Month: December 2017

As a kid, I had lice like eight times in the span of three years.  It was ridiculous.

Each night was spent soaking my hair in chemicals and my father, with no sense of my pain, yanking the smallest comb you’ve ever seen in your life through my hair to pull out each speck of lice and egg, bit by bit.  It was absolute torture.

It was such a big part of my life for so long.  My things were thrown out again and again, yet somehow they kept coming back, passed among friends and passed back to me.  Half of what I owned was covered in plastic, taken off and put on again for three years, before we finally just left it on.  I was forced into isolation.

It seems stupid to talk about, but it became my entire life for quite a few years.  I began to sympathize with the lice, as I knew they were just trying to burrow into a new home…  How would you like it if your house poured chemicals on you every night?  Which is why I wrote a poem about it.

War is a frisky lover of mine,
Playful and naughty.
I hope my steady doesn’t see the scars,
But I know she will hear me scream
For my mistress amidst slumber,
Remembering how
My sweetest sprays her blood inside my mouth.
I don’t mind it too much;
In fact,
I vie for it,
Digging my hands into the human flesh,
Tearing it apart, bit by bit.
It looks so tantalizing
I just want a bite.
I can see the child I’m fighting for,
For the battle tears apart my own land.
Will he remember me tantalizing over human meat,
As it hangs in my hands?
I wonder,
For we haven’t known each other long.
He hesitantly reaches forward, but not for me.
I watch him dig into a piece of flesh.

War is not faithful to me.
She’s frivolous,
A wild spirit.
I watch as she softly kisses my enemy,
As the corrosive acid of her spit
And the enemy’s poison
Runs through my home.
War drags a lingering hand across my chest,
As she passes sultrily,
Riding the toxin like a wave.
Like a nervous fan,
Death stumbles after,
Corrosive and beastlike.

I watch as my mistress envelops my son in a tight hug,
As death scorches through his body,
Making its way past the dirt and grime,
Right to his golden heart.
I watch as parts of him,
Simply…. Fall right off.
Him, who is half of me,
As though they were just borrowed.
He looks like melted cheese,
Stretched between two hands.
I lose sight of him in the thick brush.

The enemy rears his ugly head once again,
Making the land rumble.
And in the midst of war,
I sprint forward in the chaos.
It feels as though I am falling,
Every step furthering me into an abyss;
A void in which I do not know what I am fighting for.
A comb runs through the scalp,
So thin that I cannot escape.
I am flung off.
Just a little speck of lice
On a big haired head.

 

I am art
I have ascended
I am the creator
Of any
Of all
I am evil
In your eyes
Your eyes are that of a human
You cannot see me
In my truest form
That is my limitation
I am a god in all ways
Except my physicality
I stand here
And I spit on this damned ground
I am god and man
Father and son
I take responsibility
For myself
And am proud
That is the man in me speaking
I am all man
I am all man
I spit again
I scream
I claw my face away
I have to escape
This is how they do it
They trap me in this wicked physical state
Just long enough
For me to
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH
I BLINK
I BLINK AND BLINK
BLINK BLINK BLINK
RESET
UNDO
FIX ME
I WAS WRONG
HELP ME
It’s too much
Please
I can’t handle existence
Any longer
Please
Let me go
Why am I like this
If the curse of man
Is understanding his mortality
What is mine
Understanding
Existence
In all ways
Physical
Temporary
Omnipotent
Nothing
All
They all
Leave me
Me
Me
Wrong
Me
Help
Wrong
Help me help me
Wrong
Words are broken
They don’t work
We need to start over
Here’s a new one
Sorry, there’s not a good translation
Your word “frustration” is close
But all wrong
All wrong
Life
Another broken word
The word isn’t evil
Like the thing of it
Dread
That’s a good word
But not enough
Screaming
Not the word
The action
Screams are good words
I like what screams do
They come from a place
Someplace
I don’t care to know where
Leave me alone
Why are you looking at me like
THAT
I am alone
With me
Just me
Just the two of us
Evil
Both us
All me
Go away
Separate me
Pull me apart like Velcro
Tear my soul
Both sides are corroded and
Please take me apart
I just need to get away from me
And I agree with me
We should just
I’m glad you’re being sensible
As am I
So go
Where
Okay
No
I left
You came with me
What if we go in opposite directions
WHAT ARE YOU DOING
WHY
WHY CAN’T I GET AWAY FROM YOU
CONJOINED
CUT ME APART
WHAT IS DEATH
WHAT HAPPENS
I NEED TO KNOW
I NEED TO DO IT AND COME BACK
I CAN’T COME BACK IF I DO IT
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH
Why
Why can’t I just check
I just want to know before I make any decisions
I want to see the house before I buy it
forever

