My mom have always told me to chew my food well.

She said, “Close your mouth when you chew”.

“Don’t say anything before you swallow unless it’s absolutely necessary. But
even then, have the delicadeza to swallow your food before saying anything shocking”.
Now, I’ve forgotten how to chew.

As soon as the brim of spoon caresses my lips, my tongue promenades for the
food and drowns it my slaver, drowning into the depths of my throat and body. It
doesn’t wander nor does it meander. It never explored the edges of my mouth, on the
trenches of my gums, the crevices of my teeth or the cracks on my tongue.

A straight point from the outside world and unto the abyss of my flesh, awaiting
exit back to the world of forms.

Maybe that’s just how I was taught. Swallow.

I remember Cousin Jon. I was probably five, but the scene too vivid for it to be a
five year old’s memory. He caressed my plump child cheeks with his coarse fingers;
making me feel prickly instead of comfort the way my mom makes it.

He said, “Lick, don’t bite”.

“Put it in your mouth but don’t let your teeth graze it”.
Mom said never play with your food but Cousin Jon was playing with it before he
offered to put in my mouth.

“Do you want to play with it? It’s just like pumping a balloon. We’ve done that
lots, haven’t we? For your mother’s birthday eh? ”
I didn’t understand.

I didn’t bite. I didn’t lick. I tasted trauma that still lingers in my mouth up to this day.

I swallowed, hoping it would end. I didn’t like how it tangs on my tongue nor the
salty-bitterness flavor that will forever be embedded along with the tears and sweats
that dripped down my temples while waiting for salvation.

I swallowed, because Cousin Jon told me so. I put it in my mouth so he wouldn’t

tell anyone and it will all be over.

As it dribbled down my drawn-out tongue, after he ordered me to do so, I looked

everywhere except his hand and his eyes.
 The Madonna poster behind his door was tearing in its edges and sodden by the
usual damp mist in the attic. The books on the shelves could be arranged better. The
pillows were of different colors from the mattress. The folds on the bedsheets looked
such a sight, my mom would be furious if I left my bed like that. Nonetheless, the
plump auburn bear on the lower bunk of the double bed looked so cute even though
there was a hole around its tummy, I was dreading hoping I could ask to take it home.

I didn’t just brought home the bear. The tears, the disgusting liquid on my
tummy, and the sensations of his flesh in my mouth and his voice- all resonate and
echo unto my dreams, conjured up by simple statements during the day that people
would’ve otherwise would think of as normal and innocuous.

I will always try my best to chew. Even though I am disgusted by the idea of
something exploring the spaces in my mouth. But atleast, I swallow. Even then, I still
loathe every sensation from my throat down towards my reminiscences.

I apologize. I didn’t mean to bring up my trauma every time I tell my story.