I became a sinner when I stole a chocolate bar from the supermarket.
I shared it with my cousin, who would not suspect
a seven-year-old of stashing chocolates. Unlike my mother, who kept
to herself. I was all-seeing, like God
I counted sins. I was called selfish
for learning to be her daughter. The day my parents afforded
to come home with groceries, we were lectured about gluttony
“ubos biyaya na naman kayo.” I unlearned being forgetful
through growing pains. I realized cans and instant
noodles weren’t enough, it wasn’t
any child’s fault to need and want.
At five feet and five inches tall, I learned to count grief.
It was wrong to have too many kids and expect them
not to crave sweets. How fucked it was
to bring something you never wanted to life. Back home,
it seemed easier for my father to whip belts
than let my eyebrows furrow.
I realized the first time I stole,
it was the same chocolate bar my mother used
to stash away. I carried guilt while I was being
robbed blind of a childhood. Why must I be the one to burn in hell?
I should have stolen more chocolate bars. Go back
and tell myself I’m not a thief, just seven years old.
