Becoming

Annyka Dela Cruz likes to write.

Astrological Pleads

Astrological Pleads
Annyka Dela Cruz

“Can you believe the moon tonight?” I say, looking up at the blanket of clouds — just barely showing the full luminescent orb of the night sky. I waited for it come full circle and motioned for him to look.

When he looked, the moonlight started to illuminate the face that’s too familiar for me that my chest started to flinch; the kind of flinch when you finally realize that you’ve been in a losing game all this time.

“We should go,” his eyes detaching from the moon and the wholeness of him separating from me, completely, slowly, gradually, painfully.

He started to walk; his back towards me and I happen to squeeze out a small, quiet, “wait.”

He turned to face me, his eyes still struggling to look away. “What for?”

“Maybe, we shouldn’t take the light of the moon for granted,” I say, unaware of how irrevocably hopeless I sound. “Maybe we should wait for it to dim down, before we leave.”

He didn’t argue but quietly looked up. I wondered whether he prayed for the moon to continue its ardent radiance so we didn’t have to leave each other. I wondered if deep in the puzzles he’s keeping, there’s still a piece of me he hasn’t totally thrown away yet. I wondered if he loved me still.

I watched the moon and pleaded to the astrological forces to send me a miracle and grant the moon the brightest night it would ever illume.

But I watched the clouds cover the slowly dimming sphere and I knew I had to let go completely, slowly, gradually, painfully.

An Elegy for a Dying Heart

An Elegy for a Dying Heart
Annyka Dela Cruz

i. You will whisper his name like a half-hearted prayer, something you plead to a higher being when all hope has ebbed. You will miss the hands that resemble the shore; your fingers simulating the unflagging heed of the waves. You will miss the times you would hold hands and let go. Over and over and over —

ii. You will miss him like cigarettes. The familiar burning in your lungs, the scent of war pressed against your lips, like a battlefield squeezed between the spaces of your ribs. You will miss the feeling of danger, the rush of excitement circling the highways of your body. You will miss the adventure of being alive.

iii. You will scramble for the real meaning of a home, the moment he leaves. You will find ghosts promenading in your living room – as if to celebrate the loss of a lover. You will wonder how long you have had them for guests and wonder whether you have welcomed them at all.

iv. You will realize that the death of a tired heart is as painful as the death of the human soul.

In loving a woman like me

if you have finally decided that you truly love me
can you handle the fire burning in my chest?
or my belief of independence when I can truly manage?

will you allow me to till and enrich my own garden?
believe me, I can make flowers bloom without your help
and when in Spring, i’ll let you enjoy them with me.

will you raise your sword beside me against inequality?
join the relentless war against violence of human rights?
will you lower your pride with me and lift parallelism?

Love, there are so many things I want to tell you
but forewarning you is the best way to save our future

If you truly love me and if you truly love me enough to stay
can you handle the sleeping dragon chained within me —
Waiting for the ripest moment to clamor a centennial cry?

In loving a woman like me
Annyka Dela Cruz

Woman

Shred the memories away
like the skin you have been trying —
trying so hard to get rid of for years

When the world tells you despite every effort
that a woman fits between the words soft and timid
reply back with attires which shout brave and passionate

Woman
Annyka Dela Cruz

 

 

To the boy who forgot his jean jacket in my room

To the boy who forgot his jean jacket in my room,

Here lies the only concrete evidence that you were once here before. Sometimes, I find myself holding that piece of clothing so gently as if reckless movements may rip the memories of you away. Often times, I want it gone along with the consciousness of being constantly broken.

How could one apparel cause so much hurt? How could this ocean-colored denim remind me of all the memories in one mammoth wave? Did you do it on purpose? Did you deliberately leave your jacket to make sure I never get to build a bridge over this river of ruined aching and never move on?

What used to be a shelter of roughly patched linen now looks like the only source of anguished tears. Hands shaking, I hold the jacket closely. Maybe if I hold it longer, maybe if I hold it to a greater extent like how I should have been with you — then maybe, just maybe, I’ll get to hold and love you thereafter, for the second time.

Annyka Dela Cruz

 

 

Dream brighter

Even the sun apologizes
for looking tarnished
when placed intimately
beside you and your passion

Dream brighter than the mother of the solar system
Annyka Dela Cruz

Dispensable

You have always been forgetful. Sometimes I picture you barging in back into the house; clambering towards the bathroom, trying to grab a hold of these two things that you have unwittingly forgotten. But after a few weeks of the door being silent, I finally realize that you have no intention of coming back. Sometimes, I pray – the cold will make you wish you had your old mug back; sipping coffee from the familiar shape of ceramic and the cold touch on your lips. But I know you; you never leave something irreplaceable.
I wonder what that makes me.

Dispensable
Annyka Dela Cruz

Pour

We’re plucking each other out
until it’s finally elusive to give more
we’re watching waterfalls pour
unto each other’s flame

Pour
Annyka dela cruz

Saturday Mornings

When the moon clutches the sea
the tides are eternally elevated
but when you hold onto me
all I feel is the eagerness to fall –

Let’s drown our souls in the waters
and call the ocean our very own heaven
and when the light finally undresses the dark
let the cloudland be filled with rebounding flare

And there in the soft seeping glow,
I will find you –
your eyes reflecting what is being born

Saturday Mornings
Annyka Dela Cruz

Okay

You have handcuffed me to the dark
making me believe it was an accessory
I was lost — thinking a dark cell was home
But it’s okay now.

Missing you used to come in slow waves
but tonight I’m in the middle of the Pacific
I don’t think swimming back to shore is an option.
But I think I’m okay now.

My eyes are too tired from searching
And my fingers are too exhausted to fit them with yours
Your hands look like they’re ready to let go.
But I know in time, it will be okay.

Okay
Annyka Dela Cruz