what I’d rather keep. I have lived longer than I intended. I am lonelier. I have lost her heart, and her fight, and her drive, and her soul. I have lost her.

I remember who she was, and I’m glad she’s gone.

Because I am stronger now, stronger than she ever was. I am not her anymore, and sure, I am envious, but I have also learned acceptance, something she hadn’t.

This is who I am now. Lost, defeated, afraid – but brave. Braver. Brave enough to know I can never bring her back, brave enough to know there will be no more resurrections, brave enough to decide that her ghost will no longer haunt me.

Ariane, you were wonderful in your own way. Thank you for the fight. Thank you for the scars. You can rest easy now.

I will make you proud.

— Aria

 

RELAPSE DAY 1

 
It begins
In something as innocent as a song
Or the way a scene reminds me
Of another, a lifetime ago.
It begins
small
It begins
almost unnoticed
But it begins.
 
“Journeys end in
lovers meeting,”
the beginning
of yet again another
journey down the hole –
it begins
though would it be a journey
if it does not end,
and no lover awaits me?
 
It is here again
The trek through the dark
blind stumbling
blades cutting, nails digging
 
I see light in friends’ hands
But it has begun
And the solitude is
a                      
must
 
The hands of time move
Painfully s  l  o  w
Yet I am aware of the
Speedofmylightburning
 
A flashpoint, an ignition
My dreams, my ambition
My
downfall,
My reclusion.
 
It begins and it pains
Me and
Them and then
Some
It begins
And I am here again
 
Journeys end in lovers meeting
Meetings end in partings.
 
Isn’t “begin” just another way of saying “being”?

Footsteps

 If footsteps could speak through its echoes,
Whose departure will it sing?
 
The pathways are worn now,
Well-versed in yet another
Empty bed in the house
The unfolding of another child
Wide-eyed armed by this sleepy town
Of her place in the big world
 
Sometimes the town is a nursery
A playground for the future
Other times, it’s a cemetery --
Here lie broken dreams,
Withered passion, burned-out hopes
 
The town remembers the girl
They armed to become a woman
But could not recognize the woman
Who came to bury the girl
 
Homecoming is not always a celebration
A funeral can be rebirth
And one day in this sleepy town
Footsteps will fade to whispers
Their echoes disappearing as
Stories start all over again, repeating.

Your “Academic Debate” is My Life and Rights

It started with me getting outed without my consent.

The announcement came out of nowhere and it took me by surprise. It was followed up by “You should be proud that you’re bisexual,”. I tried to fend it off by saying that I was just thinking of my crush, but deep inside, I was both angry and heartbroken.

It will never be a matter of how proud I am of my identity. It will always be about how safe I feel when I say it.

Straights don’t understand how utterly devastating being outed without your consent feels. It’s never about hiding who I am. I am bisexual, and I will always be proud of that. But for it to be announced out loud, without my consent, in a group of basically strangers, is to hijack my story and steal my voice. It will never be your story to tell.

Your attempts at making me feel proud of being who I am just ends with me feeling unsafe. It took me years of denial, self-hate, and disgust before I can finally accept myself. Coming out of the closet was something I worked the courage for for years, and for you to force me to say it out loud is to invalidate the struggles that come with it, and as triumphant coming out you assume feels, the need for safety will always be above victory. Has it ever crossed your mind that the reason I do not just disclose that information is because I don’t feel safe?

When I got trapped inside that “debate” on whether the SOGIE Bill should be passed and whether same sex marriage should be legalized, one thing just kept going on inside my head: your – all of you – arguments reek of privilege.

The outing, the ability to reduce a conversation on whether the LGBT community – myself included – should be granted rights to “This is just academic debate”, to claiming that the SOGIE bills “usurps the rights of the straights”: it all revolves around the fact that you stand on a podium of privilege, backed by the security that you are the “’majority’ anyway”.

I had so many thoughts while I was listening to your “arguments”, and as much I wanted to scream out loud by answers, the hurt overpowered my ability to articulate. I will never, ever forget hearing, “Convince us [that the LGBT/you deserve the rights you’re asking for]”, “Bakit gusto nila mag-adjust ang society sa kanila minority man sila?”, or “We’re giving you the benefit of the doubt by listening to you,”. That day will always remind me how far we still have to go, and how very disappointing the people you admire and respect could be.

You were caught up in your “academic” discussion you forgot I was there – a member of the LGBT you just outed half an hour ago – listening to you go on and on about straight rights getting stepped on, how same sex marriage is unnecessary because “there are legal instruments” they can opt for, the contempt and disgust in your voice as you complain how we should be contented with the acceptance society grants us and not ask for more anymore, how there are no customs that allow same sex marriages anyway, how even animals can distinguish sex – you forgot I was a human being listening to you spill your guts at how you view me and everyone else like me. And you had the audacity to reason out “This is just academic debate” and “You’re too emotional” when I said how it was getting frustrating listening to all of you. Of course, it’s personal for me. Your academic debate is my life and rights. How dare you assume I can just detach from the issue?