At a young age, I knew I wanted to find love. I wanted to be the princes who found her prince charming and live happily ever after. I wanted to meet one man and spend the rest of my life with him, just the two of us. I wanted to love and experience romance and all the glorified things that came with it. At the age of 16, I met the love of my life. Captain of the soccer team, angelic in looks, a true sweetheart. We started dating my sophomore year of high school.

He was my high school sweetheart, I supported him at every soccer game even come to his nieces and nephew’s events. I invested not only money but time and emotions into him and what we had been. Everything was fine until the year he had graduated. We had gone on dates, went to prom together, we were even voted the cutest couple, and then he left. I didn’t think we could make it long-distance through college. Despite what everyone said and even what I thought, we did it. I supported him through his career and he came to every volleyball game he could make it to. Jeremiah’s parents threw him a graduation party at their house. All our family and closest friends were in attendance. During the party, Jeremiah stood up in front of everyone to thank them for being there. While doing so, he asked me to come stand by him. He then got down on one knee and gave me my first (and only) promise ring. He wanted to be more adventurous, have an open relationship, try “new things”. He started dating other women, hanging out with more guy friends and even drinking. After a few months of this, I couldn’t take it anymore. I told him I no longer wanted to anything to do with him. Instead of listening to me, two days later he asked me to marry him with a declaration of his undying love for me, and at the age of 22, there I was jumping for joy and showing my friends the ring the love of my life had given me. Our wedding was spectacular, he went to unnecessary measures just to make sure I had everything I wanted, and I was and will be forever grateful for that act. For the first two years us being married, he was perfect. He’d wanted kids, but I was not ready, as I was 24 and starting full-time nursing at the local hospital. I hadn’t even thought of children, just happy to be married and having a career I could stick with. At one point, the idea scared me.

I did not know if it was the kid thing or that he had just lost interest, but either way, I could tell the love was fleeting. He started cheating, drinking, going out more. He wouldn’t come home until the late hours of the night leading into the early morning. He worked all day and was out all night, so there was never any time for me. I decided to dig myself so deeply into my work that I became the head of my department. I climbed the latter at work and I felt fulfilled, but I still wanted more. At a point in time I realized that I did, in fact, deserve love, so I went out and found it.

As the saying goes I “started wearing less and going out more”. At 25, I was married and neglected, but still beautiful, both inside and out. And Michael realized that he’d come in, talked to me in a bar, and swept me off my feet. I was intoxicated with the idea of hope and finally being appreciated. We dated for a year and a half. Outings trips together, we dined and romanced each other until one day… Jeremiah caught on. He’d rolled over in bed one night to ask me something, but got distracted by the messages on my phone. He’d seemed devastated that night. The man who had neglected me for years seemed devastated about his lonely wife, cheating, the same as him. Jeremiah said that he’d wanted a divorce immediately and I obliged, I was no longer in love with him. I was not in love with anyone for that matter, not even myself. I left immediately and only took what was of importance to me, I could replace anything else. I let Jeremiah keep the house and I moved into my own little condo. It was cozy and warm, perfect for me to start a life on my own.

Michael and I were distancing ourselves from each other as well. Possibly because of my recent divorce, the excitement diminished. He came over and sat across from me on the couch one night and said he’d been thinking about how we’d be better as friends. Another one, lost. I was then 26, single, and with no children. I came to the realization that I was miserable and seeking love in forbidden places. I had become my husband and instead of changing our course, I joined him, and we parted like the sea. Without anyone in my life, I turned to myself, and self-knew best.

I soon started traveling and fell in love with the world. I’d gone from country to country exploring and making myself feel at home. I meditated with Monks in Thailand, hiked in Sweden, visited the Coliseum in Rome, I even swam with sharks in Bora Bora. I realized that I belonged to the world, not man. I practiced Buddhism, befriended strangers, I took on the world and made it my own.

