iridescence

word-day:

There are one million ways
to escape the labyrinth that is
a woman’s bedside. For instance,
if your heart is lodged
in between her ears, you must
coo until it slithers
out of her mouth. And when your arms
are tapered to the four-poster
bed, take care to nibble slowly
until the ropes give. Love likes
to linger, that you must trick it
to become fleeting.

I have hidden a halo in
the cupboard for you. Slip it on
before she can find your wedding ring. I wonder
why smaller circles are harder to hide.

Tell her a man has your heart, that her face
may turn sour, and your tryst may be
extinguished with brute force.

Tell her that the folds of her stomach
arouse you so, that she may become
too disgusted to engage in amorous activity.

Tell her that (whatever) you had—then chuckle,
and vehemently deny the affairs of last night. Break the
heart she thinks she has, that she may
send you out the door herself.

Die, die, die, my darling.
Lie, lie, lie, my darling.
Your tongue swells of business and pleasure.

likelyunlikely:

“No, that is the great fallacy—the wisdom of old men. They do not grow wise. They grow careful.”

I lay still so his words could reverberate through the room. His eloquence needed all the space it could get.

“That’s deep, deep shit, darling,” I mumble from under the covers. Only my feet are visible.
“No, it’s Hemingway.” 
I sit bolt upright. “You cheat.”
“All artists steal,” he says matter-of-factly, wrapping a towel around his waist. “It’s a cycle of ideas, revised slightly at every turn, until Point A and Point Z are two completely different things.” 
“Well, that’s not fair, because then nothing would be original.” 
For a few moments, the room is unnervingly silent, except for the riprap of his toothbrush. 

He spits.
“Nothing ever is.”

*****

For dinner, we have a mouthwatering feast of stale bread, black coffee, and three cubes of cheese. “So what’s the plan?” I ask, stretching my shirt over my knees. “We’re pushing our luck just staying here two nights.”
“My aunt would have showed up by now,” he replies distractedly. “Don’t know what’s taking her so long.” He picks up a piece of cheese, pulls up my chin with his thumb, and feeds me. 
“Either that’s good cheese gone bad, or cheese that’s so bad, it’s actually good.”
He laughs, and I’m glad, because his eyes turn up so perfectly whenever he does. 
“We’ve been cooped up for days,” I continue. “Not that I mind. But don’t you think it’s time we looked for a new hiding place?”
“No, yeah.” I’m puzzled by his response. “First thing tomorrow morning. I know a guy.”

In the afternoons, he is gone, working double shifts at the soup kitchen to support our meager lifestyle—starving artists in every sense of the word. Today I feel like painting a mural, so I spread out a loose canvas, almost covering the entirety of the floor. I line up my paint. It’s then that the mice begin to crawl out. When I’m not in the mood to talk to myself, their little squeaks alleviate the silence.

Most of the time, I hardly ever do the work.

There are, roughly, twenty of them today. Twenty little mice scurry over the canvas, submerging themselves in can after can of acrylic paint. Rolling horsehair brushes back and forth so the color drips off of them. Transforming their footprints into endless lines, curves, and shadows. At first, all I can see is a swarm, their gray bodies convulsing in a clump over the canvas, until they break away, revealing a work of art unlike anything I have ever seen. 

He doesn’t know. That since I was born, they have followed me silently, taking their place at my bedside. That on that fateful day we met at the gallery, the work I hung up was theirs, not mine. And that my abstract paintings, critically acclaimed by independent artists the city over, are really just a jumble of tail swings and head smudges by an incubi of viral plague.

He doesn’t know, and I don’t have the courage to tell him.

likelyunlikely:

“Now entering Baclaran station. Paparating na sa Baclaran station. Ingatan po ang inyong mga gamit, katulad ng cellular phones at mp3 players. Huwag sandalan ang pinto…”

I step out of the station, stopping for a moment to take in the unbearable foulness that is Baclaran. It’s ten o’clock in the evening, my breath smells of tequila, and all I can contemplate is coming home to a duvet and instant noodles. I pace myself accordingly.

Hardly anybody is out on the street anymore. The sound of my heels clicking against the ground almost seems too loud. I adjust the strap of my bag, keep my head down and continue on walking. 

The shadows from the lampposts twist and bend in front of me as I walk past. For a few moments, my gaze is affixed to the ground, watching their chemistry. Shadow after shadow after shadow.

I stop at my tracks. One of them is immobile.

Tossing my head around, I catch sight of a man leaning on one of the lampposts. Average height, maybe 20, pretty burly for a guy his age. His legs are crossed and he is staring directly at me. “You’re lonely, baby,” he mutters under his breath. 

I stand my ground, swallowing hard as he approaches. My fingers crawl into my bag, feeling for the Swiss knife I remembered I had. He snatches my wrist as if he’d read my thoughts.

“No, no toys, baby, just you and me.” He wraps a burly arm around me, his heavy breathing on my neck. I can feel his tongue running over the skin behind my ear. I’m too scared to move or speak. “Don’t be shy, now.” His other hand has found the curve of my butt. He squeezes, and all I can let out is a small squeak. 

And in a stark contrast to his smoothness, he shoves me into the ground. The tequila still swirls in my mind. I am barely conscious now. My face is almost buried against the pavement. In one swift motion, he rips off my blouse and pencil skirt. “This’ll be quick, I promise,” he says hurriedly, struggling to remove his belt.

The Late Show is on.
His weight bears heavy on my breasts.
I rush to the microwave to bring out my instant noodles.
“You like this? You like this?”
My mom calls from abroad. I twirl the phone wire around my fingers as she asks me about my new boyfriend.
He forces my hands behind my back as he enters. 
“He’s really sweet, Mom. You’ll love him.”
I lay lifeless underneath him, too drunk to scream.
“I’ll see you soon. Take care. Love you.”
Petrichor. Petrichor, swarming into my nostrils as his body pulsated above mine.
The TV glows faintly in my apartment.