Author: Azya Lyons

Okay, so I’ll be honest with you: podcasts make me so happy. They are genuinely my not-so-guilty pleasure. And recently, I found this amazing  podcast. It’s called Unfinished Thoughts and it’s on Spotify and Apple Music. When I tell you this podcast slaps, it S L A P S.  All it really is is a look into the mind of a normal teenage student. The speaker is named Gael (I’m pretty sure you pronounce it gay-ell) and he just talks about what’s on his mind. Sometimes he speaks for almost 20 minutes, sometimes he speaks for barely 5. It all depends on what kind of day he’s having. It’s a very easy to relate to and it genuinely makes you feel less alone in the world. It’s so good and I highly recommend listening to it if you like podcasts.

That being said, I really wanna make a podcast. Like, I have ideas, and they’re all really cool. The only issue is financial stability. Who has the money to buy a computer, a good quality mic, AND an editor. That requires moo-lah that I, as an American citizen, am not in possession of. I have expenses to pay and food to buy. But I am still so in love with the thought of making and producing my own podcast. Like, bro!! My own, personal, creative baby that I can make and produce and edit in real time!!!! That sounds like a d r e a m.

Beings that all I have for this podcast is dreams, let me share some of them with you, the broader audiences of Mississippi:

1. I want to make a sci-fi one set in real time and space, but in a different reality. Like, I want to make the listener feel as if their listening their life in another timeline without it actually being their life. I know it sounds confusing but I read a book called Radio Silence back in 8th Grade and I fell in love with this idea almost immediately (go read Radio Silence by Alice Oseman. It is a younger audience book but the story is SO GOOOOOODDDDDDD).
2. I would like to make a podcast in which I just speak. Not in a narcissistic or attention seeking way. I just would like to have an outlet where I can tell people about stuff that happens in the life of a random 16 year old child and feel as if I’m making someone else feel less alone in the world, ya’ know? Also, it could help preteens understand what they’re entering into when they become a teenager because the movies don’t do it right. Out of my 16 years on this earth, I don’t think I’ve ever had a pillowfight with my best friends while Heroes by David Bowie played in the background. WHO DOES THAT???????

aNYWAYS, yeah. My dream is to make a podcast and I’m kinda salty that I’m broke.

This is just gonna be a collection of poems of mine that I really like!!

 

“Her Yellow Gloves”

Her Yellow Gloves

 

All over America women are washing dishes.

It’s scrubbing and rubbing; it’s Dawn soap

On subdued yellow gloves; it’s cracks in plates;

broken glass in the sink; it’s blood and bruises

and never knowing what’s to come.

All over America women are washing

dishes that they’re supposed to save for when

He wants people over.

Blues and purples splinter across her arm,

shaped by strong hands that once held her close,

hidden by the sleeves on her dress,

flared at the waist and the color of His eyes. 

It’s broken vases and bleeding noses.

It’s his knuckles, bloody and bruised 

and her eyes, black and busted. 

All over America, women are washing dishes,

their fingers pruning with the constant submersion

like a housewife under the pressure of perfectionism. 

If she wants to wash anything, it’s 

the feeling of her husband off her skin.

If she wants to dry anything, it’s

the tears on her cheek when he leaves again

for a hussy.

Her life is rung out and dried,

nothing but debris at the bottom of the overused sponge.

Look, she says, once I was fine porcelain

saved for special occasions and treasured beyond measure 

but now I am Tupperware.

I am overworked and underappreciated.

Washing is not a choice, but a necessity. 

“What Does She Look Like?”

She stares blankly at me as I assess her.

There is a white glow behind her. 

She resembles an angel. 

Parted down the middle, the shiny, black smudge atop her head

Glistens with the thoughts she hides behind her cold, 

 ash colored eyes.

 She resembles Hades.

Her eyelashes are short, visible, and powerful.

Without blinking, she bats away all competitors. 

She challenges me. 

She stares at me with clean contempt. 

