An Unsteady Lit Candle

By Alessandra Angela C. Gomez

Ithought I was ready for this. I once knew that a candle’s fire can melt its body, but people around me caused mine to, faster than a dying matchstick. They light up so brightly while I burn and fluctuate at the comparison of my capabilities, not realizing I have put myself too close to their flame.

I thought it would strengthen the intensity of mine, but I returned to the corners of my home with empty fuel at hand. It seems that I have not carried my own matches lately, only brought to be rekindled by the fire of another.

“She isn’t so aggressive.” The voice of a person from my block was suddenly the only thing I could hear. I recalled letting her friend take the topic I wanted to work on, having me settled for what was left.

“Cyne, what chapter are you in right now?

I was hoping we could review.” My friend, Finn, cut off my thoughts. “Uhm… I haven’t started yet.” I saw the disappointment painted in his face. Our classes then went by, one with a heated debate on the climate of the economy.

Hands were raised and words were confidently voiced. My eyes glued on Finn who shared a captivating point, wishing that I had expressed the same when I was called.

“Great job, everyone, I expected nothing less from a leading section.” Our professor said and bid goodbye for the day. Pain slowly crawled over me, much of the competition’s wind sought to blow what’s left of my flame, until light was no longer needed for it seemed enough that the others had adequate radiance.

I flipped the pages of my readings for the week, the clock in my room ticking along with my progress. Hours flew, my head dropped slightly from the depleting support of my arm. I rubbed my eyes from drowsiness and decided to clear papers that landed on the floor.

I then sighed in frustration as separate colored sheets slid off of the folder I held. My eyes darted at its big bold letters, loudly craving for my attention. I didn’t think I needed to hear it as though my life depended on it, but it wrote the girl I envisioned prior to this semester. It was words that gave me a reason as to why I woke up to the dawn of the day.

How disappointingly easy it was, to be drawn to the presence of others and their game, to put myself out from the light I was trying to give off.

I was reminded of what I had to meet, that I once believed in a capacity that I could build, and that I was meant to be where I am.

I then left for school the next day, competing with no one but myself. “Cyne!” Finn called my attention by the entrance. Some of my matches may have bent and been broken, but a flame unfazed becomes lit in the next strike.

ANG BOLPEN/P3

Puno raw ng armas at bomba ang aking kwarto!

‘Yun ang kwento kung bakit sa pagsulat ako’y nagpahimakas Isang taon na rin pala ang lumipas?

Ngunit ang delubyong ‘yon sa’king isip ay ‘di pa rin kumukupas.

Sa poot na nararamdaman ko’y tila mababali ko na itong bakal na rehas; Ngunit, kailangan kong magpalakas, ‘Pagkat may laban pang kahaharapin sa mga susunod na bukas.

Ang mga ganitong pangyayari nawa’y magsilbing pag-asa, Wala dapat maging puwang ang takot sa’ting mga peryodista, kahit tanggalan pa nila ng tinta, itong aking bolpen na pula.

Just Butterflies Being Silly

By Mat Jefferson T. Ritcher

Perhaps love is told only in folklore, a bedtime story my mother loved alternating with lullabies when her voice turns cloyed. It exists merely in between the pages of antiquated books. How could the zoo envy my stomach when I sew my mouth at the sight of a hatching cocoon?

The collapsing of my rib cage at half noon, mourning, is neither admiration, I must’ve just forgotten to chew the stale bread properly. But maybe, my stomach could be a warm place for these cocoons to hatch.

What is this? What drum roll do I hear in my belly? I mistook her eyes as paint residue in brushes and unconsciously cited her name whilst kneeling on the altar. My cheeks seemed dipped in cranberry juice; palms have turned to waterfall streams, teasing my fingertips to crawl gently on her scalp.

I, too, would love to tell mankind about this folklore. I knew love exists when my stomach envied the entire zoo. Like a jealous deity demanding butterflies to make my throat their pathway to home. I would gulp a gallon of brewed tea just so it could soothe the itch and mimic their habitat.

My palms ceased sweating when I intertwined my fingers with hers; her lips, the ripe mangoes I savor with salt. What sport must cupid have played that I slowly began feeling my spine mend? I removed the hollow blocks I cemented piece by piece, delicately, like washing antiquated plates.

The light that passes through my tavern wasn’t blinding; for once I did not fear a visitor reclining her back to my cement; for once I didn’t mind it collapsing. But the butterflies I whispered could merely be passersby, deeming my body as a tourist spot. This is a garden that’s yet to turn into an arctic forest, but I grew succulent plants nonetheless.

Even rubbed my palms together, breathed at them heavily to warm my skin they mistook as silk pillowcases. Perhaps this way, they won’t consider migrating. The candles that I lit to dispel the pests started weakening; the blaze became a dying matchstick, gasping for the smoke of another.

I flickered matchboxes amid rainstorms, hands cupped, trying to shield them from the mist, but the cold breeze hampered their flutter.

The wings, no longer crisp. They crawled out of my stomach, weighed down by drench; they will suffocate if I keep my mouth stitched. Their wings will begin cutting through my tendons, and never have I been so terrified of blood.

The paint residue on her eyes turned transparent, perhaps this is what the folklore warned the storytellers about—the aching may bleed ink from the body but the wound that cut deep, no matter the stitches, will never seal; every visit of winter will remind me of flutters that strayed away, incapable of thawing.

Perhaps this, too, is a myth; nothing will mend as winter continues to visit. The wound might harden and leave in time as if plastic balloons drifting on thin air, but the arrow that struck through my spine will never cease. The remnants of the butterflies’ pollen and chipped wings, will remain to reside in my belly, a home-turnedgraveyard.

I could poke the walls of my throat to vomit what I once loved digesting, but nothing can mend the cuts; fret not, or fret fully, their new habitat is poetry.