Loving me will be synonymous to disaster preparedness.
The soaked tissues are left on your bed like clouds keeping rain
And when the storm hits, my hands will be a bulletin board
With push pins for teeth, placing a stop sign on my lips
When you are about to kiss me for aching.
Before going to bed, I will send you storm signals by the number of times
I do not apologize for my rock-size bitterness and landslide words.
The lump inside my throat will not be an easy hurricane to flush down empty
After we make love. I will tell you about the day I fell for a man
Who had me like first-aid, convinced that I am not loving you the way he did.
For that, I will let you carry me like an after-wedding present,
For the days I am shutting myself like metal doors and a fist.
I will let you kiss me when my eyes are closed and when you ask why
It’s because you are the only person who could understand
All of my eruptions and cracks still choosing to keep them like raindrops.
And we just lied there. Our bodies were half buried seashells and our toes filled with sand and sweat. I looked at my fingers and remembered how I left red comet trails on his atmosphere back. I’m horrible, I said. I don’t know why you’re so beautiful still, he whispered. So I tell him, it’s because you love me, even in knowing that I am not either. Even in knowing that I am both.
Confession II by Kharla M. Brillo
You should call me when you’re drunk
and i promise, i’ll stay over the phone
as you whisper alcohol air
until you’re breathing morning dust
and your mouth is sober enough
to kiss me
Confession III by Kharla M. Brillo
Everyone wants someone to turn to them and say, ‘You are disgusting, but enchanting. You are not a freak. You are a beautiful sack of shit and I will love you in spite of everything.’ Everyone wants to feel connected.
Do not try to be pretty. You weren’t meant to be pretty; you were meant to burn down the earth and graffiti the sky. Don’t let anyone ever simplify you to just “pretty.”
I add up the times I’ve fantasized about
women I’ve seen but never spoken to
and divide that by the hours
I drive past cemeteries and add again
the weight of breath in your mouth
measured in the ancient Tagalog word for yes
—but the number always comes out the same
So I subtract the moon
and the smell of incense on Good Friday
trying to connect Planck’s Constant
to the quantum moment between
a candlelit flick and the back of your neck
setting aside my 7 dreams of having sex once
with Tyra Banks who tells me God
You Filipino guys know
how to make love to a woman
and even if I tally the 10,069
channels launched by satellites
which have an asymptotic relationship
to the count of stones cast
from a sinner’s fist raised
to the power of eight million punch-clock
stiffs heading home late
still the number comes out the same
and when a beggar pirouettes
along an expressway’s center lane
swearing this won’t be his last
cigarette (smoke rising from
the rust in his moustache ) I suddenly know
the acceleration of a falling body
has little to do with slipping
a mother into the ground or
a whole greater than the sum of its parts
And if you ask what I’m doing
with 7 loaves and 4 fish multiplied
by the root of a dried tamarind tree
or the coefficient of friction
of a bullet on the brink of a rib
or the number of clips emptied
into an unarmed Guinean man
on a dark Bronx stoop I’ll tell you
I’m looking for the exact
coordinates of falling in love plus or minus
the width of a single finger
lost along the axis of your lips
Patrick Rosal, Uncommon Denominators
i know. i know. his words are sexy.
I want to be the person you’re scared to lose.
i can stay with you until you’re sober? :) thank you, dear.