is firmly rooted between three distinct places:
Church, school, and home-
growing under the watchful eye of holy trinities.
The protecting pillars of my personhood
against the thief that may come at night time.
You see, I have been told that I am quite precious-
a jewel in the rough, so to speak,
hidden for a noble prince willing to climb over this orchard-
Though I don’t know if I’m the diamond or the pearl kind.
While waiting, I fill my interiors with books, trinkets, and decora-
souvenirs from places I have never been
dropped by polite visitors who stop to smell the flowers
My hands always let things bloom- hoping that one of them would be lured
to brave the forbidden
and dig this land.
I have long been buried here.
They always get distracted though-
already satisfied by a single flower, or an interesting artifact
when the garden is quite vast.
There seems always room for more- I have never explored it entirely.
Have never even measured the limits of myself
as I stretch and crumble the walls from within.
My eyes are buds, so I let my vines do all the groping
to reach the sunlight.
What I know upon receiving sight:
I do not have a mother.
I was born from a sea foam.
From a plane crash. From the jagged propellers of a kamikaze jet plane.
Scorched by the sun for attempting to fly high,
I was casted to drown at the coldest depths. To remain restless
for refusing the fixated earth.
I’d like to say that the sky and sea are my parents,
But though I may seem like their prisoner, they have adopted me whole
Hardening my wounds with salt and spray
until I have finally submerged and become.
I can always rise and break structures down. This is my form of play.
Now I am storm. I am the monsoon.
I am the wave that catches the lightning, the cloud that broods over ships-
reading people’s lives as drifting leaves on a teacup. Eager to see how things
would unfold. If I stir,
Sailors mistake my passion for rage, my laughter for thunderclaps.
They appease me by throwing everything at my feet
Just for them to live. But I have no need of drowning men
Nor of their fancy baggage. All I want is for someone
to survive my tempests.
The truth is, I am too old to be a child.
Yet I am a part of myself that remains here in the womb– an overdue embryo
making picture books out of a monochrome crayon pack.
Waiting to be born.
Wanting to be cradled. To be called by my real name.
To be here.
Just how can I give birth to myself?
My sisters have long been rubbing me to come out. It’s easy, they say.
You just have to break in. Push open the glass doors with a smooth swoosh.
See, everything is ready. Everybody is here.
The cake is sliced, candles are lit. The guests are now giggling in the dark
and your body floats ripe in a tub of cold water
All you need to do is to cut the fucking ribbon.
But my hands are jelly.
I do not know how to hold the blade with my fists
Less caesarian my way out of my body
What if I’m the one who needs to be broken?
So that I won’t be stuck here
Weaving worlds out of empty words to fill in the void of not knowing
Swimming in a dark finite ocean
Already content with the stories whispered into my ear
Three things I could still remember:
- Water breaking
- Waking up from a warm dream
- Welcome home