Your privilege has blinded you. Your supposed intellectualism has given you excuse to hash out traumatizing “opinions”. And please, your ‘I do not agree to same sex marriage because mas marami na ngang babae kesa lalaki, makipagkumptensya pa gid sila. Direct injury na sa akon,’ “joke” (if it even is) isn’t funny at all – it absolutely reeks of homophobia and delusion.

 “Direct injury” is a double-bladed weapon when it comes to this: either you say you actually get directly affected when the LGBT is given their rights, or you say that since it does not affect you at all, you’ll just not do anything at all. Your privilege allows you to say “Let things be” without doing anything. It gives you the freedom to stay back from the situation. We don’t have that option.

No one ever got killed for being straight, yet you had the audacity to say the discrimination we experience is “sensationalized” since “Vice Ganda is popular and has many fans”. For supposedly smart people, this level of rationalization is insulting.

Yes, I am on full on offense mode now. I am hurt beyond explanation. I am even more hurt that when I cried in the midst of all your hurtful remarks, I felt the need to apologize. I am glad I did not though, for then I would have to apologize waking up in the middle of the night to cry myself to sleep again.

Your lack of empathy and non-existent sense of allyship is a grating manifestation of your privilege. Your revolting feelings on our fight for basic human rights is a testament on how used you are to it – feels so good to be the norm, doesn’t it, that the mere thought of granting the “minority” the basic rights you enjoy feels oppressive.

And while I am always an advocate of giving everyone an avenue to express their opinions, your homophobic degrading opinions will not have a place in my space. I refuse to respect an opinion that is a blatant denial of my rights. I refuse to respect an opinion founded on hate and ignorance. I refuse to be reduced to a mere motion for debate, my identity and existence dismissed as you flaunt your supposed debate prowess.

Pray tell, what is the point of you having memorized the Bill of Rights if the only time you cite “equal protection clause” is in class, and refuse to acknowledge it outside of the academe? I do not care if you can recite the totality of the Constitution or if you have memorized all Codes by heart because as long as you dehumanize us as you treat us as mere subject for discussion, I will never acknowledge your legal skills and abilities. What’s the point of your perfect scores if you fail to see how the “majority” and your heteronormative-driven society is (quite literally) killing the “minority” that is me and my community? If your brilliance is limited inside the classroom, then keep it. I refuse to participate in your intellectual circlejerk.

And maybe, before you try to repeatedly claim that the Anti-Discrimination Bill is usurping your rights, actually know what SOGIE stands for. Yes, I refuse to enlighten you. You’re a smart lot, aren’t you? Figure it out on your own.

PS:

I hope your gay, lesbian, and trans friends know that you think they’re entertaining and fun, but heaven forbid their basic human rights are given to them.

You don’t love me, and it’s not okay, even if I say it is

You don’t love me and it’s okay.

That, perhaps, is my favorite lie.

Whenever I tell you that, I mean:

1. It’s not okay. I want to be able to hold your hand, to hold you, without holding back or wishing it is not not right.

2. It’s not okay. My heart breaks every time you mention her.

3. It’s not okay. Why do you keep running back to me if you can’t stay?

4. It’s not okay. I just really want to hold your hand.

5. It’s not okay. I love you and is it wrong to sometimes pray to whoever god is listening that you’d somehow love me back?

6. It’s not okay. You make everything better. How can I let go of your brightness?

7. It’s not okay. I wish you were here with me.

8. It’s not okay. I understand though – who would ever choose me? I am never meant to occupy a space in your heart as something more than someone who reminded you you can be so much more.

9. It’s not okay. I’ve been telling you that it’s getting difficult to not love you, but you kept me holding on. Why?

10. It’s not okay but it’s not your fault you can’t love me.

11. It’s not okay. I can’t sleep at night thinking how you would go on if I leave. I know you’d be okay. So why am I breaking?

12. It’s not okay. I know you’d leave someday. I’ve accepted that. But why am I crying?

Whenever I tell you that it’s okay, what I really mean is:

I love you with all that I am, with all the love life has left me, with all that I can, and I’m willing to give more than what my heart can take, but I can’t because it’s not the love you want or need so okay. It’s okay.

To Be Angry is to Regain Your Humanity

In this pressing time of complacency, anger is the only weapon the vulnerable can wield.

To say that we, as humans, are devolving would be an understatement as much as it is a falsity. Each day humanity takes a step towards the future, and yet each day we regress as beings. Moral compass can be swayed and persuaded, principles bought and sold. With the very ground our supposed superiority stands on as hollow as our sense of unity and empathy, where do we find what it takes to be human again?

Emotion could be the least expected answer, but there it is: anger. Burning rage could be the key in restoring the soul this void had caused.

