by Rommuel Jayson Veduya


The thought of life dripping in crimson,
Drying out its vessel of pale and barren;
Leaving blood-stained bamboo slats
and red-splashed linoleum floors
Is slowly killing me with invisible shards
Of panic and trepidation.

Stomach starts to turn
Into chaos, my eyes blur
at the flashes of red, digesting
my own flesh, flooding
my every access to sanity, I seek
for a remedy that stops the bleeding.
There’s no antiseptic for this kind of wound,
No amount of revisionism could
Alter what is already inflicted, growing
Infection from microscopic angst, feeding
from my consciousness ’til I resist
its psychological invasion.

As I wait for the wounds to clot,
I pray for all the deranged souls to see,
Hemophobia, beyond the blinding red,
Beneath the viscous outflow of veins,
Is the fear of the damaging, the abusive,
The one that should never be forgotten.


It’s uncomfortable—
Dealing with so much people, trying
to look through their gaze, failing
to do it in million ways.

It’s exhausting—
Having so much people dealing, trying
to construct words for conversations
and uttering just a soft giggle in every questions.

Social interactions are suffocating,
It is diving into a stagnant creek, headfirst—drowned
from the anxiety and sting
Of a scene where everything is rehearsed.

Introspection and Virus

Is it the virus?
Bringing tightness to my throat,
Clogging every airways, curious
Of the things it can

Is it the virus?
Keeping me awake, showing
me scenes of desperation, I refuse
To believe in miracles, cause I can’t be kept from

Take me somewhere except here.
Where my hands can still write rhymes;
my senses are still out of fear; envision
my mind in a series
of lifetimes

If it’s the virus
Sending me out of air, gasping,
Rummaging for remnants and clues, I hope
to last beyond
of what I can’t bear

Spare me from the coming night,
let my soul wander past these lurking crows.
Help me traverse the horrors at sight, guiding
me through the endless