Troy Cabida


Yolanda Moon plays again

There is this certain lightness in my chest,
bright and airy,
the black obsidian anvil’s been tweezed out of me
through a small hole punched through my chest,
just a few inches next to my heart.

The skid marks are still there
but the feeling’s almost gone; I’m lying.
It faded out an hour after the hit.

Maybe it’s the surge of Christmas (Autumn leaves
are always my favourite time of the year.)?
Or it could be the Seasonal Affective Disorder high
that drowned down the pain? Or the sudden rush of work? I kind of have three
part-time jobs now, after all.

Yolanda Moon plays again,
and finally it becomes clearer:

I was meant to be in love with you
but my heart’s been through too much;
the metal armour sculpted around it
managed to deflect almost all
of the doves and the hearts
the sparkle in the eyes and the laughter
the slow motion movements
and the opening of your soul to mine.

None of that pierced an open wound in me,

only your lone love song playing over and over
and over again, nestled where the anvil used to be.




Troy Cabida (b. 1995) is a Filipino writer from London. His work has appeared on WORK, Pinched and We Are A Website. He’s written for Miracle, Instazine21 and has edited for Siblíní Journal and Thought Notebook. He blogs at

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