Riyadh is a Quiet Knife

The sun here burns without speaking. In *Sta. Magdalena, even the wind gossips, even the silence sits beside you and calls you **"padaba." But Riyadh? Riyadh listens too much. And when I speak, my voice comes out wrapped in plastic. I eat beside men with vanished names, we all have families blurred behind remittance, eyes trained not to blink at machines, hearts trained not to shatter at the sound of our children saying “Papa” from a screen. I have made peace with white tiles, hallways scrubbed of joy. The mosque’s call is the only breath that cuts through this mechanical sleep. I do not pray— I bargain with God. One more year, I say. One more ***bago umuwi. And in my bed, I curl around the ghost of my own dialect. I am learning to cry without leaving a trace on my pillow. *Sta. Magdalena, Sorsogon, Philippines **beloved ***before home, finally.