When all that’s left is my good bones, I hope my love remains in me as it would in the Global South soil—fickle in strength from all the hikes up on Mt. Kamuning for a moment in time. All my skin, sweetened as fiber for the worms and beetles by the Dangwa flower petals that have crept under my nail bed. Every bit of patience for a train, a bus, some line, a 3.3 sale, or a promise to eat in a five-star with a nice watch and a good home encroached into my marrows. That I am condemned for daring to love beyond my means, to want nice things and be hungry enough to give them. In the land that is shared, and stolen, and broken to padrinos—may this love be an artifact of something strange and ours to know in this Third World.

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I have known—for as long as I have loved—that it has never been easy. In this world—our “Third World” as I call it—we love within a framework of post-colonial thought in a globalized nation exercised in a capitalistic society.

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In other words,  “Ang hirap magmahal at ang mahal magmahal.”

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In the past year, I have seen great works that have captured this feeling of an unoriginal experience to love within economic struggle. There is so much art and words these days that are beautifully honest with love amidst economic expectations—literature, posters, stickers, slideshows, reels, and even that brat generator text. Are these conscious creations or unconscious byproducts of something greater than ourselves? Is this fascination with this depiction of love some sort of social realist reemergence, driven by Gen Z-Millenial trashposting and digital expressions?

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To enrich this question and the rest of this essay, I spoke with an artist and a poet whose works have gained traction for their insights into class struggle and consciousness in the contemporary art space.

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Bente: My Third World Romance

Somewhere in Cubao, there hangs a corkboard with a 20-peso bill that writes: “Mahal kita pero bente lang ang pera ko.” This expression is popularly engraved in an art piece called Bente by Kaye Vicente, a multimedia arts student from De La Salle Dasmariñas.

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When asked about the inspiration for Bente, Kaye recalls four things: a kwek–kwek, a graffiti, a trashpost, and an unrequited love. Bente’s muse—which, as of writing, she has never confessed to having—was her first-year crush, a boy who was in a better economic disposition than her. Around the second semester, their hangouts became more frequent as they bonded after class over kwek-kwek. One day, however, Kaye only had 20 pesos left in her wallet which was just enough for her commute home. As such, her crush offered to treat her instead.

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While love is often romanticized as transcending class, Kaye recognized the financial wedge between them. It became clear that love was not just about feelings but about what one could afford to give, underscoring a reality of the dynamics that lie within the financial status of one person to another.

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Days after, Kaye encountered a graffiti that wrote “Mahal kita pero…”  This made her look at her own situation and think, “Kung magmamahal bakit may nag-hohold back? If mahal mo, mahal mo, ‘di ba?” Further reinforcing this question, she unexpectedly encountered a Facebook meme of a child with a middle finger raised, text overlaid with, “Mahal kita pero bente lang ang pera ko.” This prompted her to open up Photoshop and create the work that featured the iconic twenty peso bill folded into a heart with the line inked on its edge.

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The meme—with its mix of humor and frustration—revealed how economic struggle has become deeply embedded in the language of modern romance. Kaye found comfort in finding a creative space in an online community that can share the class anxieties of being young and navigating relationships under financial strain.

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Bente garnered an estimated 25 thousand likes with over 3.8 million views on X. However, what is interesting about its traction was that it inspired other artists and writers to counteract with art—from reflective essays to research papers—and create threads of discourse on class consciousness in relationships.

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When asked if the political message that was amplified by her audience was intentional, Kaye admits, “[Hindi,] na-realize ko lang siya after ko ma-publish [that it] was [a] collective experience.” She further explains, “Bente pesos natitira sa wallet ko kasi ang mahal-mahal ng mga bilihin.” Nonetheless, she believes that one cannot create art without being political, and while it was unconsciously done, it was still a piece that reflected her personal insights on her class struggle.

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Moreover, as a transwoman and a creative in the Philippines, she feels that it is important that her works center on highlighting her personal experiences. “I want my experiences [to be] heard by other people so they can do something [about it]. Ayoko rino-romanticize ‘yung paghihirap ko, pero kasi wala[ng] makakaalam ng experiences kong ito kung hindi ko siya gagawan ng something,” she shares. 