Her eyebrows arch oddly, the proportions off

But still beautifully assymetrical.  Her nose runs down

 her face in a short, bulbous fashion.

She resembles her mother. 

Her high cheekbones, swaddled in skin of blacks, whites, and browns,

 fade away from her nostrils is a smooth

Almost flawless motion. 

Her lips are small, but not pursed. 

They are as blank as her stare.

She resembles her father. 

Her face goes downwards into a soft roll,

The sides gently curving into the formation of a chin.

Her hair reaches down her back, cascading in long spirals. 

Her neck is partially covered by her hair. 

The part that does show is smooth,

 Kinda like marble,

And it resembles the complexion of her people. 

The Collar.

It’s a folded collar, like the one I wore in

Elementary School. 

The shirt itself is a mirage of greys, each one slightly different. 

She stares blankly at me as I assess her. 

She is suspended in space,

Frozen in time, sentenced to never

Speak a word again. 

Yet, she seems to speak to me,

As clear as black and white.

“My Head”

1, 2.

Blink Blink.

I wake up and count my breaths.

1,2.

1,2.

Good.

Blink Blink.

Okay.

 

Get dressed.

Okay.

Shirt.

No no no.

Pants before shirt.

I start over.

Pants.

Shirt.

 

Good.

 

Vest.

Coat.

Pocketwatch?

I’ve got it.

I get my gloves.

1,2.

Perfect.

Okay.

 

Time to leave.

 

What time is it?

4:15

Oh my god.

I’m late. I’m late.

 

I run. Right then

Left. Right

Then left. 

 

The queen’s gonna

Have my head.

My head.

Have my head.

She’ll kill me.

Mary Ann.

Who will take

Care of Mary Ann?

Morgan Love, being the gorgeous and quite hilarious person she is, said M very clearly when I asked Hannah to pick a letter. So I guess I’m just doing a small recollection of many stories in one post, and I think I’ll call it Morning Memories.

Okay, so firstly, when I was younger, I am told that I got my head stuck in a bed. I don’t know how or why, but I did. I was still living in The House On Santini Street and I was about a year old when it happened. But, I apparently had a colossal head as a child and it got stuck in a bed.

I have a memory, I have no clue if it’s a dream or real, where I am a very small toddler and I’m climbing onto this ugly green and blue couch. It was in the House On Santini Street.  My grandfather was still alive and he was sitting on said couch. Now, all I can really remember is trying to get onto the couch because he was eating the Lyons family delicacy: tomatoes with salt and pepper. I know, it sounds weird, but I’m being so serious. It genuinely S M A C K S. Don’t knock it ’til you try it. Anyways, so yeah. I remember being a little itty bitty baby tryna crawl up onto this horrendous couch with my paw-paw there. I’m pretty sure it’s real.

I’m sure, by now, that we are all familiar with the story about my cousin stabbing me while we were racing ( if you aren’t, my cousin stabbed me while we were racing). Well, get ready for this: one time, when we were younger, my cousin decided to literally harrass me by sitting on me while I was asleep on his couch…I woke up to him laughing about it. While I was asleep, he had found a way to place a couch cushion over my entire body, including my face, and then climb into it until I awoke. When I finally came to, I couldn’t breathe. He had been farting on me for the past 15 minutes. That night, my mom said I couldn’t spend the night over there anymore.

And, as my last story to end this episode of Morning Memories, I shall tell the story of how I came to decide that I am probably the dumbest person alive. So, as per usual, I was with my cousins and we were doing stupid, childish things. We were outside and, in their front yard, they have an orange tree. Well, this particular weekend, there were oranges on the ground, molding and decomposing. They were d i s g u s t i n g. And yet, I somehow allowed my cousin, who is as smart as I am dumb. He dared me to eat one of the oranges off the ground. There was no prize for doing. There was no ultimatum. There was nothing. Just pure curiosity. And, as I went to pick up the orange, my oldest cousin got home. We dispersed whenever he got home, I have no clue why. We were just…intimidated by him. I don’t even know why, he’s literally a dope person.

