30/02: On The Skin

You sit at the end of the bar
and tell me you just want to talk.
Tell me it's cool, all you want
is to hear my story. I tell you, sure.
There are stories I tell on my skin.
Stories I spin, lies I tell and truths
I cannot hide, all there on the skin.

Like the time I scraped
my knee on coral for want of a
closer look at an impossibly
unremarkable school of fish. Far
into the depths of bluest seas, no
boatsman would take me there,
not even the fishing boats for fear
the reef would damage the hull. I go
out of my way for the mundane like
that, I will never tell you this but if
you place your ear here, on my skin
you will quickly find out.

Like that time in the Bangkok airport when
Filipino men were flying back home from a
neutered struggle as engineers in
the Middle East. It was a scorching
summer and much skin revealed
the Spanish hues but not enough
skin for them to see my Filipina
undertones. Speaking the motherland
tongue, they made unsettling
remarks about my breasts, my
thighs and what they might do with
either. The rest of me played along
with the story of un-Filipinoness
these men had conjured with their
desirous out-of-practice eyes. I go
out of my way to protect my kind like
that, no skin off my back.

Like that time when I was six and
allergic to Philippine grasses, and
boils forming on my legs and feet
told scary stories that kept my friends
away. I built a cocoon around
me and my skin, not a cocoon
in fact, a healing fortress of bandages,
strong medicine that made me scream
and kisses to make me forget the pain.
I go out of my way to get it right, like that.
The story is written there in plain
sight, on the skin of my legs. If
you listen closely I will tell you.

Only, we both know these are
not the stories you want from
me, not this night at this bar.
Only, we both know the only
stories that will be told tonight
are yours. So I keep my sweater
buttoned up to my neck, point
to your nape and ask about
that tattoo right there, on the skin.