Nonfiction / H. P. 

 

:: Versions of Truth ::

I. 

In this ver­sion, you are talk­ing to me and her at the same time. I am not the only one you’re send­ing dai­ly emails to. I am not the only one who com­mis­er­ates with you about the per­plex­i­ties of being human and a writer at the same time. But I mis­took your Face­book posts and Spo­ti­fy playlists as signs for me when they were for her. It’s hilar­i­ous. Every­one but me is crouch­ing in laugh­ter. I’m crouch­ing, too. In agony. Worst hang­over ever.

 

She’s hit­ting your arm now. She’s say­ing, between chuck­les, “That poor girl!” She’s look­ing in your eyes now. You’re look­ing in her eyes now. You’re say­ing, between chuck­les, “That poor girl!” You are tak­ing her arm now. You are mak­ing it soft. You are mak­ing it yours.

 

II.

In this ver­sion, you are talk­ing to me and try­ing, ever so slow­ly, to be my lover. In a few years. In a decade. In what­ev­er time our lives need to align like stars and plan­ets in an eclipse. You are try­ing to be my friend first, some­one I trust. You are try­ing to let me know that it’s okay to lean on you.

 

I am so close to rest­ing my head on your shoul­der. I am so close to hang­ing onto your arm for bal­ance. I am so close to inhal­ing the air you expel from your lungs. You are so close to inhal­ing the air I expel from my lungs. You are so close to leav­ing your arms open. You are so close to tip­ping your body side­ways so I can reach your shoulders.

 

III.

In this ver­sion, you are talk­ing to me like one of the orphans you vis­it on week­ends. You see me but you don’t real­ly know who I am beyond my weak­ness and my need. You only see me because of my tears. Because of the scars I thought I already cov­ered up with my tattoos.

 

My orphan­hood is not the only thing you should know about me. I am telling you I am also a capa­ble KTV singer. I am also a mod­est­ly suc­cess­ful jester. I am also a self-taught make­up artist. Tell me more about you. Tell me about your four sib­lings. Tell me how you learned to play the gui­tar. Tell me your bad jokes. Tell me your go-to karaoke song. Tell me why you love orphans.

 

IV.

In this ver­sion, you are talk­ing to me about Sartre and Beau­voir and that’s when I real­ize you’re the one I’ve been wait­ing for. You are the one I want to be my lover. You can be the sub­ject of my end­less long­ing, my best love poems, and my sap­pi­est KTV songs.

 

I have no boyfriend in this ver­sion. I have no one at home wait­ing for me. I have all the time in the world to fall in love with you. I have all the heart in the world for you to break open. I am hand­ing you a knife. I am hand­ing you a gun. I am hand­ing you a bomb. Destroy me. Please.

 

V.

In this ver­sion, you are talk­ing to me about tak­ing up Phi­los­o­phy in col­lege and there’s noth­ing more to it. You aren’t hid­ing the fact that you are a priest. You did not get ordained in 2018. You did not become the youngest priest in your province. You did not ful­fill your mother’s dreams for you.

 

You can get mar­ried in this ver­sion. You have no church wait­ing for you. You have all the time in the world to fall in love with me. You have all the heart in the world for me to break open. You are hand­ing me a knife. You are hand­ing me a gun. You are hand­ing me a bomb. I will destroy you. As gen­tly as quick­ly as hun­gri­ly as possible.

From the writer

 

:: Account ::

This essay is my attempt at pin­ning down a flur­ry of emo­tions from a recent heart­break I had. It is an uncon­ven­tion­al love sto­ry, to say the least. There are lay­ers upon lay­ers of hurt and betray­al. Essen­tial­ly, this is me telling myself mul­ti­ple ver­sions of the same sto­ry. For bet­ter or worse, I have decid­ed to share it with the rest of the world. I am not expect­ing sal­va­tion or clar­i­ty. My love has been doomed from the start. There were more ques­tions than answers from the start. But writ­ing about my grief is my way of reach­ing out to myself and say­ing, “You don’t need to drown.”

 

There is a lot of rep­e­ti­tion in this piece. I also used stream of con­scious­ness writ­ing. The goal was to be as raw and vul­ner­a­ble as pos­si­ble. This is prob­a­bly the only space in the world where these feel­ings will see the light of day. I am con­tent with that.

 

H.P. is a heart­bro­ken poet from the high­lands of the Philippines.