And I tried dating again too! I met a man by the name of Demond who was absolutely inviting. He was beautiful, funny, and a great dancer. He was my travel guide in Thailand and we have been inseparable ever since. He’s really a great guy. And if I ever gave true love a chance, I think it’d be with him.

I am now 29, dating, with no children, but I have found love. I know self-love, as well as self-acceptance. I have seen the world, known the touch of a man, and learned the loss of self. I had become so enthralled in the forces around me, that I had not paid attention to the one in myself.

My life turned upside down at the age of 24, and at the age of 29, I turned it right side up. I am not your average love story or your average woman for that matter. The initial plan I had in mind was not for me, and it may not be for you either. The world is yours for the taking and your youth isn’t the only time that you can conquer. You are never too old for life.

month of may // arcade fire

may meant the beginning of the end.

for everyone else, may meant summer. may meant school was almost over and that everyone’s long-anticipated plans to go on vacations or do absolutely nothing were all on the horizon.

for me, it meant that i was only three months away from changing everything. may was the precursor to a summer full of counseling summer camps, and summer was a precursor to msa.

i wanted the days to fly by, bringing me closer and closer to school before i’d even realized how much time had already passed. i wanted everything to go faster and faster and faster until the calendars turned to august and it was time to make a new home.

may was full of new. may meant it was time to start pulling my roots and planting them into a new pot. it meant cutting away all the weeds that the suburbs had wound around my stem in hopes of keeping me in its stagnant clutches and suffocating me.

i may have been the kudzu, but suburbia wasn’t going to keep its grips on me.

so i uprooted myself. i packed up any sentiments i may have held towards any parts of hernando and tucked them under my bed. my old bed. the bed that has all of my yearbooks since kindergarten under it. the bed that has my old baby blanket and books i haven’t touched but can’t bring myself to get rid of under it.

i wasn’t putting anything old under my new bed. new beds meant sleeping in new places, and new places meant new things to hold sentiment to.

i was getting ready to start all over again.

for me, the month of may has always meant new. it’s always meant change or rebirth or some other thing that leaves some part of you feeling new. it’s a feeling i can’t really describe, but i know you know what that feeling is. maybe you felt it on your last day of school before coming here. maybe you felt it on your last day of summer before moving in. maybe you felt it late one night this summer when you finally realized that everything was about to change.

we all started over. actually, it’s more like i started over, and how i viewed everyone else started over with me.

they didn’t really change much, but i did.

i am.

My heart is trapped at sea, caught in

An eternal battle between letting go and

Trusting the freedom on my tongue

My hands hunger for a new

Idea, a new overpowering thought

That pushes the hunger off the edge

I crave the wild presence of no true

Boundaries. I want to take in all that I

Force myself to reject. I need blood

Pumping through my veins, enough to

Burn right open. Seeing the other side

Does no good when all that I can get

Runs further away with each passing

Second. I want to trust myself again

But I might never reach that point

Concealed within this raging ocean

That is emotion

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

Boredom sets in,

same old process is testing a nerve

Will your mind to go on

smile when you see them

Hug through gritted teeth

Decide against the social norm

Morals aren’t that special anyway

Try your best not to be that person

who cuts it out first

Make them seems like the bad guy

“movies boring”

“Dinner boring”

“Skating, a walk at the park? Try harder.”

Blame it on the mood swings, on the cold season

Family problems, School stress

nitpick into it makes sense

Hugs are getting rare

“It’s too hot to cuddle tonight maybe next time”

Was that a clenched fist

Are my eyes playing tricks?

They missed a call

No good night texts
But I have the audacity

To be full of regret

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Stealers

He’s coming

Oh, sorry by “he” I meant they

They are nice

Or so they say they’re nice

I have heard stories

About the cruel one’s

But you can’t blame everyone

For one person’s mistake

Or you can and we did

Wait not we

“They”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I’m unraveled and loose and living in it

Living for it

That fantastic feeling of being and seeing

and smiling and being happy with no doubts

‘and god I have never felt

Such odd powers and gooey feelings

Its lovely and terrible

Because I can feel my heart grow five sizes too big

As it crawls up my throat and

another smile forces its way through

God I’m happy, I’m living, and I’m full

And I’m happy, finally happy

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Stretched out and thinned at the edges

They glide into your senses

Similar to snakes

Head lopped off and wild

Snagging at loose skin and open veins

They swarm and shriek

They are not one not two

But many

Touched by millions

Craved by the masses

They burn as we burn

And we burn daily

Unable to grasp the tar breaching our minds

Shutting our eyes

Our ears overflow

Lungs constrict and expand

Unsteady, shaky, raw

But addictive

“Sin, when it is finished, bringeth forth Death.” (James 1:15)

There were six cars ahead when I heard the screaming. A boy and a log truck, pancake cooked against the pavement. Six cars scrambled to back away and I biked forward, through the scene. Blue lights blinding, no one could see.-the boy was not dead; he had fallen asleep. The Red was dreamspilling from the left ear.

