you wanted me to write you a poem. i couldn’t

because i couldn’t memorize the lines

of your face. it is too new. i wanted

to write about the bridge of your nose. your proud smirk.

the same number of years that have creased

your forehead. i wanted to disguise your ugly eyes

with some metaphor you would probably confuse

with the longing you have seen. your eyes are ugly

when they are swollen and you haven’t slept.

they don’t light up the way they do when you

are telling me stories about your father, or when you talk

about football practice. or the way they did when

i first told you i loved you. right now they look

like they are born out of the dark circles under them. i wanted

to write about you. i guess i just did.




For C.




There was a fire that day, refusing to be put out. She did not know about it until, on her bus ride home, she noticed that the highway was unusually empty — even of the humdrum noises of jeepney drivers begging for passengers in that cadenced, repetitive chanting of theirs, however desperate it may seem to an onlooker; void of movement and sound, even of buses announcing propriety of the road through the incessant sounding of horns. The sky was overcast, a shame for what was almost a perfect Saturday, but she could not tell where the gray clouds of smoke and genuine clouds met and separated.

She was seated on the last row, by the window. This has always been her favorite spot, despite warnings from her mother that this allows muggers to literally corner her.

“They won’t get anything”, she always responds with a smirk, “Mom, you know I’d fight back.”

Her mother, forty-two, a vision even after six children and two annulments, would just stare at her blankly, probably wondering if this person really came from her uterus. “You say that now. But I’m telling you, when it happens, all your bravado would dissipate.”


“You’d be glued to the ground, unable to do anything — even the most basic act of processing what is happening to you. Before you know it, it has happened already, and you won’t have anything left but yourself.”

She was thinking of this conversation that afternoon even if the bus she had caught somewhere in Cubao was virtually empty except for a group of boisterous nursing students probably headed to the university near her stop. Nothing bad could happen, she says, as if to console herself. From what, she does not know.

Later that evening, she wordlessly watched the evening news with her mother who stared at the television screen as if it were a green rock from outer space. Grand Central Mall housed countless memories, serving as the second home of every single student who went to the prominent Catholic girls’ school nearby which coexisted side-by-side with an all-boys school. As they lay there watching a clip of the mall’s last few moments, its surrender to its imminent end despite the heroic efforts of the firefighters and the overwhelming nostalgia of all those who ever set foot in it, her mother started uttering undecipherable phrases, not once showing the intention of constructing a proper sentence. “First date“, her mom was saying now, shaking her head in disbelief.

As for Tori, she was lost in reverie. The monotonous mumbling of the newscaster lulled her into daydreaming. She remembered selling an old phone there, once, but that was it. What was to be said of her apathy? How can something that means so much to one mean so little — or perhaps, absolutely nothing — to another?

She uttered some lousy excuse to her mom and headed upstairs to her bedroom, shutting the door behind her and then flinging herself onto her bed, feeling the softness of her 400-thread -count Egyptian sheets engulf her very being. Outside, the world endures the evening. It was only seven o’clock, but aside from the occasional sound of cars speeding by, there was only the distinct simplicity of complete and utter silence. On most nights, she liked the peace — she would only think about this sense of being cut off from the world and her feet takes on a life of their own, prodding her to get home at once — but right now, she decided it was too much. Something had to be done.

“This isn’t working.”, she hurriedly types, pressing send before she could even think about what she is doing. Years later, she would only remember this moment in perfect detail. For, even if it lasted only a few seconds, a gripping sense of certainty enveloped her, almost frightening her into submission to its will.

She is suddenly taken aback by the sound of the fan blade clashing against the metal guard, giving back to noise its rightful space. She stood up to inspect the contraption, but before she could even get off her bed, her cellular phone lights up and, with the lightning reflex prodding every member of her generation to reach for their mobiles as if on cue when it beeps, she finally realized what she has done, and what looks like a response to it. Or, the lack of.

Yeah“, in verbatim. Proper punctuation was not even practiced, and to her at least, yeah has always sounded like a sigh (of relief, perhaps?), not an indication of a thought made concrete through a word. Now the deafening silence reverberated in her ears, vibrating and bouncing off the walls.

She is sure she would have spared a tear or two, if only, as if by the generosity of luck or fate, or perhaps the gift of the human capacity to sense irregularities in his immediate environment, she smelled something burning downstairs. Grabbing only her prized Dostoevsky collection and a hoodie, she rushed down to find the kitchen ablaze, the flames slowly but inevitably spreading through the halls. She found her mom staring at the tragedy unfolding on the home she had worked endless nights for to build from scratch, a means to cope after Tori’s father left them for a younger woman who reputedly worked for a brothel until her father forgot key concepts in developmental biology thus impregnating her, taking son of a bitch to the letter. The irony of what is happening works itself into consciousness, and she almost laughed.

She grabs her mom by the arm, tugging at her sleeves like a child. “Mommy, let’s go.” Her mother just shakes her head, but although hesitant, starts to take some steps forward, at loss for words for the first time in a long time.

Before you know what is happening, it has happened already. Now it was her turn to shake her head in disbelief. You won’t have anything left but yourself.

Upon passing the gate almost entirely eaten up by rust, her mother looked back incredulously at the row of firetrucks parked in her front yard, as if was only a stroke of circumstance that led her in the middle of this commotion. She took one last look at her home slowly being destroyed from within, then collapsed. A team of paramedics carried her body into an ambulance. All Tori could think of was the fact that, at least, her mother would get the rest she needs. Meanwhile, she does not even dare think about tomorrow.

What is it about reality that is both oppressive by virtue of its artlessness and dreamlike at the same unfortunate time? If anything, nothing was as real to her in that moment but her cold indifference. Maybe things would sink in when they are compartmentalized, laid to rest by the blessing of memory.

She walked toward a deserted waiting shed a few blocks away from her home, or what’s left of it. She whipped out a stick from the half-empty box of Marlboro Red’s she forgot she had tucked inside her hoodie’s pocket and lights it up, remarking at its transience. Turned into smoke, she watched as it is slowly consumed by the light and warmth of its own flame, the sparks conquering great heights, and then surrendering to the vastness of space, until nothing remains of it. Not even ashes.


Beatrice’s Inferno. Hahaha. Get it? Yup. Yes. See what I did there. Sorry. :D

work-in-progress. working on images. I want to make it, hmm let’s see, poignant, more “fragile” and “contained”.  Whatever that means.




She told me so herself. She did not

understand how a man

could be such a coward.


I did not, either. I just

assumed they all were. It surprises

me to think she once thought

he was not. Where are those days,


I ask. She told me I lived through

them. I did not know. I did

not notice. I did not need to.




See, actions speak

— not louder than words,

but a language that goes beyond

syntax and what they imply. He


never spoke to me. He says he tried,

but I do not want


to hear.



I wonder how am I

to face him tomorrow. Or the next

day. Who knows when he is coming.

He is as afraid as I am,


only he does not know. He

never will.

A Love Poem



























”Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent.” 
— Ludwig Wittgenstein, Tractacus Logico-Philosophicus, 1919