breathing

breathing

After Joshua Jennifer Espinoza’s “A Guide to Reading Trans Literature”

picture I was defenseless         right underneath of him            when he shattered the lock                so forcibly that night.

picture you were under my clothes

something in you

had been raided, stolen.                       Now picture you are… breathing.

Philippines is the phantom,

It trembles at times, too.

Rage          of an inevitable force          cracks concrete          slices lands

Island splits          islands

moved by        the gushing muddy floods        with rats’ pees        swimming cockroaches

some aboard pieces of ripped cardboard boxes        float…

pieces of papers        drowning        between these islands         before the thick humid air blew.

We felt the motion as our bodies were forcefully swayed back and forth, side to side. We felt light on our feet despite putting pressure on our bodies to try to have control over it. Keep our balance. Prevent ourselves from falling. We close our eyes. Open our eyes!

Now picture            we are            ….breathing.

I didn’t have the knowledge for my body        so I’d say I was a rag        the stain

or simply just                   something                   too alive                  …needed to die.

but I didn’t die, though sometimes I DID want to –                                        I’m one

of the unlucky ones     the chosen ones     you can feel pity about that    //     us

                                                                                                                                                                               it’s okay to feel pity

 cause I try to heal

but Dad says          if I reveal

I’ll always have to feel

(and he’s yet to know           what It is that I conceal)

so all I can do is          hint It to him through Skype          because he is in the phantom.

                           the same thing happened

                           To my half-sister I’ve never spoken to

my entire life

                                                                                                                                                                           she lives with It

                                                                                                                                                                           in Canada

                                                                                                                                                                           she was four, Dad said.

                                                                                                                                                                           He knew her It, but not my It.

                   and I’m in America                                                              though grew up round Manila

                   never have I ever       in Tagalog         spoken about         written about         It

                   cause I don’t know how

I was          seven               eight              nine               I want to say             I need to say

                                                                                                                                                                    because someone might ask

when it happened          //         when I           [she]          was in the Philippines.

we’re living and we’re really afraid            //            I’m living… and I’m afraid

we keep living despite being            //               because we are victims

but when do we become                       survivors,

if at every breath           is a recollection           a reliving           of our victimization…