Author: Sidney Medina

There is a wire cord holding my wrist and plugged into my ears.  I hear nothing.  The computer screen in front of me begs me not to do my work.  I am three days behind and it is 4:26.  There is no time to do it now.  So I make my way to the bathroom after deciding to waste my time for the twenty-sixth time today.  I ask the cord to let go.  She complies reluctantly.  There is a caterpillar on my left eyebrow inching its way to my ear to ask me, once again, why I can’t be selfish.  “I’m not sure.” I reply.  The caterpillar swells in my right ear and I can no longer hear my own thoughts.  “I have gout,” the caterpillar replies.  I come back to my computer and the cord returns to my wrist, gripping tighter because I’ve forgotten to plug in my ears.

The girl beside me speaks but all I hear is the boy who cried rape and a metaphor of cookies and sheep.  I’ve been told I only hear what I want to hear.  No.  I just misheard.  She spoke of sexual assault and how it never stopped.  Chocolate runs from her mouth and I rush to lick it up.  I wish to speak so freely.  The chocolate is so sweet and saturated and it burns my throat like molasses until it spills over and out from the ducts of my eyes.  I have been penetrated and re-solidified in sweet chocolate.

Gilded, one might say.  That’s what I have been living in, they say, and I agree.  From the air, all I see is gold, but it is dirty and diseased below the surface.  A pile of rotting horses have been stacked on my heart.  My heart sinks.  He is not meant to hold that weight.  My first love dove down my throat to save what survived of my heart.  He rebuilt what was lost, but he took half to where he lives in England.  “Count my toes again,” I say.  He tries to teach me how to do it myself and I only remember how for a day or two.

Three things.  I have three things in the skin pocket sewed into my back:  a phone, a candy bar, and the absence of a chain I can’t find because my roommate cleaned again.

I like clothes.  I like the comfy kind that stretch and dangle.  I drop to my knees in baggy pants and over-sized shirts.  (my first true love is baggy clothes)

I don’t like the pants that fit at the ankles.  (I never have.)  They always made me feel exposed, like not even my ankles were safe.)  Neither did I like tight shirts.  (and as I grew, I liked for them to cover to my thighs as a form of security.)

And then I became aware.  The guys in school (who never talked to me) began to talk and look (they still never approached me.)  I didn’t think anything of it.  I only ever talked to my friends (a group of 4, mostly) anyway.

Then I got to high-school.  9th grade took so much adjusting.  (I think I’m scarred from it.)  Guys noticed too much.  They said too many things.  Did too many things.  I became so paranoid.  (This is where I gained my sharp-shooting eyes.)  I never stopped walking.  (Daily procedure: keep your head down; smile if something is said, but keep walking, fast; make it to class but stay seated as much as possible)

I joined the cross-country team that year.  And choir, track, and soccer.  (I was already in band.)  Walking was HELL.  It was actual, living, breathing hell.  I couldn’t get from Point A to Point B without some boy spitting what he thought was game.  (I just wonder how any girl ever fell for them)

Soon I met a guy who did know how to charm, and yada yada yada, we got together.  Nothing changed.  One group of guys even went as far as to threaten me and my relationship.  (I didn’t tell my boyfriend because I couldn’t have him going to jail.  He was 18 and they would’ve sent him)

Track was always bad with the football boys there.  (Track boys were at least a little more respectful.)  Long story short, I got told to bend over.  (I bought more baggy pants for the next week, which are harder to run in.)  I loved to run, but it became miserably angry. (Yes, I became the angry _____girl. (no one knew what ethnicity I was.))

Soccer wasn’t too bad.  I was pretty comfortable besides the persistent flirting and commenting from Megan’s boyfriend.  (He was no good and now has another baby on the way.)

Cross-country was (for the most part) a safe place.  One guy got mighty close to me smacking the testosterone off of him.)

Oh, and those tight pants with the tight ankles, those became my regular my tenth grade year.  I succumbed to the fact that what had happened the previous year was normal.  Although, i will say that my tenth grade year was a lot better.  I had earned quite the reputation the previous year despite what I told you above.  Everyone knew not to mess with me.  (Most everyone)  That’s when I started wearing tight things and showing off more (still not too much, I wasn’t about that.) I was still the angry ___ girl.   It was all just a front though, it think.  (i’m truly not sure.  I think this attitude melded with my previous identity)  I only became tough because I had to.

Now, I’m here and I feel safe.  I show off.  (this is too safe.)  The other day, I was reminded of the real world.  I was reminded that MSA can only guarantee that safety until graduation.  (soon, this bubble should burst.)  This scares me.

