Pervaded

Art by Oscar Araja

Today, an angel clipped his wings.

He refused to wear the loud

carmine-laced blouse he stole from his mother.

No more thick, caked layers of Maybelline, 

boldly neon eyeshadow, and bright red lipstick. 

He chose not to sway his hips when he walked

away from me and towards the streets of Poblacion and Makati.

No more of that pingy fagcent, 

That pink musk, that humble, humorous whimpering. 

More often than not, I mourned

at the sight of my friend who knelt for a man’s glance. 

He wilted while starving himself

of the feminine nourishment. He needed

to sit with a sublime manspread

instead of a beautiful dekwatro–

and show his firm biceps in front of the mirror,

while the mirror vomits at the site of the artificial.

Treacherous! 

What good does this philanderous economy have to offer?

When bodies are made to bend 

towards masculine eligibility.

When the trade

is desired 

only if it is packaged in muscle shirts instead of blouses,

only if his fist is closed instead of flicking his wrists gently.

Only if it is stripped of pride,

immune to prejudice, 

and dressed in the echoes of society’s standards.