ANYWAYS, yeah. That’s it. There’s your collection of me being a stupid child to hold you over until next week. Goodbye.

I really want a Checker’s burger but it’s 10:04 and I can’t leave in the middle of 2nd block just to drive an hour and a half for a burger. So, let me suck it up and move on with my life.

I guess this blog post will be a recap of my life at MSA so far, starting with New Student Day.

So, on New Student Day, I was anxious. Very, very anxious. I was wearing this ugly pink outfit and I didn’t have time to look like I wanted to be here, so I was scared that no one was going to accept me as their new peer. But, lo and behold, I met my senior, Carter, and my first friends here, Stephyne, Katie, and Hannah. I couldn’t stay for long, however, because my parents wanted to leave as soon as possible.

I didn’t speak to anyone that whole summer.

This past August was hectic. I left my best friends and my dog behind to pursue dreams I wasn’t even sure about. But, A’Naiya, my bestest friend, told me that it was worth it. She said that she believed in me and that was the only thing that got me to Brookhaven on August 2nd. I had to move in on the 3rd, but my family wanted to get there ahead of time so that they didn’t have to get up at 6 to  put everything in the car  and get on the road.

So, to recap all of August: I started off really strong. Then a few of us caught feelings, bonded over those feelings, and some of us got over those feelings (I am not included in that group sksksksk). But, if I’m being honest, August wasn’t too bad of a month. It was just very….fast. I didn’t expect it to give me whiplash, ya’know?

My best friend, A’Naiya Miggins.

September was way worse than August, and it was slow enough for me to actually process what was going on, which, simultaneously, made it even worse and better.

So, recap: I caught harder feelings.

That’s it. It’s over. I’m done. That’s all. I caught harder feelings. And I know what you’re thinking, you hypothetical logic speaker. “How did you catch feelings if you barely know her?” I just did. From day 1. I just felt it, ya’know?

 

No, but honestly, September has just been a terrible month for me, mentally. I just feel so…..off. I don’t want to sleep anymore. I don’t want to eat anymore. I just wanna lie in bed and disassociate. But that’s okay, I’m fine. That wouldn’t prove to be anything but detrimental.

So,yeah!! That’s my life at MSA thus far. Thanks for reading!!

She stares blankly at me as I assess her.
There is a white glow behind her. She resembles an angel. 
Parted down the middle, the shiny, black smudge of hair atop her head
Glistens with the thoughts she hides behind her monolid,
 ash colored eyes. She resembles Hades.
Her eyelashes are short, visible, and powerful.
Without blinking, she bats away all competitors. 
She challenges me. She stares at me with clean contempt. 
Her eyebrows arch oddly, the proportions off
But still beautifully assymetrical. 
Her nose runs down her face in a short, bulbous fashion.
She resembles her mother. 
Her high cheekbones, swaddled in skin of blacks, whites, and greys, fade away from her nostrils is a smooth
Almost flawless motion. 
Her lips are small, but not pursed. 
They are as blank as her stare.
She resembles her father. 
Her face goes downwards into a soft roll,
The sides of her face gently curving into the formation of a chin.
Her hair reaches down her back. It’s cascades down in long, acrylic strands. 
Her neck is partially covered by her hair. 
The part that does show is fair,
Pale even,
And it resembles the complexion of her people. 
The farther you go, the fairer she gets until you hit the 
Collar.
It’s a folded collar, like the one I wore in
Elementary School. 
The shirt itself is a mirage of greys, each one slightly different. 
She stared blankly at me as I assess her. 
She is hoisted onto paper and cardboard,
Frozen in time, sentenced to never
Speak a word again. 
Yet, she seems to speak to me,
As clear as black and white. 

 

This piece was required for a Intro to Poetry, but I really like it. I don’t know. It’s pretty messy right now but I have to clean it up anyways sooooooo, might as well kill 2 birds with one stone.

Suite: 

 

I

 

Wake up. Instantly regret it.

Look at your roommate.

