Troy Cabida
The One Easy Guy
easy like the morning
after hard drinking, he is alien
to the spilt beer lingering in his lips.
sparking up another with fingers still wet from last night,
inebriation can do only so much
to numb the truth sobriety slaps the face,
the truth he would see at the surface
as the poison wears down,
the truth he would later forget
as the cycle begins again:
they’d come round, once again hungry for his greens,
his words say no, maybe that’s the truth,
but his lips will still follow habit and wrap another one up.
but the hungry for high won’t be round him
no more
once the green stops giving,
the rogue, used up stubs colour the earth
dead brown
and he becomes thirsty for more toiling.
and at that point
the sunlight won’t come round no more
to turn light bulbs on – it’s run out of batteries.
Drifter
A former soul mate from school looked at me twice
after finding me on the bus; she had to rub her eyes
because she couldn’t believe I really was that weirdo
she pulled everywhere in school, wearing clunky glasses, an awkward gait,
Monday bed head on a Friday.
That day she saw me clad as a canvas piece,
blank, white and black: none of the familiar things,
and in turn I saw a stranger, an unfamiliar face, a puzzle piece
trying to fit in an already finished painting.
All the rumours she heard were true, I confirm:
from leaving my party self shivering,
I choose to be sober, inhaling moonlight and silent airs,
cleansing myself from green smoke, brown liquid,
devoid of a broken heart,
to really ignoring your friend request because you’re no longer good for me.
Slowly forgetting old faces isn’t because of old scars
but in favour of space for future wounds
that’ll help me like how yours have before,
so shame on me ‘cause I’m no longer your throwaway toy? Shame on you
for thinking I’m still in high school. This is my stop, by the way
#OnBeing20
there’s something admittedly heavy
about the words we let our mouth set free, this planet’s fetishes for
keeping up with the people we love and
keeping us from the person we want to become,
but despite all the weight, my feather light soul chooses to float,
to float towards bus trips and bubble tea, away from
clock-in chains, underground hate, unrequited family dramas;
I refuse them entry to hold me down
because all I need at this point
is a Friend for every finger, good words that stick like honey
and a bright yellow citrine Sun in my palm,
radiating strength to let me do
what rises my sun in the morning
and keep my stars shining at night,
and if my lack of fucks about the gas bills
offends you so then I suggest you open the door
and let me fly bye
easy like the morning
after hard drinking, he is alien
to the spilt beer lingering in his lips.
sparking up another with fingers still wet from last night,
inebriation can do only so much
to numb the truth sobriety slaps the face,
the truth he would see at the surface
as the poison wears down,
the truth he would later forget
as the cycle begins again:
they’d come round, once again hungry for his greens,
his words say no, maybe that’s the truth,
but his lips will still follow habit and wrap another one up.
but the hungry for high won’t be round him
no more
once the green stops giving,
the rogue, used up stubs colour the earth
dead brown
and he becomes thirsty for more toiling.
and at that point
the sunlight won’t come round no more
to turn light bulbs on – it’s run out of batteries.
Drifter
A former soul mate from school looked at me twice
after finding me on the bus; she had to rub her eyes
because she couldn’t believe I really was that weirdo
she pulled everywhere in school, wearing clunky glasses, an awkward gait,
Monday bed head on a Friday.
That day she saw me clad as a canvas piece,
blank, white and black: none of the familiar things,
and in turn I saw a stranger, an unfamiliar face, a puzzle piece
trying to fit in an already finished painting.
All the rumours she heard were true, I confirm:
from leaving my party self shivering,
I choose to be sober, inhaling moonlight and silent airs,
cleansing myself from green smoke, brown liquid,
devoid of a broken heart,
to really ignoring your friend request because you’re no longer good for me.
Slowly forgetting old faces isn’t because of old scars
but in favour of space for future wounds
that’ll help me like how yours have before,
so shame on me ‘cause I’m no longer your throwaway toy? Shame on you
for thinking I’m still in high school. This is my stop, by the way
#OnBeing20
there’s something admittedly heavy
about the words we let our mouth set free, this planet’s fetishes for
keeping up with the people we love and
keeping us from the person we want to become,
but despite all the weight, my feather light soul chooses to float,
to float towards bus trips and bubble tea, away from
clock-in chains, underground hate, unrequited family dramas;
I refuse them entry to hold me down
because all I need at this point
is a Friend for every finger, good words that stick like honey
and a bright yellow citrine Sun in my palm,
radiating strength to let me do
what rises my sun in the morning
and keep my stars shining at night,
and if my lack of fucks about the gas bills
offends you so then I suggest you open the door
and let me fly bye
Troy Cabida (b. 1995) is a Filipino writer from London. His work has appeared on Thought Collection Publishing, WORK and Pinched. He’s written for Miracle, Instazine21 and has edited for Siblíní Journal, Thought Notebook, and 30 Days Dry by Eric Shoemaker. Catch him blogging at www.troycabida.wordpress.com.