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With that, Kaye appreciates that her art has amplified similar experiences. The 20-peso bill being the central subject of the piece—modest and almost insignificant, relegated to loose change—was deeply familiar to students and minimum-wage earners who are forced to navigate daily expenses with precision. As a working student herself, Kaye believed that had she used a 1000-peso bill, it would have impacted a different socioeconomic group. In part, the relatability of Bente stems from its accessibility that captures the conflict of wanting to give love while barely having enough.

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Mahal ang Magmahal

In a similar vein, Julius Cloma, who is popularly known online by his pen name Jose Pablo, broke down the cost of love in a meticulously yet endearingly arranged spreadsheet. The poem entitled mahal ang magmahal dissects then accumulates the cost of a single date, each expense tied with a criticism of common social realities.

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“When you experience the struggle sa love sa lipunan, lumalabas lang siya naturally—pilit sa sinusulat mo mismo,” Jose explains, emphasizing that these critiques are not forced but rather emerge organically from lived experiences.

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Initially, the piece was meant solely for his followers who had long awaited its release. After all, Jose first amassed a following from his previous works centered around grief, sadness, and love—feelings he felt that he could freely explore back then. Over time, his pieces evolved through different phases, with his exploration of personal themes reflecting his maturity and a deeper understanding of the political climate that shaped these emotions. That said, he finds it fascinating how his words have formed a creative community among his followers who have been following him through the years. As his work gained traction beyond his immediate audience, he found it all the more heartwarming to see more people resonating with it. “It just means may common struggle kayo as people, and you find that space to freely express that through,” he reflects.

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For Jose, love has always been economic. The only difference is that more creatives and audiences have been hardened by worsening real-world conditions—especially in a Third World country. He argues that the demand for socio-political commentary has not necessarily increased; rather, more people now have the accessibility to create. Many who struggle to articulate their experiences with love and financial hardship find an outlet in appreciating other people’s art. 

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Now, having recently entered the working class, Jose feels the weight of these struggles even more deeply with them. He emphasizes that his struggle and artistic expression are deeply intertwined: “Kung wala tayong iniisip na pulitika at ekonomiya, mas free tayong makakapag-explore ng ibang tema na hindi tinatabunan o tainted ng struggle.” He acknowledges that his works are shaped by the hardships he has experienced firsthand and recognizes that, without having felt them, his art would not hit home. 

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He adds, “Andito pa rin ako sa bilog na ‘to, at naka-expose pa rin ang mga paa ko.” His words reaffirm that love, when situated within the realities of economic hardship, naturally becomes a form of critique—one that poets like him cannot escape, opting instead to transform it into art that helps people understand their world better.

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With love, from the Third World

Kaye and Jose’s works serve lived experiences that go beyond the constraints of  frameworks and movements like social realism. Even then, both works aim to show that love can extend beyond these margins rather than merely serving as an outlet for frustration.

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Jose explains that creators hold the power to shift people’s perspectives by presenting alternative realities. With this, influencing the system is merely a bonus, as he says, “The end goal is to connect people and influence and capture their emotions totally.” Moreover, Kaye expresses, “Gusto ko talaga[ng] i-break ‘yung thinking [na kailangan ng] malaking pera to love … hindi [lang] naman kasi [rin maiwasan].”

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In truth, the current Filipino situation often feels that there’s no room for love to grow as it once did, as if a hole that never fills. Something we exert our energy into but never feels truly fulfilled given the innate nature of the object of affection. Despite this, like Kaye and Jose have expressed, we can try to give it everything and feel joy from the echo of a drop for some return of affection that makes the action worthwhile. Enough to make us laugh over our inflated homecooked meals, to smile in the middle of EDSA when the jeep does not move, or to create when money falls short and the words are easier read then spoken.

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‍For what is love in art if not the struggle persevering?

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Raine Goco is an AB Communication freshman attempting to beatify her not-so-saintly encounters in the heart of Metro Manila. She hopes to write as she thinks and as easy as she breathes, drawing everyone to the unique sensibilities of her words. Otherwise, you’ll find her lost in her digital wonderland, caught in a love-hate relationship with the Internet.