Since I got to this school, I have piled myself in makeup. I think I do this (no, I know I do this) because I each time I look in the mirror, I see just a couple more flaws. (It must be because of the shock I had from all the beautiful people here. Perhaps I feel the need to catch up. (I write all of this as if I am guessing))  I don’t like the way makeup feels most times.  But I hate what looks back at me when I go to the bathroom.  ( I tend to use the big stall because I like windows).  In there, my reflection is unavoidable.

———————————————————

Usually, I don’t wake up in the morning thinking, “hey, lemme pile some dirt stuff onto my face, not just because I like how it makes my face break out, but also because it feels WONDERFUL.”

Sometimes I put just enough on in the morning, a little here and there.  Then I go and look into a mirror to fix my hair, and compulsively, I put more.

I wasn’t always like this.

At the beginning of tenth grade, I prided in using minimal makeup only on special occasions (I used to wear none. I thought I was “makeup abstinent” (I never liked how makeup looked on my peers.  I knew they didn’t need it)) .  As the year progressed, I grew a need for concealer.  I felt dead without it. (This is a sort of lost virginity, the beginning of addiction)

It continued from there.

(I don’t want to tell the whole story, or maybe there’s really no story to tell…) I think this need for a second and new face has sprouted quickly from that small seed in tenth grade.  It’s now a vine that won’t quite let me go, (I’m kicking) and I’m fighting but it keeps pulling me back.  My eyes have resorted to a daily screaming for help (eyeliner dries my eyes) because my skin is too muzzled and quiet (and dry and covered) to call out.  (my screaming eyes might also be because I’ve lost my glasses).

Sometimes i reach for things.  i reach and i reach.  And If i’m too short, i’ll stretch, i’ll climb.  The distance will grow between my feet and where i started, yet i don’t like heights.  i’m terrified.  And, no.  it’s not like i’m scared of hitting the ground, smashing myself into a million pieces.  Don’t say that, because it’s not true.  i am the one who is scared of falling, of feeling that sudden drop.  It’s easier, i think, to just climb to the ground and hit myself against it instead.  i do.

Trust me, i’d rather do this than have no grasp, no control, and nothing but friction-less air around me.  That makes me feel guilty.

I know that hitting is inevitable. So, i’ll do it myself.  Others might stare and ask if i’m okay or if i have a purpose.  Maybe they try to help.  Sometimes it offers some comfort.  But mostly, i just want to bang my head against the ground until my nose bleeds.  i want to walk around, bloody nose, raw forehead, and not be asked if i need help or if i’m ok.  Do you hear me?

i want to be outwardly bloody, but i don’t want people to see.  i want to show what a mass murder i am feeling that day, but not be questioned then or the next day.

This is the bottom.  Just please don’t feed the fish.  Because one flake turns to two and it eventually won’t be enough.  They crave flesh, ya know?  They aren’t the innocent little goldfish you see from the surface.  So, please don’t reach below into that water.  It’s acid.

One day, i will sleep here.  That will be my home.  I just hope that it doesn’t last too long.  Even I will dissipate in those waters.  Those fish are the worst, though, nibbling at you until you churn.  They only get worse if you fight.

They turn to piranhas who turn into sharks.  Please, just don’t let them get bigger.  They’ll be killer whales, surrounding me in black and white: playing with me until i am soft and peeling at the edges.  Flakes fizzing into nothing–that’s what i’ll be.

Excuse me, i’ve got to get out of here.  it’s too dark.  i’ve got to climb that ladder, but i’m afraid of reaching the top.  I fear it is too soon that i will have to come down.  i just don’t want to fall.

Take a step in my direction

come closer,

no.  really look at me.

observe my fuzzy lines and changing angles.

Notice I havent yet faded?

I’ve just switched  my colors

from a solid green to yellowed, rainbow pinstripes.

I am different;

I am changing.

Sometimes, I feel like I am not who I am supposed to be.  Not that who I am is bad.  Just that I never saw myself here, not physically, but personality-wise.

So when I think about reverting, going back to the old me or who I think I am supposed to be; I reject the idea within minutes.  First, I think, ‘What a great exterior that would be.’  Then I realize just how unhappy I would be.

So, I am accepting the changing, the shaping, the unknowing.  I’m going to tumble where the wind blows me.  I don’t want to be tied down, yet I don’t want to be lost to all.   There is a sort of balance I strive for, which, I know will take a long time to achieve.  Somehow, it’s like I won’t be happy until I can follow my heart, but I also want someone to help guide me along the way from time to time.  It’s sort of a give and take.  It just isn’t as easy as staying still and stagnant, which I can’t do.

I don’t care that it might take years; I accept the challenge.

Since I was in junior high, I wanted to become familiar with every inch of land on this earth.  I wanted to feel every ray of sun and moon, and touch every drop of ocean and sea.  I wanted a new perspective because I knew the one I had was not the only one to have, and that bothered me.  I need variety.  I need change.

