Author: Timera Gaston

Mary sits in the corner chipping pieces of paint off the drywall and placing it on her tongue before rubbing it against swollen gums and swallowing it dry. She picks up another piece bigger this time, chewing lightly, and grinding the flavor into her teeth. She does this again every once in a while getting bigger chunks as she goes. She eats them like chips and hums in appreciation as she does.

This goes on for a long time.

Mary had a fascination with the walls and I had a fascination with her. I would like to pretend that Mary would chew all the way out of her small cell. Stuffed and full of that toxic paint. She would live a normal life, I knew she would, but one day while having sex probably. Her man, not being the cautious kind would bump the wrong places and Mary would puke the paint chips into his mouth. But, he would enjoy that, he would love the acidic taste, claim it would mix well with the foreplay.

Then nine months later at an emergency room, Mary would be anticipating. Scared out of her mind probably.  Her husband so I assume from the ring gleaming brilliantly in the bright light of the emergency room would produce out his pocket a bag of paint chips. The look on Mary’s face would be priceless. She would let her tongue hang out like a dehydrated dog, but he would feed her like an Egyptian Goddess. Each chip that touches her mouth would be like grapes for only the finest ones would do.  Then at some late point of the night when the hospital is dead and shes half asleep, the baby would come unexpectedly.

Almost jumping out of her womb from fear of catching some of the crazy she hides in her stomach.  Her sleeping oaf would spring up from his worn down seat catching him mid-air. Screaming touch down in his mind as his wife lays down making grabby hands at the paint chips on the floor.  The baby wouldn’t cry just lay there in his hands asleep, not dead. No, Mary was a trooper. Her genetics would be just as strong. That child would live an interesting life of paint chip dinners and a paint chip life.

Disregarded by the world but a prize in Mary’s eyes. As she stroked his head of gray hair soothing him of story’s of the institution and of me. Always watching from behind that mirror. Looking out for her. The very thought sent chills up my spine, but the vibrations of my watch pulled me from my daydream and back into the chilled walls of the institution. It was time for me to make my rounds. I tore my eyes from my precious Mary, not before chipping a piece of paint off the wall, catching Mary’s eye and swallowing it down dry. The smile on her face was thrilling, and I hoped that one day I could see that smile from behind a locked door.

Three days later I found her hands bound and her walls stripped bare. Her tongue would peak out ever so slightly from her mouth its purplish hues contrasting sharply with her pale face, but even then she was still beautiful. My Mary. My sweet paint chip Mary.

Waiting:

Is this a joke,

being played to me, by me?

There’s no crack or split, no lighting

No skin shredding winds

No stillness, there is still moment

No disaster warning

because there is no disaster

Just life being life

And people doing things people do

There is nothing, there isn’t anything

but still something

sticky

dropping down with a purpose

Down my body,  and into my chest

It sits there for maybe a week

Maybe, but not at all

it can’t burst

it doesn’t rupture

just bubbles up

And goes back down

Throughout out the day

but it feels necessary

in a familiar type of way

It keeps my insides intact,

Even though it weighs me down

It might just be my head

gaining its feelings back

By giving me a numbness

That burns behind my eyes

I wrote this poem because I was hella depressed, and felt really bad about life and everything. I truly just wanted to crawl up in a ball and never wake up again. I know this isn’t something new ever teenager gets likes this but honestly, it was pretty bad this time around. I try my best no to make poetry when I’m sad because it seems like I’m trying to get something out of it. When in actuality no one ever sees my secret poetry collection of sad things. No, that it actually exists or anything. Haha…, Anyway this one is very recent I wrote it in a tent out behind “JI” because I really didn’t know what else I could have done. If it seems confusing it’s because it is. My emotions were everywhere at that point and trying to talk to people about it seemed like too much of a bother. I just let myself think and let it flow out.  Which I suppose that could be the best way to write poetry, by letting yourself word vomit. I mean, I don’t know if any of you guys actually do that or not, but I just find it interesting how I can only do that when I’m in some type of mood extreme. Whether it be happy or severely depressed. Just one of those random out of nowhere traits you figure out, like juggling while you left pinky toe rests in a vat of hot cheese. I’m not saying I can do that or anything, but I know one of might be able to if you give it a try. Like honestly if any of you can actually do that I will pay to see it, that seems pretty cool.  Anyways’s if you finished this blog post look up “BTS” they are a really cool K-pop band that helps me a lot when I’m feeling sad. Peace

