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Baka Bukas

Baka Bukas

Image by Alyssa Powell-Ascura

The mist carried with it songs of slumber.
Autumn leaves crunching under the weight of your new worries.
Desperate to seek remnants
of the homeland
in shoes you don’t fit anymore.

An old parable.
Two worlds colliding in summer.
Heatwaves calling the tropics weak.
In the horizon,
another feels the same.

You dive together,
same place, different time.
They rise to the surface and float on —
leaving you behind.

You are in the depths,
unable to articulate,
fighting the waves washing over you.

Your own critiques drown you:
“Everyone with dualities have been and are going through this.”
“No one wants to carve a space together unless the focus is always on them.”
“It is so common, beginning to dissect it is boring!”
“How many more people can pull this genre off?”

Why won’t the gatekeepers that are saying conflicted narratives
look in the mirror?
They are afraid to see
that they are who they have feared
to become.

Aren’t we worth more than…
belonging/not belonging?

Exhausted of
proving my validity.
Remembering to utter,
“Baka bukas.”
“Maybe tomorrow.”

It’s not that you don’t feel like you belong.
There are
that you want to pronounce.

“Baka bukas.”
It’s easier to muster.


Alyssa Powell-Ascura is the winner of this week’s writing competition. Enter the competition here:

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