I am nineteen-years old when I am writing this story.
(transition: "dissolve")[[[It's one of the smallest stories I've ever known.]]]In middle school they told us a story
about a boy who took the consecrated
host (the body of Christ in unleavened
bread) and spat it out to throw it
in the garbage can. Its journey underneath
the [[bridge of his tongue]], unwrapped from
plastic and prayed to in the backroom.
It goes that the priest dug through
C2 bottles and aluminum to get the pieces,
hold them together, forgive, and
ingest in the body once more.America purveys me some promise
[[for the sun]]. It tells me a story
of the immigrant on miles,
the chafe of a woman's knuckles
on the aisles of clorox. My caretaker
is still scared of flying,
all my yayas choose the sea
and the television. America serves
me my country in bright yellow
cafes, in evaporated milk
cans, or [[with prayer]].Years after I had stopped believing,
I continued to perform the Sign of the Cross
after the consecrated host. Then:
in high school, where I had been indoctrinated
and then lost - I one day stopped walking,
nobody asked. Many times do I imagine
the holy rosary in my thumb, correcting
pronunciation, the adage of eternal
fire repeated over and over unto me.
In another at the CPA, we watch over
rows and rows of Our Father's like
forgiveness is an automatic act.
At some point religion becomes a
defense mechanism. I load myself
[[as agnostic]] -- perhaps we all are.
It's only years later did the repetition
end; and these days I recognize with
the last of my prayer and my knees on
the ground did I stop thinking
of gods and how they must.We talked on the redundancy of
prayer and the listnessness come mind.
My friends go to worship: watch
as tongues fuck the soul
of the empty. Nothing else can be
believed: they arch their back,
[[denounce evil, repeat evil]]
on this trip.
In four years of the [[transfiguration]],
I had never witnessed the body seized
in front of me. I could only hope that
god, the shepherd; counted the fleece,
waited carefully for the young men, kissed
their chests but only in public.Last Easter in America at fourteen
(back when we had all believed) I felt
my heels unearth themselves. In those
steps I wanted to fucking explode into
[[a fray of white and white]] and I couldn't
breathe as I thought about the Lord and
Obama and the cops. (Somewhere in Florida
in a suburb I can't recall) the rocks were
engraved with verses and the pews
shoulder-to-shoulder with all the men and
women that had sinned in hats and without.
My cousin came out [[as agnostic]]
and I went upstairs with her. We took our
shoes off and lined her trash can,
dreaming of tigermilk and the skin of Mary.My first hate crime they talked to me
about boys throwing acid at girls
and its now virulence to society.
"The most disgusting men use their
position to overpower women
and get what they want."
Like we can't see the mirrors left
under desks, like there are girls
who told me my arm was unshaved
before telling each other you are
not looking where you should be.Here the sun sets at eight
and does not wait for you to rise.
The prophesy goes that our men
rode into the east to find peace:
like stars or elegy. Joseph, in his
letter, did not mention anything but
the blood of the water. Or maybe
he was [[forgotten again]] when the young
were writing about the sea.Over the last iteration I drew
narratives of girls begging to be
extinguished. Prophets stood too
at the foot of the Lord. Washed
his limbs and caressed them.
I want to [[kiss the feet]] of my
enemies. Do anything to be close
and transcend when god has split
the world apart.In America I watch the day come
from the Starbucks glass and in the
Philippines I sit with tea outside
for the sunset. In both I leave
empty for repetition - my life
in death on the caricature of
a mall.Double-click this passage to edit it.Our university center reports
that only 13% of the undergraduate body
Godless is the empty church, my
parents only allowing the disappearance
in the hours I'm there. 11PM on Sunday
my latest invite, the lack of binding
of men and women for religion becomes
a lower factor.
They still sing. There's christians, a few
dozen, concentrated somewhere - linked
in [[the parts]] silence, parts disbelief.My personal belief is that religion
is for people with weak souls.
Where I see men with conviction
the premise is their heart
is filled with overt fierceness:
there is no need for a system
and collection when you are aware
that goodness is not a moral
To my children: I promise you
there is good without the fear
of hell or mercy. If biblical men
are left in the cliffs and scarred
for nothing as if souls are a replaceable
thing I want to say that a lifetime
has been granted to take and fulfill
[[deeper than one can ever know.]]Double-click this passage to edit it.Double-click this passage to edit it.
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Unlearning the book of
strumming the muscle fibers
on my legs -- playing god on floors.
Barefoot, girl walks and asks me
if I am okay. Chest half done, police
officer knocks on my door two days before
the first day of school.
Wonders if I am going to kill myself.
I am beloved,
I learn this so
in history I am native in history
my miracle is one of many. In my living
I wonder who remembers my name,
if I too - am breathing.
On this morning in haven
counting sorries and excuses
and the letters I have left or
the sound of a number, of a name
declared too far again.
I'm eating bones in my room.Double-click this passage to edit it.