To be angry is to be indignant in the face of the utter disgrace that is this clownery of a government. With politicians with barely any sense of moral ascendancy taking over office in the guise of public service, the very institution entrusted to safeguard this nation is overrun by incompetency and personal agenda. The power delegated to them by the people in the hopes of a better, more secure future gets manipulated into becoming a tool for the rise of the very demons they have sworn to protect us from.

To be angry is to demand more than an apology. With corruption and abuses going on in broad daylight, to be angry is to demand accountability. How long must these executioners bought by money and enshrouded with authority run amok amongst the people, picking off the lowly one by one? Who gets to pay for the deaths of countless innocent lives lost in the name of a pretend change?

To be angry is to be insulted at being played as fools. If the leaders of this land could stomach being puppets, the people cannot and will not anymore. If those who live at the top of the pyramid believe that their masks of philanthropy and charity cover the stench of their treachery, then let them bask in their foolishness. Displaying their degrees in their fancy mansions can only do so much – the real education is out on the street, and they could never pass.

To be angry is to revolt, to clamor, to dismantle and to destroy this system that oppresses, enslaves, silences, and kills. There are no more days of reckoning to be waited for – each day is a day of reckoning. For misery, discrimination, and poverty to be used as twisted narratives subservient to the ruling class is to be fed maggots at a feast: revolting, disgusting, cheap, a mockery in the face of the holders of the truth.

Each passing day has become an irony, a blurred snowball of distinct mess, ready to hit and hurt its target, ready to roll out of control into destruction. Seethe if you must. Find how it is to feel empathy for the collateral damage, to burn with rage for the complicit, to lash out to the complacent. There is no holding back now, no more room for reservations or doubts as to the justification of this wrath.

There is complacency and then there is anger.

Choose humanity.

Bukang-liwayway Sa Mayo

Walang naniniwalang mahal kita.

Kung iisipin, maging ikaw ayaw maniwalang mahal kita. ‘Di rin naman kita masisi. Nagmahal ako nang sobra-sobra bago ka dumating. Nagmahal hanggang mawasak, nagmahal hangga’t maubos lahat ng pag-ibig na kayang ilabas ng puso ko. Nagmahal hanggang sa hindi na ako sigurado kung kaya ko pang magmahal muli.

Sa tutuwing may kilay na tumataas sa sagot kong, “Oo, mahal ko,” para bang kailangan kong magpaliwanag. Ni minsan, hindi ko ginawa. Ni kahit sa’yo, hindi ko sinabi. Maaaring dahil ako mismo, sa mga panahong iyon, ay ayaw mag-isip.

Magiging tapat ako – noong una’y ‘di rin ako makapaniwalang mahal kita. Hindi ba’t nangako sa sarili kong siya lang ang huling mamahalin ng buo, na hanggang sa huli’y walang ibang nanaising makasama? Bakit parang mas masaya ako pag kasama kita? Bakit panatag ang puso ko sa tuwing nginingitian mo? Bakit buo ang loob kong lumaban para sa’yo?

Hinintay kong mag-isa ang bukang liwayway noong gabing una tayong nagkita. Hinding-hindi ko iyon kailanman malilimutan, hindi lamang ang dampi ng labi, ngunit maging ang tila muling pagsindi mo ng ilaw sa madilim kong pananaw sa buhay.

Bago ka dumating, kuntento na ako sa katahimika’t kadiliman. Nabuhay akong walang ipinaglalaban, umaatras, tumatangging subukan ang paglipad sa takot kong mahulog. Noong unang gabing dumating ka, walang dalang telepono, bitbit ang libro, nabuhay ang mga lihim kong pangako sa sarili. Ipinaalala mo sa akin lahat ng pwede, lahat na maaaring maging.

Hindi ito magiging oda sa kung gaano kita kamahal; ito’y isang paglalahad kung bakit ikaw ang paborito kong bukang-liwayway.

Ang pagdating ng liwanag mo sa pinakamadilim kong gabi ang hudyat ng aking muling pagkabuhay. Ibinigay mo ang katatagan, ang katapangang nakalimutang kong minsan ay naging akin. Ipinaalala mo ang rason kung bakit kailangan kong lumaban, ‘di lamang para sa sarili ko, ngunit pati na rin para sa mundo.

Isipin man nilang lahat na hindi totoo ang pagmamahal ko, o kung totoo ma’y nagmahal ako at muli na namang natalo, wala na akong pakialam. Nang sabay nating hinintay ang ating unang bukang-liwayway, aking napagtanto: hindi kailangang mangatwiran ng liwanag sa dilim.

you only love me when she can’t love you

I am only your home when she cannot understand your dark. I guess this is what homecoming for broken people is like: following the smoke trail to the abandoned house where you find acceptance in the darkness. You never stay though; no one ever does. But you keep coming back whenever the world is too much, if only to hide for a while. After all, don’t we yearn for the light, for absolution? There are no saviors in dead buildings. Only burned frames, only ashes.