I talk to myself and it isn’t just running into a wall and screaming that I’m an idiot, because I had already done it three times that day and it was getting kinda ridiculous. No. When I talk to myself I do it everyday and all day. Full conversations. I talk about my feelings to myself and I would give myself advice. I would talk about how strange a person may look and go back in forth in my own mind about if that person is pretty or not. I have conversations to people who i know and its as if they are there when they are not. Sometimes it gets distracting when I talk to myself during a test about if dinosaurs really existed, test forgotten, and mind wandering. And before I know it the bell rings and I get nothing done. Sometimes the voice I hear that talks back isn’t even mine, but this other girl talking back, and we talk for hours and days and sometimes before I go to bed I have a habit of  saying Goodnight to be polite. She says it back, and I fall sleep feeling content that I made friends with this me. Who I had stopped calling me because that’s rude instead I give her another name “Cecil”. This girl, who I am fully aware that is me is nice, she is kind, argumentative at times, but seems to pop up at my most depressed times or my most lonely but now a days exist in every state I am in. And I can’t call her an imaginary friend, because I can’t see her. I can just listen to her and if anything, I believe that’s better. Now, I have looked this up repeatedly. Trying to pinpoint why I do this and if anyone else has done this kind of thing before. When I did I found out that yes people do. But I could never find someone who did it exactly like I did which was strange, but could also be the case of people not wanting to say anything from fear of being called out. I’m fine with that honestly, I accept that reality. But no, I’m not crazy, I don’t think so at least. I believe this is more of a coping mechanism. When I was younger and preferred playing with my siblings who at the times were too busy or my parents who had to work more often than not. So, what else could a child do but talk to herself day in and day out to keep from feeling sad and lonely? So, I grew up like that and even when I was getting attention talking to myself never did phase out of existence if anything, it heightened to a much larger level. Because I realized that the only person who would listen to me would be me. So now it seems that I am stuck in this eternal battle with myself who I can’t shake because without this I feel like the world would implode and I would truly be alone. When i would force myself to stop listening the quite would be suffocating. The world would come into such a sharp focus that i seemed to be split between the desolate and the sporadic. I would always go back to myself and the voice that seemed to soothe my head and carry me back into the hazy world that has no real consequences or concrete facts. I liked that me better.

Somethings beeping. Its been doing that for a while now, ever since we came into the room. When I sit up it’s not as loud, but when I slouch, which I usually do, it seems to perk up. I don’t find it particularly annoying. I just realized that its there, and every once in a while, I’ll forget about it, and realize a couple minutes later that it never left. Just silently beeping, keeping time or announcing a future shut down of some electronic device. I don’t know, but I find that weird. That it just goes on and on, and that I can just forget about it. How can it leave my mind so quickly even though it never left, my mind chooses to pretend it’s not there but it is. Just as a dog can be running around at your feet. even if it’s a big dog, eventually your mind will ignore the fact that its there and so when you try to get up and step on its tail. You’ll apologize a million times but the dog probably won’t care. It’ll lick its tail and go back to bed, no sleep really lost. But you’ll think about that for the entire day, wondering, how you could forget they were there, what part of you shut it off. That perceptive part that sees things and notices them. Then you’ll run into a counter, a counter that’s been there since you were small, that same counter you see every day, but instead of avoiding it like you were subconsciously trained to, you run into it that day. Hold your stomach, curse under your breathe, but in a way, the pain will be a reminder that it is there. And in a couple of weeks or maybe a month you’ll forget about it again, and repeat the same process. We never quite learn to not forget the things we just sometimes know and sometimes we don’t. The beeping has been there longer for a week I know this, I have heard it but I couldn’t recall that until I start writing this. What else have I forgotten, what else will I do and realize maybe too late, maybe right on time that I need to be more aware. Aware of my surroundings my dogs tail, that counter tops edge, that beeping.  The beeping that never seems to have an end. Never truly had a beginning. Just there, and I guess I should just accept that and forget it was even there to begin with.