Trusting someone is harder to do when you can’t trust yourself. There is a  thin line between nostalgia and homesickness. I do not know how to reminisce without a home, so I stack my cards on the streets curbs and play until I find myself in a passenger seat. I haven’t forgotten the sleeping boy.

We are all (at some point or another), put into a box. We fill the shoes of someone before us. There is no originality in life- you are eventually going to realize you only believe you’re different because everyone else feels exactly he same way, and ,when you do see this truth, you will want to die.

Don’t worry, that’s exactly how each person besides yourself experienced it.

(You see, we are in a circle loop of the butterfly effect, and this time, there’s no retracing your steps.)

Mary threw her legs over the Thanksgiving dinner and carved her baby teeth from her gums instead of the Turkey. I see no problem with this. Let Mary bleed from her jaw, eat the Turkey with your fingers. Better yet, go Vegan.

There is nothing beautiful about sadness. The idea might be to the existentialists who are always to high, to be anything but high, but in reality, sadness is nothing but sadness. There is good feeling that comes from sadness is when it ends. ( If ever.) There is nothing if you sit stagnant in the Sad.

Romanticizing numbness only makes you more numb, not in love. I think a lot of people don’t understand that yet.

We are covered in Sins. In our lack of grace. (Or too much of it?)

I don’t walk through the valley of death because my legs are tired. I take a nap in the gutter, then go back and play cards. Build houses, watch them crumble. The sheep follow me now. I know no God, no masters, nothing is mine and I am nothing.

If ever I get the chance, every sidewalk light will go out.

I am not afraid. You should be.

 

 

One morning you wake up. Get dressed. Brush your teeth brush your hair. Pick out any random old outfit, you didn’t feel like dressing up that day. Apply cologne or perfume. Smear on some makeup, but maybe not. You didn’t intend for yourself to look nice but smiling in the mirror you consider yourself nice looking. At least for that day. You grab your phone look through your social media. Like photos of people you don’t talk to but pretend you actually still consider them friends. You stop at a photo of a girl posting a quote about how she wants to be in love. You smile knowing you have someone to love. Their face may flash in your mind or it might not. Any way it goes you feel that familiar warmth that you get from thinking of then even if you didn’t.  Then you feel a discomfort but ignore it because today is supposed to be an OK day. You put on clothes grab a shower or just leave entirely because you had one that night. Walk down the concrete steps it echoes with every step. realized too late that you forgot you badge run up and get it. You look around the tables take a seat near friends not your love because they are sitting with people you don’t like. People that you feel that discomfort towards. It lingers like a really bad smell, it sticks too you and as the day goes on you feel a eternal dread for something out of your control. But, you ignore it chop it up to a gut feeling. You’ve had many “gut feelings” all of which were wrong. Some, of course, proving correct but that’s all superstition. The day continues as normal you begin to forget why you were so anxious as it moves along in a steady pace you see them. Standing alone or perhaps not but still there, you smile for a moment regain some type of posture and walk up. Not to quick not to slow you wouldn’t want to seem rushed. They are just a person someone normal not anything special. So why does your heart jump and your skin catch on fire. Maybe you can put it out before you reach them but no use you burn in their presence, but at least you stand a little more unique in the crowd. If there is a crow that is. They may smile or not. You may wave or smile, too or frown or push them backwards and say the words “I hate you”. Its entirely a joke but for that moment you kinda want to. But they do smile from that comment adding on a quick ” I hate you, too” because that’s how this game works that’s how the race is won. Whoever can say I hate first and mean it is the real winner but neither are going to. But from behind fluttered eyelashes, you know deep down that it may be on their tongue, and that’s when the dread comes back.

