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2. I Used to Smell Like the Earth When It Starts to Rain

I once believed in sad stories,
used to give them entry
to these lands, and hand them
out citizenship like a child
handing out sweets to friends.

I once believed that the smell
of fresh earth when it starts
to rain is the scent
of sadness,
and that some people
wear it as perfume,
to cover their nakedness and blank stares.

I also used to be a sad ending
that I buried, so that
I can only dig it again,
and bury, and dig it again
just to check if my corpse
already decayed
which did not, that turned me
into a hybrid zombie, that used to roam the night, discarding my
other body parts just to
show off to everyone
how tragedy could be
a saving grace.

Then I used to dig my fingers
on my scalp, and pause
whenever I bump into
a healthy body, free of
self-aware pain, paranoia
fell like dandruff
into my shoulders. I feared
the happy-go-lucky ways
of gypsies, my navel itched
at there homelessness.

I once denied myself entry
to greener pastures,
or from scenic views on balconies
for I do not know how
to cross the bridge,
the rough water below
still enchants me.

But I also used to be
an immigrant, in these lands,
eyes full of hope,
I used to sing happy verses,
meander on the grass collecting
morning dew and trace the sunshine from the clouds
to the tip of the cogon grass
above the hill, I used to scream
innocence

and until now I yearn for
the scent of the earth
during midsummer,
when the smell of blossoms linger,
my clothes covered
in dried leaves which turns
into mist, like a perfume
I could wear.