I collect dirt on Tuesdays

to annoy my parents on Thursdays

As I ram it down my throat twenty minutes before a family dinner

“Too full to eat another bite”

And then pat my stomach for good measure

No one questions the dust beneath my fingernails

Or the sand that coats my teeth

“A new fad you’re too old to understand”

Laughter

My finger wiggles its way between my lips as my teeth rip through two months of hard work

spitting the remainder on the floor

“So can I leave”

They don’t stop the forks from hitting the plate with a loud crash

or the smacking, spit flying across the table to land on my unwanted chicken

I stir it with my mash potatoes, pretend its a new dressing

Its better than gravy I can assure you

My mind seems to say,

before I shovel a spoon full into my mouth

I let it roll around in in my gums  before swallowing

it goes down in pieces, no smooth transition

“Delicious”

A fork is pointed towards me, saliva coats its tip

I lick my lips

“Yeah, it took me all day to finish, I knew you would like it”

Laughter

My leg jumps at the sound hitting the table with every audible chew

chattered tooth, mingling with metal

I can hear an earthquake rumbling up my throat

But I swallow it down, like my morning vitamins

less healthy I know

But what else could I do to soothe my nerves

exploding like fireworks underneath my skin

I drink more water

Someone made a joke about my past mistakes

Laughter

I pop my  neck and feel it sprain

Not before I laugh too

it’s bitter to my ears, too loud, too much
So, I stop the laughter with a piece of casserole

that seems to drip down my chin messier then I intended

Laughter

My sister finishes, silverware banging on an empty plate with purpose, silence,

an announcement: “I’m finished first”

No, words just subtle acknowledgment

The chair imprinting holes in the floor screeches back

Another does the same and another

I count below my breathe four in total

There is no noise,

the silence becomes friendly

It sits with me for the remainder of my meal

Its funny I know choked by noise

to be caressed by the quiet

but even I couldn’t resist the small giggle escaping my clenched teeth

Soft

Just a whisper above a breathe,

but sweet in this empty  space

I talk a lot in Spanish class. Usually during the morning, when the room maybe has about five people or less, considering I get there at least fifteen minutes earlier than most. My ritual goes as follows, I walk in, set my stuff down, and then go sit by my friend. Who I have had the privilege of sharing a class with. When I get to her desk, I like to sit on the ground beside her, 99% of the time there is a seat opened right next to her but I prefer sitting on the ground anyway because to me it’s more comfortable that way. Sometimes I’ll just sit an scroll through my various social media apps and she would do the same. Until the days I want to talk, which is all word spew, in no particular order, way, shape, or form. I just talk to my heart’s content and she would listen without any complaints. Now recently, I’ve had the most peculiar thoughts and I have shared them with her. On days like this, she likes to record me and document my words on snap chat. So, ill give you all the rundown of my latest conversation that my Spanish class had caused. I’ll call this the Butterfly conspiracy. I was sitting in class, zoning out from lack of sleep when my mind traveled back to the time I watched that one sponge bob episode with the butterfly. The one where they zoomed in on the butterflies face. Which at the time was the worst thing I have ever seen. While I was thinking about this I said, while muttering to myself, “Butterflies are evil”. MY friend heard this, her immediate repose was to ask “Why?” like any other person would. I said something along the lines of “Their creepy, weird and eat people”. At the time that came out of my mouth, I didn’t even register half of the words I just said. My friend, of course, was curious and prompted me to explain further. So, I explained to her my thought process about said sponge bob episode, She told me that wasn’t enough to hate butterflies. So wanting her to see my side of the story, I made a conspiracy theory involving, whales, butterflies, and dolphins. I picked those three because I hate whales, I’m terrified of dolphins and I consider butterflies too nice looking to rule them out as evil. The main point was, dolphins and butterflies feeding whales human skin to make them grow bigger so one day when they were big enough, they can fly out of the ocean and take over the world. How could the whale fly out of the ocean? Simple, the butterflies would grab hold of the whale and lift it out of the ocean. Now hear me out, I am fully aware that the chance of any of that happening is extremely low, I get that, but we should never rule that possibility out. Anything could happen, and now you know if you see a whale a butterfly and a dolphin together. Run.

