Sana Hindi na Lang

Ako na lang, tutal, hindi rin naman siya makakapaglabas ng sama ng loob sa kahit saan. Lagi na lang niya kinikimkim.

Sana hindi na lang niya tiningnan ang profile mo. Napapaisip ako kung ano yung sinasabi mo sa kanila, pero ano bang alam namin? Kaibigan mo mga iyon. Malamang, maghahanap ka ng masasabihan. Sana gano’n din siya, ano? Sana hindi lang ako. Sana marami pa siyang masabihan. Sana may mapagsabihan din siya ng maraming tao, ’yung maraming makakaintindi.

Kaso wala, e. Alam naman niya ’yon.

’Yung trauma. Nando’n pa rin. Gabi-gabi. Iniyakan ako n’on gabi-gabi. Kahit ilang taon na ang nakalipas, pero nando’n pa rin ang takot. Isang beses? Dalawa? Tatlo? Sanay na sanay ka ngang magsinungaling sa kanya kahit sa ’yo lang siya nagsasabi ng totoo.

Ewan. Gusto ko siyang sampalin nang matauhan. Pero kahit anong sampal ko, alaws. Balik nang balik. Kaya no’ng nakahinga, nakapagsabi na siya na pipiliin muna niya ang sarili niya dahil napagtanto niyang hindi rin niya kaya dalhin ang takot na ’yon habambuhay. Nando’n ang pagmamahal, pero ang takot na baka gawin mo ulit ’yon sa kanya . . . nando’n pa rin. Hindi na naalis.

Pero ramdam naman niya. Na walang makakaintindi kung saan nanggagaling ang takot niya na ikaw rin naman ang may dahilan. Kaya tatahimik na lang siya at maniniwalang ikaw ang mas kailangan pakinggan.

Ewan. Ihihinga ko na lang ‘tong galit ko sa kanya sa katangahan niya. At ’yong galit—or more like inggit—ko sa ’yo dahil hindi tulad mo, sa akin lang siya nagsasabi. Naiipon tuloy sa ’kin. Kanya-kanya ngang advantage lang siguro ’yon.

Pareho kayong tanga. Period. Walang “mas” tanga. Pareho kayo.

Sana in ten years, kung buhay pa ako, at makakapag-backread ako ng mga blogs ko, sana di ko na matandaan kung sino ang tinutukoy ko rito. Sana okay ka na, na nakatagpo ka na ng taong mamahalin ka at di mo pagsisinungalingan—kahit ano pang dahilan. At sana, okay na rin siya, kapiling ang taong magpaparamdam sa kanya ng peace of mind.

I Can’t Think of a Proper Title Because My Feelings Came First

I wish I could tear you into pieces, allow malevolent creatures to consume your already rotten body, and still not call this a sin. But I’m only human, and to think of this is wicked and vile. I am torn whether to pray for you or not at all, but scriptures say, “Love thy enemies.”

But why can I not convince myself to pray for you? What divine intervention do I need to be able to desire your safety, even after what you’ve done?

This seething rage keeps me awake.

What bothers me is how human I am, that I cannot even permit you my forgiveness. Yet the woman you manipulated—a woman I have loved so dearly—still prays that you come clean. She never wanted anything but your happiness. And peace. So how dare you give her heartbreak and chaos in return?

I wonder if the wind carries memories.

The afternoon gust.

The line leader demands “One!” which just means we have to raise our hands forward. Then she shouts, “Two!” to put our arms down. If our class fails to do this at the same time, we won’t be able to enter our classroom.

I see my mom sewing a curtain. Or is it a table cover? And then the scenic view seen through our second-floor window captivates me.

Don’t we forget some days easily? I can’t remember what I was doing around this time yesterday, I think as I go down to follow my father’s orders to buy cola at the nearest sari-sari store. I swear to remember this day, I tell myself.

Teachers are having a meeting, so we are left with nothing to do. I grab my backpack, use it as a pillow, and then lie on the floor to take a nap.

The night breeze.

My family and I attend the last predawn mass conducted by our school. My mom takes a picture of me with my classmates.

Every girl in class curls her hair for our Greek-inspired dance. We wait for our turn. Everyone I pass by compliments me, “I didn’t know you look pretty. See what happens if you comb your hair?” I become half-flattered, half-pissed.

My best friend and I sing “Hiling” by Paramita on stage. I wonder why I feel hurt over a song that speaks about letting go when I haven’t been broken.

She goes down to her knees and begs, “Please, don’t go to Korea.” With a flat tone, I reply, “I’ll only be there for less than a month.”