Ask yourself why you couldn’t be more like 

Her. 

 

Drag yourself out of bed. 

Feel the freezing tile underneath

Your toasty tootsies. 

Regret waking up again.

 

Quietly get your clothes together.

Go to the bathroom. Get dressed. 

Get out. Brush your jumble of 

Green and yellow curls.

 

II

 

Go downstairs. Eat breakfast.

Give up on that when everyone

Leaves and you no longer have

Anything to keep you from the

 

Monsters in your mind. 

“Stop eating. They’re watching

Every move you make. They’re 

Judging you. Stop being 

 

Disgusting. Stop being fat.

Stop being filthy. Stop, Stop,

Stop.” On the short ride up the

Elevator to your room, you hear

 

Singing. “Why aren’t you talented?”

Torment. But don’t show a single soul.

How dare you feel anything but

Shame.

 

III

 

The bell rings. Oh well.

Listen to music.

Sleep. Do anything but

Look at your reflection. 

 

Don’t look at your reflection.

Stop. You look gross. You

Look like a pig. Peppaaaaa-

Oh. Maybe you don’t.

 

No you definitely do.

Over analyze every line

And “beauty mark”.

Scoff at their idiotic name.

 

How inconsiderate.

Some of us aren’t beautiful. 

Refer to yourself when you

Say “some of us”. Check the

 

Time. 9:34. Okay.

Look again. 9:46.

Oh, okay. Rush to

Class.

 

IV

 

10 o’clock.

Blog for 15 minutes,

Even though the board says

To blog for 12. You rebel.

 

Listen to Mrs. Sibley. 

Talk about how she

Has a secretly ghetto 

Side that she refuses to

 

Show you. Laugh at yourself.

Listen to her talk some more.

Laugh when you’re supposed

To. Nod when you need to. 

 

Pay attention. Heed her words

As best as you can at 11 in the

Morning. The bell rings again.

Gather your things slowly. 

 

V

 

Don’t rush to eat. Dread it.

Don’t look forward to it. Abhor it. 

It is your enemy. Don’t

Indulge your enemy.

 

Get through the line.

Hear Cuz yell “Smile,

Smile, Smile!” as you

Leave. Smile. 

 

Look for your friends.

See them having a good time.

Look for a spot. The table’s full.

Sit by yourself because everyone

 

Else is together. Their tables

Are full. Sit by yourself.

Feel sad. Get over it.

Don’t be a mess.

 

11:40. Malone’s Class. 

Get up. Go  to her class. 

Sit in your spot, nestled 

Between a redhead

 

And a dreadhead. Enjoy 

Their company. Find solace

In the work you so desperately

Need to complete. Try to

 

Complete it. Run out of time.

Vow you’ll finish that night. 

Grab your bags. Get out.

Try not to look at anyone

 

In the eyes.

 

VI

 

These last 2 blocks go by quickly.

After Malone’s class, go to Sibley.

Journal for 10 minutes. Work on

Whatever she has you work on for that day.

The bell rings.

 

Take your time getting to go again.

Talk to the redhead. Listen to her

Stories about what happened while

She was that the computer. Walk

 

Out. Go to your next class. 

Try not to fall asleep. Doze off a little.

Wake up before you fall. Think about Her.

Smile. Look down at your hands. 

 

The bell rings. That’s it. It’s over.

Time to go back to being bored out

Of your mind. Eat dinner. Go to your

Room.

I told Katie to pick A or B, and she picked B. So, I’m going to tell a story about something that starts with B.

Before I get into the story itself, I need to give a little Backstory. So, out of all of my immediate cousins on my Birth mother’s side, I am the 4th oldest; first, there’s Tristian, then Blarrington (we called him Boo-Boo), Shawn, then me, then Shaykera (Shay and I were Born in the same year; I was May, she was August). So, Being that Shay and I were the oldest girls, we had the longer legs, so were  the faster of the girls. And, even though Shay and I are the same age, I’m taller, so my legs were even longer. That will come into play around, roughly, the middle of the story.