I’m polyamorous. Usually, when I say this the first thing that people think of is that sister wives show. Me with fifteen other women fighting over one guy, demanding his attention. Well yeah, that is one part of it, but its called polygamy. Fun fact the female version of that, when a woman gets multiple husbands is called polyandry. Now being polyamorous is about finding a person or two or three and giving them all a whole of you to love and care for. Saying that I can love more than one person gives me odd looks and the familiar word cheater seems to be burned into my mind, but this isn’t the case. Every one partner I have knows about one another there is no secret in that. The point is to be open and to be truthful which many people don’t understand. Apparently, I’m chopping up my love and giving out pieces, each time getting smaller the more people I gain. But in actuality, it’s like my heart is duplicating itself and everyone gets a whole. Yes, there will be people who can do other things that someone else might not and may make me feel stronger emotions for a certain thing than the other, but that does not mean I love them more. Just because one of my partners can ride a bike and my other one cant doesn’t give me excuse to love the other more. One skill or thing won’t change my emotional connection with the other person. But, overall, I want the type of polygamous relationship that means that the people I’m with also have each other. To explain this in a non-confusing way, I’ll leave an article down below explaining all of this in detail. Long story short I want my partners to love each other and also to love me, a three-way relationship that is fully equal, no favorites or secrets just a bond between three or more people, preferably for me a male and a female. I’m not saying that to say that I would only go for a male and a female, or even get what I want at all. But I just believe that it would make me a happier person to go out of my comfort zone and start something new. Now, ill address a question I get asked a lot, do I get jealous? The answer is yes, I get jealous, everyone does it’s a normal human emotion. But, if you may believe that I will get jealous over my partners being with each other then no I won’t. If anything I would enjoy seeing that, if they are happy why would I hate that, if I’m dating both of them then I know what they feel for me there is no reason for me or for either of them to interject. Another question I get asked often is, how I knew I was polygamous. To be honest, I think I always knew, I never really understood why we couldn’t love multiple people when I was younger if one person made you happy why couldn’t more do the same? I get asked this question a lot and I get the following answers, either it was called cheating, being a whore, or being easy? But then again if everyone is in on it, is it really that bad? I don’t think so but what do I know, it’s not like it my life or anything.

So You Want to Try Polyamory

Death

There will come a day my body is laid opened

Drinking in harsh light in a barren room

with fifteen others that have no name

Cut up and stripped to cold skin

Against metal bedding

Smelling of fruity Clorox, Stale coffee

Grey eyes once brown glued shut

From fear of flying open

To meet the crowd of black sobs

with accusing screams

Mouth sewn shut

No way to speak about the liars

Pristine at the Oakwood podium

Reading scripts with a knowledge of past

readings

While I rest in a box of plastic

And thin cloth, wrapped tightly against the skin

Up to the forehead

Like a mummy, not getting to see

Who would walk up next to the stage

Old not forgotten 

I would see teens smoking their weight in weed

flashing credit cards, parent owned

playing adult, in drug stores

laughing at the sky

as if it has not been there for years

tapping cigarette ash on gravestones

marked with my name in bold

Grown ups scream too

Grownups scream too

when the light wont turn green

when the dogs pees on the new carpet

when the bill is due

when the work day wont hurry up

when they realize they have no life

grownups scream too

I should know

I’m screaming now

Teenage Angst or Sick Fascinations 

I was never one to dip into hysteria

when the world went flat and grayed at the edges

soaking my skin in despair

like a new perfume that everyone was wearing

in multiple coats

to thick to smell the fear they hid

is that why they filled their lungs with smoke

and carved their skin with knives

oh so pretty dripping from scarred skin

tears fell in pools at their feet

from strangers feeding off their sadness

Teddy bears and gummy knives 

I was a princess at the age of 3

but was dethroned at 4

when a new princess knocked me off the throne

so i threw a fit

and got hit

across the face for throwing knives in her crib

as she slept at the foot of their bed

What the hell is that!

