What I Mean to Say Is This Isn’t About Aliens
T. De Los Reyes
Back when my parents were inventing new ways to disappoint
each other across the dinner table, I was often watching
Mulder and Scully chase aliens and the idea of evidence
like any of us knew what to believe in anymore. 1993 smelled
like evaporated milk and resentment, and I was parenting myself
through long division and conspiracy theories. The poster said
I WANT TO BELIEVE but I didn’t know in what. But it had to be
something bigger than this kitchen with its flying plates. After all, a girl
can only choose one bedtime story. It was always about a feeling. Not
of little green men walking through the haze of Quezon City, but of
secrets that warm the air. How could I not believe in impossible visitors?
What I mean to say is: Of course my heart understands extraterrestrials
exist because it’s the only way to explain the absences. When I’m sat
cross-legged on the floor with the electric fan rotating slowly like
a bored god, I know the moment the TV flickers and the grain
dots Mulder’s tired jawline, I am no longer lonely. I want to believe
in something bigger than my body wedged into Catholic skirts. I want
to believe a girl can question everything. In the news an old woman
swore that the Virgin Mary showed up in the steam of the rice cooker
one afternoon in May right before the brownout. I want to believe
in the ache of wanting something that refused to explain itself, like
a beeper clipped to the hip, buzzing at the wrong times. How many
times have I watched Scully perform an autopsy while chewing on
the truth. I make meaning out of her red hair, her no-nonsense
face, her cross necklace clinging to her like a promise she can’t quite
break. If I knew how to live without myth, I would not keep a shrine
of empty Yakult bottles on my shelf. In this world, I am always Mulder,
always looking for the thing no one else will name. What wild animal
inside me puts on a blazer and asks for a seat at the table? I want to
believe in the possibility that the strangest parts of me will not be
deported from tenderness. It’s always the same story: You see
something. You say something. And then they tell you you
imagine it. See my whole life is a case file that no one is ready
to open but it’s here on the desk anyway, for your reading.
each other across the dinner table, I was often watching
Mulder and Scully chase aliens and the idea of evidence
like any of us knew what to believe in anymore. 1993 smelled
like evaporated milk and resentment, and I was parenting myself
through long division and conspiracy theories. The poster said
I WANT TO BELIEVE but I didn’t know in what. But it had to be
something bigger than this kitchen with its flying plates. After all, a girl
can only choose one bedtime story. It was always about a feeling. Not
of little green men walking through the haze of Quezon City, but of
secrets that warm the air. How could I not believe in impossible visitors?
What I mean to say is: Of course my heart understands extraterrestrials
exist because it’s the only way to explain the absences. When I’m sat
cross-legged on the floor with the electric fan rotating slowly like
a bored god, I know the moment the TV flickers and the grain
dots Mulder’s tired jawline, I am no longer lonely. I want to believe
in something bigger than my body wedged into Catholic skirts. I want
to believe a girl can question everything. In the news an old woman
swore that the Virgin Mary showed up in the steam of the rice cooker
one afternoon in May right before the brownout. I want to believe
in the ache of wanting something that refused to explain itself, like
a beeper clipped to the hip, buzzing at the wrong times. How many
times have I watched Scully perform an autopsy while chewing on
the truth. I make meaning out of her red hair, her no-nonsense
face, her cross necklace clinging to her like a promise she can’t quite
break. If I knew how to live without myth, I would not keep a shrine
of empty Yakult bottles on my shelf. In this world, I am always Mulder,
always looking for the thing no one else will name. What wild animal
inside me puts on a blazer and asks for a seat at the table? I want to
believe in the possibility that the strangest parts of me will not be
deported from tenderness. It’s always the same story: You see
something. You say something. And then they tell you you
imagine it. See my whole life is a case file that no one is ready
to open but it’s here on the desk anyway, for your reading.
T. De Los Reyes is a Filipino poet and the author of And Yet Held (Bull City Press). Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Poetry Northwest, diode, Epiphany, Waxwing, and elsewhere. A 2025 VONA Summer Fellow, she has been nominated for Best of the Net. She is the founder of Read A Little Poetry. Read more of her work at https://www.tdelosreyes.com.
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