So, one very hot and humid day in the Delta (Greenville, to Be exact), my cousins and I were at our grandparents’ house. I, at the time, was about 7 or 8. We were sentenced outside, my grandmother had gotten mad at us for stabbing an air mattress with a fork, and we were Bored out of minds Because our newest past time activity was ripped away from us By an angry 50-something year old lady. We were over it.

Side note; on her land, she had a nicely sized front yard. On that front yard, there was a drive way made of rocks. Nice, shiny, harmless rocks.

Or so I thought.

 

While Shawn and I were deliberating what to do, Bailey, the Baby of all the children, Began to look around. She didn’t seem to Be looking for anything specifically, But she did seem interested in the pretty, shiny rocks, so none of us thought anything of it. Then Shawn and I had the most Beautiful idea known to man: we are going to race a half mile down the street to the park, turn around at the park, race Back to the house, and the first one Back would get someone else to steal them an extra Popsicle.  With the stakes Being so high, we had to really show out, or we could kiss that ‘sicle goodbye.

 

Shawn and I went first, beings that we were the older ones. After us would be Shay and Corrine, after that Niema and Niami (they’re twins), then Bailey to bring up the rear.

Shawn and I go, and almost immediately, I face plant. I fell hard, earning me a bruised ribcage and ego, Bloody hand, and probably a minor concussion. But, I refused to get out of that race. So, I get up and I haul……Butt. And, pretty soon, he and I are neck and neck. Then, the others start to file in behind us. So, we get to the park, we turn, and I’m in the lead. And, about half way Back to the trailer, I feel a sharp pain in the Bruised side of my Body. I fall out, hollering in anguish and Shawn sits Beside me.  He’s yelling and looks at Bailey, a sharp rock in her little chubby fist.

So, long story short, no one in my family knows about this story except for the kids involved, and even then they most likely forgot about it. And, Boy did I enjoy my extra Popsicle.

 

 

I promise this story is true.

I want nothing more
than to have nothing at all.
I want to live the rest of my life
having never known your name
or heard your voice
or understood just who you were to me.

I want nothing more
than to know that  You are a  not
pertinent part of my life.
I want to wake up in the mornings and feel
refreshed.
I don’t want to feel your presence over me any longer.

So, Ominous Presence Breathing Down My Neck 24/7, 
I relinquish you from my life.
You are no longer any concern to me
nor I to you.

I will allow you closure and
anything else you may need 
for your new life without me 
to feed upon, but I will not
continue to be the force
you indulge on.

Now, I hope you starve of the
satisfaction of draining me 
until I am a lifeless pile
on the floor.

I wanted nothing more
than nothing at all.
now, I finally have my
clean slate.

If I am going to be completely honest, I have no idea where this poem came from. I needed a blog post, so I started listening to Fleetwood Mac, Sonic Youth, and vaporwaved Abba and this is what came of it.

In the poem, I am referencing to my biological mother. I’m not going to display my entire life story on a blog in school, but she has always felt like a shadow in my life, always lurking in the back, watching. I’ve never really resented her, but I do resent that presence, so I “relinquished” and gave it away to whomever takes it. 

I can’t remember the last time I did something stupidly impulsive ( besides dying my hair 2 different colors at 3 in the morning on a Wednesday). Lately, it feels as if every word I say is carefully articulated and reiterated in my head multiple times before I actually speak. It feels like I’m not doing anything for myself. I don’t think I’m laughing for myself anymore? I don’t think that I’m breathing for myself anymore?

At this point, I’ve become what I think everyone else wants me to be.

I’ve never been like that in my life. And now, whoopty doo da, I’m a walking, talking mannequin. I’m clay in the midst of sculptors. But they aren’t molding me. I am. I’m stuck in a loop of positioning and repositioning and changing how I act and my body language and how I breathe. I’m stuck.

I’m Stuck.

