In Antipolo, There Are No Statistics on Suicide

I laughed when my friend told me ‘laslas’ backward is ‘salsal,’ cutting himself one way, touching himself the other. No one laughed when he was found bloodied in his room. Maybe he’s in a better place now, but I still think of you changing after you shower. You always forget to dry off the last bit of water between your thighs, and I love you anyways. Sometimes I’m just looking for evidence I’m alive. My body, for example. So I won’t ask for forgiveness if I’m always reaching for your elbow, kissing all ten of your fingertips. All that meant was I couldn’t sleep again last night. Last night, I was scared I’d die, so I dreamed I turned everything in Antipolo inside out. In my dream, the streets are fields of grass. The storefronts on their edges hold the living. My friend’s alive, right now he’s touching himself in his room. In my dream, cashews keep their seeds within them. They sleep in his soft heart.