Shadows cast from your back were pitch black — as your visage and the whole entirety is facing the sun as it sets; standing at the very rocky mountaintop, not even a single soul knows what is running inside your head. Not even I. It was just you.

Curls were the tips of your hair I wished I had run my hands through its every strand — sour inhalation seeps from your scalp to my lungs as you walk past the sunny side of the road, coming home from school.

Beard was perhaps the first love of mine about you, second was the round eyes so adorable to stare at, third was your button nose I regret I have not kissed.

Lost was yourself when every single vehicle heading home ran out when you visited a friend from a far-flung place, but not that very bus, my prayers have sent just to send you home safe and sound.

Tears were the fluid coming out of your eyes as you failed your exams, if only I could be beside you in a snap, to dry your eyes with my tiny palms — and to kiss your swollen eyes as I wrap you with my warm embrace.

Tongue such seductive every time you stick it out whenever you send me your photos; when my body heats a little when you make it dance in a humorous and teasing manner.

Gaps were visible between your teeth, yet looking better compared to mine — resembling those of a rattlesnake’s — which you never mind as you always assure me of your love and affection.

Meals seem scrumptious when you make them: grumble was the sound of your stomach when you skip meals, not having anything until I make you to.

Smile was the very last thing you painted on the canvas made of my soul. I have never been so grateful to have you, even in just a swift moment.

Grief was the feeling of loss, of not having you again. At least, he very shards of you remained poked in my heart and will remain to prick the same heart because I wanted to.

Chills were the sensations I am characterizing as I am writing this at two in the morning — happy, as the one who has been writing all his life was finally being written about once.

Written by you.

You were twenty-seven when you uttered this story of yours — of waiting for hours at school, waiting for your Mama to fetch you; of how pizza bread’s sauce smudges marks of red all over your mouth and on your clean, white shirt: hinted with your sweat’s sour-fresh, polymorphing apparitions. The meal’s pusher though, was the two-peso popsicle stick you bought together with your pizza slice, cold, as it gradually turns to sweetened liquid, all thanks to your warm tongue.

I am only twenty-two when I recall how your Mama twice believed in love — and was twice hurt by it. I also could see how hard it was for you, to work hard to support your family. I could only think how much sweat and tears you have shed, how I wish I could have wiped it off your adorable face.

Having all these servings of coffee only transports me into your entirety as I am asking for more, drowning in every wave of it, not getting enough of you. I wonder though, how would your earring poked on your right ear’s tip would taste like?

I would never know,

unless you will let me do so.

Batid ko’ng mayroong mga bagay na hindi natin makakalimutan—

mga taong nakilala’t pumunit ng ilang mga parte natin at kanilang dinala;

mga lugar na minsan nang naiwanan ng ating mga bakas;

mga retrato,

musika,

pelikula’t mga obra ng sining na nakapagpapaalala sa 'tin.

Pilit man nating pumiglas sa ‘ting kahapon, naroroon ang ating pagkahumaling sa pagyakap sa mga anino nito.

The constant dryness runs from the mouth to the soul.

It has been a few months after he left without any good reasons — he is living all alone but not lonely. Although he possesses all the love he deserves still he feels empty. He never stopped looking and he knew he won’t be finding it at all with anybody. He always knew from the start that only one person can provide what he’s in search of.

He is finding something, something only he can define.

Something that could make him feel complete. Something that could make him whole. Something that could sanctify his dirty halo. Something that could wash away the thirst.

Something.

Another day.

Another gold orange-hued daylight creeps from the windows to your eyelashes, hardened by last night’s tears.

Another day. Another set of chances. A chance to make things right, a chance to move, and to keep going. The body wanted to, but the soul, it is tired. It asked for a few more days to rest.

Another day. Another day to heal. Another day to face.

You are now ready.

Suspended inside the six corners of the room, helpless. His body shrieking out of icy chills creeping from the snowy windows. His eyes, a never-ending circle turning round and round until the pupils dilate, dominating his vision and his entire soul.

He is the darkness himself.

Thick, rose-red blood warms his hands cold with sweat. Salty tears took the path of his beard to the navel. The saliva started to run, coming out of the cave, his mouth, down the petrified wooden floor, polished with blood, sweat, and years of constant sacrifices.

He wanted nothing but peace.

He tried to be dead but still, he is breathing. Until the Devil Himself came out of the void, the doors from fiery hell. The Devil reaches his hands, touching the man’s jaws, enough for the Devil to feel the coarse texture of the man’s beard, still soaking wet of saliva.

“Come with me to Peace.” The Devil whispered.

His eyes grew larger and larger.

The ritual has begun.

It is the 15th of February today and the flooding of lovers on most roads and rooms has subsided. There, on her ride to the town, a prim, young woman named Samara peeked through the train’s windows — getting a glimpse of her next destination. Sitting on a squeaky-clean, plastic sheet-covered, intricately-embroidered, green cushion Samara sips on her coffee — with enough creamer to conceal the bitterness on the mug. Every time her lips touch the mug’s rim she leaves her lips’ marks in maroon. As soon as the train stopped, Samara, swinging on her white, floral dress, handed her fare to the driver, and waved a sweet goodbye to everyone boarding the same train. The passengers too, they are charmed by Samara’s sweetness.

From the train station, Samara walked to downtown. In a crowd composed of a couple of hundred people, she will always be easily spotted — by her bold, black hair, fixed in Victorian style with eighties’ bangs. She is confident to wear it though, even if it is already twenty-nineteen. Unlike all of the women her age who happened to be generic, Samara tries to go against the current.

