by Julio Jacinto
as a child i was afraid of a lot of things, like
monsters under my bed (i could not sleep without the lights on)
passing by the altar at night (i was petrified by the miniature statues)
turning the lights off in the sala (i'd always run after flicking the switch)
getting soap in my eyes, talking baby dolls, the sound of thunder,
razorblades, knives, needles, horror movies, and
making you angry,
when
i wore those pink socks to school, when i talked back in self-defense,
when i stayed up too late, when my eyes were too close to the screen,
when i spoke in vernacular, when i wrote with my left hand,
when i didn't lock the gate, when i did, when i didn't.
i hated how long my name was when i made you angry, each
letter, my arms stretched towards you, an offering
with eyes shut so tight the tears squeezed out, salty on
my lips as i spelled my name, my full name goddammit, each
letter, out loud, the sound of a belt buckle on flesh, sometimes
a broomstick, sometimes a hanger, sometimes your fists
i grew up with tattooed sleeves, red, sometimes purple, each
letter on my skin––i lost count, so you told me to start again, you
stupid brat, and i did, because this was punishment, this was discipline
this was
love.
About the Author
Julio Jacinto likes to read poems, fiction, and essays by Filipino writers as he aspires to someday be successful like them. His works have previously been published in Philippines Graphic, Banaag Diwa, and Dagmay Literary Journal.
