I Should Really Stop Smoking, But You are Gone, So What Else Can I Do

by Abner Dormiendo

I look closely at the x-ray of my lungs and noticed how it resembles the map of Leyte. That was an excuse for leaving my body open like an unchartered country, for making it prone to colonizers. I’ve been coughing up excuses lately. And lots of blood, but there are much worse things that came out of my mouth. This poem, for example. Or when I screamed “You’re so much better than her” on some girl while I fuck her brains out in my apartment kitchen. Truth be told, I’m bad with lies, but you’re no good at keeping promises either. That means we’re quits. But I already I am a war-torn island on the ocean of my bedspread. Rain is falling hard like bombs on my roof top and I pretend your memory is a bunker. True or false: I am not waiting for you to return.