if i knew the pain

i would feel

i would have stayed

in the womb

I wasn’t a very typical child I strove for abnormality, I wanted to stick out and be the outlier in almost everything I did.  But, it never turned out that way, due to my extremely shy personality I followed the crowd in tidal waves, not trusting my own thoughts to keep me afloat I used others as my life rafts for the majority of my time in middle school. The one thing that I had that was my own was books, it was sort of a guilty pleasure of sorts, even though I swore through my teeth that I hated the things. Even when I would get that little spark of happiness or that spine tingling feeling when I would pick up a new story and flip through the pages in less than a day. But, from fear of being called a nerd, or a geek or be out cast I pretended they were devil spawns like everyone else. That even included my parents, but of course, it was difficult to just not read, we had reading test and quizzes it was required of us to read, so I stuck to the one thing I knew that wouldn’t turn heads, books like Goosebumps and Magic Tree house was my saviors. They were small, containing two-hundred pages at best and popular among middle schoolers at that time.

Do to me playing the part for so long of a book avoider I became accustomed to those books and anything higher in lever began to scare me. Most of my classmates complained about how difficult the books were, filled with complicated words and page after page of complete boredom. So, I believed that for a long time, until the fateful day my friend gave me the novel Maximum ride and the angel experiment by James Patterson. I was weary at first refusing her offer and trying to give the novel back, it was a good three hundred pages more than my typical story and the cover didn’t look that interesting. She was persistent though standing her ground and insisted that I at least read the first page. So, I did not want to be rude, it was safe to say it was the right choice. The very first sentence caught my attention almost immediately and a sentence turned into the page which turned into a chapter and so on. It was amazing, fantastic, beyond great. The book contained so much action, plot and an actual story that I almost felt overwhelmed. The books detail was far better than half of the books I read before and I got the familiar spine tingling exhilarating feeling that I received from the others books I read. It also was the story that made me realize that fantasy stories were worth being a nerd for.

The things I’ve noticed in my life. sometimes when I breathe while sleeping my noes whistles, and wakes me up at night.  When I zone out I’m not really daydreaming rather listening to the air conditioning unit, I do this often. When I get dressed in the morning I don’t process anything that I do into I actually leave the room. I forget thing faster than I probably remember them. My head twitches to the side when I feel proud of myself. I pop my neck in every one of my classes. The floorboard of the literary room has a lot of scuffs marks on the floor. The ceiling is also floorboard but just painted white. I really like it at this school despite the fact that I thought I would be miserable. I stutter whenever Sam walks toward me. My stuttering problem, in general, is getting worse but also at the same time more maintainable.The Ceiling lights of JI look like UFO’s or upside down pyramids with circle bases. I like my friends here much more than I like the ones back home. I haven’t had a brain freeze in like a year. writing has become a natural coping mechanism for me. The floor of my Spanish classroom is a giant square with black tiles outlining outer cashmere tiles that remind me of sand against volcanic dust. My computer keyboard has ants living in them and when I type they crawl out. Everyone has someone, even if they themselves believe they are alone there will always be another human being that has their back whether they know it or not. I like the steady strum of typing that always fills the literary room when we blog. I have begun to bite my nails less. When it’s time for me to go home a feeling of dread sets over my body which is quickly replaced by comfort when I’m actually at my house. The world is starting to become a more accepting place. My poetry is starting to get better in my eyes. I’m getting used to speaking in front of others despite my outer fear. I cant control my facial expression. I’m allergic to citrus. Every single person has morals but its just a matter of applying them thatch the real problem. When I ramble and just type out random things a story usually comes after. I never know how to end a story or a blog.