Flowers of different sorts caught Samara’s attention as she is still embarking the whole of downtown. She bought all her favorites — wild orchids, chrysanthemums, aromatic lavenders, lilies, and tulips. The vendor then wrapped the flowers with sinamay into a lovely bouquet in which Samara traded in with a few hundred pesos.

Carrying the bouquet in her hands she continued to stroll. The downtown is filled with everything. Newly-caught fishes of different kinds and sizes are laid on clean market floors. Still-red meats, evidence of freshness, are hung on hooks. Sausages and smoked hams are never exempted. Engrossing scents of a different array of spices have dominated the totality of the vegetable section.

It is already past two in the afternoon as Samara took a peek on her ornate wristwatch. She then decided to come to her favorite spot in the downtown, a coffee shop. The moment she arrived at the shop she placed her bouquet on a water-filled vase placed on the table — set outside, sat on a black, curved-metal chair, removing her straw hat and her gloves, placing them all on a plaided-cloth-covered table. A few minutes passed when a waiter arrived, Samara uttered her order:

“Large latte with added milk, and a slice of chocolate cheesecake. I’ll take them away.”

Samara waited patiently for her order. After she has received her takeaway she wore her straw hat and her gloves, then walked away. While she is walking she is sipping on her hot latte and munching on some chocolate cheesecake. While she is walking she passed by the park full of people — families having a picnic, group of friends sitting on the grass while chatting indistinctly, runners jogging, men and women biking, old couples kayaking. Samara took a few pinches from her cheesecake, throwing it to her front when hundreds of birds dive in. Samara is amazed at what she has witnessed.

The sun is about to set when all the streetlights glowed, Samara is finally home. She twisted the doorknob using her key, revealing the grand view of her living room. She then closed the door upon entering it. She had her dinner, rushed to the bed — contemplating on what has come to pass the whole day. Then slept, safe, and sound.

The War Between Art and His Friends, Death and Lust is on.

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Werewolves, werewolves
Skies will brighten.

— Claire Elise Boucher

Wild.

Wild is the taste of hate stuck on every palate you try to conceive. The fainting flavor goes beyond as expected; from the lustful teeth to the sour tongue, down the dark narrow passage of the esophagus — guessing as to if it knows the way to the paper-cut vena cava.

When it already entered your heart Adonis, the surreal sensation begins.

The body, from its natural color tan, slowly shifts into pale white. Purple-blue scales dominate the skin as if they were bruises. Temperature gets arctic subzero, freezing the meat, hardens the bones, and the inside marrow it believes in. The eyelids that shell the creepy eyeballs are forever opened in finding truthful lies. The pupils contract, elongate vertically, resembling those of the rattlesnake’s; convicted in preying society’s rats.

And the entire vision of the environment alters. A heat map.

All things were perceived as blue. But the living organisms appear red. Fancy drooling signals your thirst for your first kill. You are hungry. Hungry for more blood-borne actions. Rainforest terns eat arctic ferns. Saharan whales swim the pacific dunes. The animal instinct running your inside veins is this mad. Your soul is terrifyingly savage.

You wish to stop. You cry to evade.

Still, the feeling haunts you.

Their kindness is charades
It’s used to sedate
They remain unashamed.

— Crystal Castles

Weird.

Weirdness is the shivering of the shoulders. The salty cries of the swollen pores. The erecting of hairs out of a bald head.

Enthralling, seductive movements polymorph from one place to another, creating a series of luminescent kaleidoscopes.

Red lights burn. Blue chests smile. Neon lips hurt the visions.

It is the pure oddity that drives the night.

“¡La cocaína! ¡La cocaína!” Frail screams whisper.

With a swift, single inhalation I own the night and its galaxy.

From the lens of my vision, the reality seemed to be distorted. I see things, the peculiar way. Their heads, they turned into animals. I see rabbits, shrews, axolotls, turtles, and doe deers. I even see calves and joeys. There were also bluejays and parakeets. The entire room turned into Noah’s ark, giving asylum to us misfit animals.

But what is supposed to be a good night turned to a gruesome one.

A she-wolf with its bloody fangs enters the filth-filled room. One by one it pierced the innocent necks of the other animals mercilessly. Blood splatters across the floor, creating bloodbaths. Step-by-step, the she-wolf went upstairs for hibernation. Not until it caught itself staring at the cracked closet mirror.

The she-wolf and its naked body smothered in thick warm blood.

It was me in the reflection.

“¡La cocaína!”

“¡La cocaína!”

Frail screams whisper.

Lord knows this planet feels like a hopeless place
Thank God I’m going back home to outer space.

― Kesha Rose Sebert

Wonderful.

My entire life, I’ve never seen a view this extravagantly wonderful.

The clouds, they’re identically shaped. They’re still.

Trumpet shrieks dominate the skies. The banging of gongs followed.

All of the people in this weary county of mine went out of their houses, stopped working with their filthy laundries, took a rest from tilling their fields; just to witness this sight we’re all seeing and the noise we’re all hearing.

The skies whose colors were blue; they became rainbows — flashing light streaks all over the place. Massive shocks surprised us in disbelief. Mushroom clouds emerged relentlessly from the ground, ascending all its way to the heavens.

Strangely, black blood started to ooze slowly from our eyes, next to our ears, then our noses. Last were our pores, it pours black blood out from our bodies as if it is purification.

And things started to float, a gigantic wormhole is swallowing up our place, including us its people.

The light. The bright light. It is blinding us. Including me.

I do not know what happens next.