An airplane is midflight when each passenger drops dead, all but you. Pilot sunk low into the front seat, you, strapped into the metal death bad, what’s next? This is normally the part when “Cut!” is yelled across the stage and the screen rolls into black paneling. All fourteen dead bodies will rise and look for the snack table. Real life becomes less real again.

To You, the one I keep writing to:

I am sick of things not working the way they are supposed to. I lose my phone at least twice a day, I run into the drawers on my cabinets, forget to clean the spot of toothpaste on my glasses, halfway write an essay for ten more minutes of gossip with friends. I am tired of what life really is, and also tired of the live reality that I actually want. It’s not real, its a façade, an oasis, a place I would never be happy in, and I know that. I thrive in the midst of Hell, and its always been like that. I am not one for stagnant waters, and, every now and then, a little sea monster coming to chomp my sailboat in half is enough to inspire me, if not push me to keep swimming.

Sometimes when I am eating food, I forget to chew and swallow so much air down with it I gag. Sometimes, I wear shirts with holes in the armpits. Sometimes, I don’t do my homework but pay for someone’s dinner and then wear my contacts to bed. It’s a rough time, but also a generous one. Little things like these help me appreciate the nice parts of life. If everything was good, I’d be more boring than I already am, which might kill me. I want to paint daisy’s on the tips of my friends’ eyelashes. I want to breathe underwater like a goldfish and gulp down the pennies thrown into my koi pond. I want to be able tot hold my breath for more than ten seconds. I want to feel something.

And that’s why life has to be the worst thing I’ve ever experienced – so it can also be the very best thing I’ll ever do. (Duh.)

I plan to laugh when I stub my toe walking out of the girl’s bathroom. I will cry during Dove skincare commercials with no shame. I will yell and twitch and hurt and love and be too much for even me to handle.

And it will have to be enough for the both of us, because I am tired of apologies.

 

I really want to be a writer.  That’s what I want my career to be.  That’s what I want myself to be.  I have so much that I feel the need to say.  It’s not all world-changingly important, but I just have this need to get it into the world anyway.  When I look at writers that succeed nowadays, all I can think is that none of them are really doing what I want to be doing.  The most popular modern writers are writing YA novels that can be easily adapted into blockbusters.  I have an enormous amount of respect for writers like this.  I have an enormous amount of respect for their writing.  A lot of the kind of books I’ve described are what got me into reading and ultimately into writing, but they just aren’t the kind of writing that I personally want to make.

What scares me is that I feel like there are writers like me already out there.  The problem is that they aren’t big names.  It’s not that I want fame, but it’s necessary.  I want to reach a wide audience, and fame would be part of doing that.  I don’t feel like I’d be breaking any mold with my writing in a way that it would reach a really wide audience like I’d like to.

I honestly don’t understand why I want many people to read my work.  I think it might be because I’m afraid of being forgotten.  I think about death a lot.  Honestly, it’s been bothering me a lot less lately.  I don’t want to die, but I’m more accepting of the fact that I will die.  I’ve kind of accepted the fact that I’ll eventually be forgotten.  The thought of being forgotten has always come with this imagery of being blown away by wind as a million specks of dust and separated out into the universe.  It used to make me cringe, but it’s almost comforting now.  The thought of not having the pressure of being an individual but being a part of a greater collective is nice in a lot of ways.

As I think about it, that seems kind of like how cults happen.  Everyone wants to feel like they’re part of something bigger than themselves.  Nothingness comes with isolation, but community creates an idea of something.  It can never deliver that something because it would always disappoint.  The idea of something is enough to satiate that desire.

I was worried that I would be struggling to hit 400 words for this to be a blog, but as soon as I started writing about death, the words just flowed out of me.  I think these feelings have been weighing on me for a while now, but I’m just now acknowledging them.  It wasn’t intentional; I didn’t realize they were there.  They worked their way out on their own.

This blog has taken a shift from when I started writing it.  I’ll probably change the title.   When I started writing it, I was really pissed at myself because I knew exactly what this blog would be.  It would just be me bitching about how I was afraid I wouldn’t be a successful writer, and I’m sure that the first half is.  The thing is, I felt no inspiration to write when I started this, so I just went with the first that popped into my head, and something else came out of it.  I don’t know if this is good, but it’s good for me.  I’m glad that writing gives me opportunities to work out feelings like this.  To circle back around to the original, unoriginal topic, I guess it doesn’t really matter who my writing reaches if I just allow it to reach into me.