Payongs made of flimsy membranes prevail
shielding from the sun’s harsh scrutiny pamaypays bloom in the pews pushing hot air fruitlessly scraggly strands of wires weave their way through haphazard buildings like a weak network of capillaries waiting to blow a fuse itchy ankles from phantom bites badger my underbelly I speak in little pops of Bisaya to stake some sort of claim an oppressive heat that rips the pores open unleashing our vices — our devils heat waves warp our morals our sense of self rippling in a mirage a 4-foot-5 Goliath whose self righteous opinions tower over you and a David who can’t see past her main character syndrome scathing words hard truths bottled up resentments suspended in thick air I am frozen in that moment caught in the crossfire I wish I could cut a hole into this moment and release the torturous pressure. But it’s futile. their pride is hot air now we’re sitting in these feelings there is no relief — no exit proving Sartre right.
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