Words by Naive Gascon. Illustration by Chiharu Ishibashi.
You shrank at the edge
of your bed. I prickled your head
trailed down to your spine
built a nest in your chest.
Void swells like tumors in your throat
Clogging the beam of your voice.
You tried to cough me out.
We were magnetized to the mirror.
You stared at me. I whispered
"Yes. You are."
You pushed me out in a sigh
I floated back in your inhale
cradled you in my arms.
The AC hummed a ceaseless cold.
To sleep, you curled. Wept to all gods
to be eaten by walls.
Naive Gascon is a domestic worker from Bohol, Philippines who loves to swim and write poems.
Harumaruchi is a eggshell breaker by day, cocktail heartbreaker by night who currently sips her way into solo living life in the rising sun. She just moved out from constant monsoon summer to be with her birth place. Her moniker, ”harumaruchi” is a clever wordplay of her name, combining “Maru” which means circle. Sometimes she is also known as the “monorail” that says “yes” twice. Website: be.net/harumaruchi.