Before now–today, sitting right here typing this–I had been stuck on the past.  I was stuck on everything that had ever bruised or brushed me, good or bad.

I think I am done with that.  I think that from now on I am going to try to transition into a new sight, a completely different outlook on person.  I used to see all those cheesy quotes like, “It’s not where you came from, it’s where you’re headed”.  I would look at them and think, ‘no.’  But now, I find sort of a truth in it.  It does matter where I came from, but not as much as I previously had thought.

I am headed wherever I choose.  Not one word of my past will whisper my future, because if people can change immensely, so can fate.

There’s a castle chalked with chaos

in front stands a wagon-girl

who cant control her bucking horse

he tried to kick me on my way out

‘Calm down!’ she was red-faced and flustered

then she smiled slyly at me and shouted

‘horse for sale!’  and I was pulled by my arm

my mom at my side bidding her price

she plopped me on him when we got home

where he bucked me off and proceeded to kick at me

my mother was perplexed.  she told me to mount again.

I ran.  I ran until I came here, to MSA.

But, I think I was also hiding from the Japanese

they had started chasing me on my way

and I ran up many flights of stairs to get away

I tried to hide in Mrs. Sus’ office

but it wasn’t a good place

but i found a CD in there

and I took it, too

It was a movie that I watched in my room

while the Japanese searched tirelessly

they found me when I went to put the CD back

Mrs. Sus caught me.  She discussed the movie with me

then I took off from the Japanese, eventually reaching the roof

this is where the dream ended.

should I jump?  Or should I face my enemies?

Mirage.

I’ve always had an odd relationship with my father.  He was in my life at the start of my  childhood, yet never truly there.  Whenever I would visit him in Chicago, he would leave me with drunkard Uncle Ben.  I guess this wasn’t all that bad.  It’s just that Uncle Ben always carried a terrible smell with him.  It didn’t matter how many showers he took.  As soon as he came out, he was already smelly.

Besides his constant stink, he passed gas in his sleep.  Whenever I heard him go off, I had to run hide in my father’s room.  Believe me, if we would have had gas heating, he would’ve kept the place fueled to the max.

Besides my uncle’s repelling habits,  he let me play with knives.  No, I never hurt myself, but I don’t think I would’ve allowed that if I had been in his position.  Then again I don’t think I would ever get drunk on the weekday I’m babysitting.

My dad was also pretty careless.  I remember there was an ice-cream truck that would come around the block each week.  I would run out the door and butt not-yet-calloused feet against spiky, brown, gumballs.  He wouldn’t even watch out the window to make sure I would come back alright.

When it was time to go back home, the exchange went like this:

We would load up into his shiny black Lexus, and I would sometimes burn my knee on the muffler while I was loading my stuff.  We occasionally brought my brother or picked up my dad’s friend.  I usually sat in the back because of this.  He wouldn’t usually strike a conversation with me.  Except once, he told me he didn’t like country.  So, decided to make gold my favorite color and Rihanna my favorite singer.

Instead he would talk to someone else, or he would talk on the phone.  If all else failed, he turned up the old-school rap already playing from his radio.

Somehow, we would either run late or he forgot to feed me before we left.  I threw up in his car.  He was so mad at me.  His car was his baby, and I had just violated her.  Whoops, guess he should’ve fed me.

We made it to the airport eventually.  I always struggled with getting my suitcase out.  So, he would jerk it out, slamming it on to the ground before me.   There would be a “Common,” and I would obey.

Imagine it.  A small girl tugging her luggage a few feet behind her oblivious father.  He never really did look back.  He did manage to ask to lead me to the gate.  That was only because I wasn’t old enough to find my way.

Then we would reach the gate, he would say goodbye, and I would board.  Mid-flight the air-flight attendant would always notice my young age.  She would ask me where my parent(s) was.  I would say that I’m flying by myself.  She would say that he’s not supposed to do that.   I would shrug.  She would respond with, “he must not have wanted to pay the fee.”  Then for a moment I sat and thought about how much I wish he would have just payed the extra money so I wouldn’t have to go through this exact conversation every time.

Then there was the four years that he disappeared.  I found out he had a girlfriend named Yolanda that he had replaced me with.   My first thought was, “So, this is what being left for another woman is like.”  I hate the name Yolanda now.

He was even colder than I remembered for a couple years after that.  I was growing up.  I began dreaming, planning my future.  He shot that down.

Then I got accepted into an art school.  He hurled insults at me until his birthday came, and I refused to talk to him.  Three days later, my mom forced me to call him.

Now he tries more, but the relationship is still odd.  He seems to try.  Although, it’s the little things that I catch onto.

He’s still so distant.  I’m still a few steps behind.  I’m still tugging my luggage.  This time though, I’m the one telling myself that he shouldn’t do that.