Stuck in a whirlwind of teenagers, concrete, and anything/everything in between. They’re spinning, spinning, until they become dizzy. Then they wobble and topple over each, me in the middle of it all. And, as they lay on the floor, awaiting another round of Ring-Around-The-Rosie: High School Edition, they look almost miserable. They look like they actually miss the loop of haze mixed with weed smoke, lost eyesight, and late-night-depression drinking. They look as if they want to keep it going. Forever and ever. Never ending cycles of bs and hopelessness. And, like clockwork, they get back up and start it all again. And I watch as the weed turns to heroine and the 45 turns to Balkan. Now, they’re just a bumbling, babbling jumble of addicts. They fall and don’t get back up.

This place is a blur. A few days ago, I was me. I was who I wanted to be. Now, I’m a ghost of someone new. Someone not exactly here yet but you feel their presence. Someone not necessarily bad, but you have your suspicions. Someone you don’t know yet but you don’t want to change. That someone is not me. I want to be me. I want to be the me I’ve always been. The stupid, impulsive, curly haired me that I’ve, apparently, built my reputation around. I want to remain at my simplest form. But there’s nothing simple about growing up in Mississippi. There’s nothing simple about not wanting to be like them. There’s nothing simple about growing up and realizing that what’s in front of you is not something you want to be apart of.

But, when the haze is gone, and the whirling winds are asleep, and the last of us are quietly contemplating the silent release in the dead of night, only then am I to be who I truly was born to be. The jumbled mess of letters that seemingly make no sense.

Dear former victims of abuse,

You have been given a situation well beyond your years. You have been force-fed something hard to swallow. You have been blessed with the kiss of bruises and belt buckles for no apparent reason. You have tasted salty tears and busted lips, smelled the stench of alcohol and dread. And when the possibility of it ever ending left, you became desensitized to all of it. The pain hurt a little bit less, the tears flowed a little less willingly, and the hope you so desperately clung to became a lot harder to find. And you’re left alone with nothing but your anger: anger at God and anger at yourself. “Why can’t you just walk away?” “Why are you like this?” Why did you do this to yourself?” “Why aren’t you enough?” Why?” “Why?” “Why?”

I am one of you. I have felt worthless, restless, and helpless. I have stood where you stood and I said what you said. And I know what it’s like. But this letter is addressed to FORMER victims. We made it out. We’re alive. We’re breathing the air we fought for for so many nights prior to us escaping. However, that kind of turmoil stays with you forever. That type of anguish is unrelenting, no matter where you may be.

 So, I want you to understand something. There is nothing in this world that could ever make you feel as terrible as you did in that predicament. Why? Because you have grown stronger since the day you fell in that rabbit hole. You have become keener, wiser, and you are now a better version of yourself that you never saw yourself being. And no matter how hard you fight the realization, that was not your fault. There’s a very common, very cliche quote that says,”Sometimes the prettiest flower has the sharpest thorns”. Normally it’s used in reference to girls that pretend to have bad mental issues to be “quirky” and “popular”. But now, I use this to tell you that sometimes the most caring, funny, perfect looking man or woman can be the worst to you. And you don’t deserve that. It may take you a while to figure that out (it took me almost 14 years), but one of these days you will look in the mirror and see the person you were made to be.

I also know that you want so badly to blame God for what happened. And in a sense, He is responsible. But not in the way you think. “But, Azya, how is He a good God if He allows stuff like that to happen?” Have you ever heard the term,” Things happen for a reason”? Without going through that experience, without being broken down to the point of bitter nothingness, you wouldn’t be flourishing. You wouldn’t have the experience to say that you lived through an experience that will haunt you, but will overpower you no more. We have been blessed with the ability to say that we are better than our circumstances. God has blessed us with the power to feel like we are ourselves again. That was all Him.

Now, I pray that you find a coping mechanism that helps you become better than your abuser was. I pray that you find the peace and serenity in your life that I know we all crave. And I hope, that one day, when you’re old and gray and the memories have blurred together like a smudged painting, you look back, and you thank yourself for forgiving that man or woman from all those years ago. 

Sincerely, 

A former victim of abuse