Category: Junior Literary

how to be as passive as orange:
which came first? The fruit or the orange?
“oh, I’m sorry. you can go first.”
bring books to the lunchroom
and hide in obscure color wheels
let bully neighbor red claim to be the opposite of blue
piss your pants in stores because you’re too afraid
to ask your dad to go to the bathroom.
cry, but softly. learn that a warm washcloth
will make your eyes less puffy.
make your pillows run away because they want
to be screamed into, someone who knows
how to speak above a whisper.
write all your fonts in size 11 calibri, all lowercase,
because old red’s gotta monopoly on that times new roman.

blue is looking for you
she’s spewing the advice her grandma told her
about how opposites attact.
she smells like her grandma’s old cats,
and she has a new quilt, too
along with a bit of a belly that wasn’t there before.
do you want her? red wants her more,
he’s the one outside her door,
leaning against mustang car doors,
schmoozing her mother with two bouquets of flowers
and giving her father the best goddamn handshake
he’s ever had in his life.
have you ever wanted anything
more than anyone, everyone else?
have you ever wanted anything?
can you even feel her?
she’s burning summer blues
and you’re the rotten fruit on the ground.
she could be the death of you–
aren’t you excited?

Ever since some young age I’ve been waiting for the day I was older. Always pining for the experiences, the new foreign feelings. The emotions, the endorphins, the testosterone flooding my body with the new-found confidence that seemed to ooze from all teenagers. There was a power that came from that title.  Me! A teenage girl in the twenty-first century. It was magical, almost heart-stopping as I crawled my way up the age tree. TV-fueled these feelings, PARTIES! ROMANCE! FREEDOM! Always blasting itself through the screen beckoning me to join them. Sometimes I felt like I could reach out and slip into their world and become part of their society. But every time my hand touched the screen all I hit was tough plastic and glass. And I was once again stuck starring and waiting and becoming less patient and frustrated at the slow progress. You could call me naive, but I considered myself to be a dreamer. Gently dancing through until I could become who I was truly meant to be. Now, this wasn’t all I built up when I was young, I had more. I had ways to boost the progress to speed along things to keep me occupied for the time being. What else were there other than, BOYS, BOYS, BOYS! Boy crazy was what people would call it. You couldn’t be without a partner, a mate, a boy, a man. And I tried. I tried so hard at times I’m surprised the desperation didn’t leak out my pores. I was very shy, almost frightfully so. I fled from spotlight like a rat-faced with a flashlight. Every unfamiliar gaze sent me running like my feet were on fire. Then with some new-found bravado I spoke, though rarely to boys that caught my eye. Looking back on it, it was cringe-worthy to say the least. With my atrocious talking skills always interrupted every few seconds with the feeling to stu-stu-stu-stutter and the need to bite my tongue off from the way too soft words. Though through some magic of sorts, I actually did gain a boy or two or three. Now what did that do to my painfully desolated psyche when things went extremely wrong? Who’s at fault, who’s the culprit, who didn’t try hard enough. I was in grade school; did it really matter? But then again it did matter. Every failed attempt I sulked and tried again, slowly moving up a grade until it was finally time. When my birthday loomed nye and little old twelve-year-old me starred at the clock counting the seconds, holding her breathe. Then finally the stroke of midnight! I was finally a teen a very people starved, sad, lonely teen. Still pinning still feeling like I was less because a few bad attempts and a couple of destroyed friendships. Did that stop me, no it didn’t, I stilled pushed looking for that one person to have and to hold. Now you see, I wish they would have just rejected me because maybe if I was hurt the first times I wouldn’t have kept going. Maybe I would have actually waited. Maybe now I would have a sense of what a relationship is supposed to be. But it did happen like that and I wish I wasn’t so hung up on the maybes and just let it go the second the memories turned sour.

Being mixed feels weird. Really weird. I don’t know how else to describe it. I don’t really fit completely with one or the other. I’m too white to be Latino but not white enough to escape the racist Mexican jokes. I feel like most times I’m only one or the other when it is convenient for other people. I’m Latino when I’m the butt of the joke or on legal papers but then I’m white the second I call out people out on their racist nonsense. I’m always the one who has to apologize to people for feeling uncomfortable about their racist jokes so I don’t get labeled as ‘too sensitive’ or ‘over dramatic’. So I pretended to not acknowledge the tense silence that followed after my friend’s parents asked me if my dad was born in America and I said I didn’t know. So I pretended to zone out whenever my teacher thought it was a good idea to ask opinions on immigration. So I pretended not to think about the fact that some of my friends supported Trump’s campaign. Another thing that really sucks about being half Latino is the fact that I’m not fluent in Spanish even though both of my parents are fluent and get a ton of heat for it. I usually let it slide when a Latino person gets onto me for it but if its a non-Latino person I can’t stand it. People are always saying stuff like “I’m 50 percent Irish, 10 percent polish, 20 percent German, and 20 percent Italian” and then when they find out I’m half Mexican and can’t speak Spanish then I’m “not a real Mexican”. Like, you don’t see me saying they’re not real German or whatever they’re descended from because they can’t speak the language. When you can speak Irish, Polish, German, and Italian then you can come back to me and complain about not knowing Spanish. Go learn your Spanish curse words from google translate.

I love your earthen smile and the sadness quilted in it. The way the ocean stands startled at the blue flecks in your irises…

…

I want to peel my skin off with how pathetic this is.

(That was supposed to be an example of some of the cliché writing I create on a daily basis.)

I am not good, I am not anyone, and my poetry means nothing only because absolutely nothing drives it.

Nothing has really ever driven me besides fear. And now that I am not scared of anything, anyone, even, I don’t know what to do with myself.

There are fragments of my fallout that keep catching on people I’ve connected with.

My pieces. Me, rubbing off. I have lost myself; everyone keeps pulling me apart.

(And I let it happen.)

I’ve never cared less about what happens around me than I do now, and the thought used to scare me. I think I have been caring so much, for so long, that, I finally busted. My insides aren’t feeling inside of me these days. My face is one that is photo-shopped, incorrect, incomplete.

I am not sorry about hurting people, or maybe it is that I have become so sorry that I do not understand the emotion anymore. (Sorry doesn’t mean much and it’s because I overuse it.)

For the most part, I want to do better.

Not because of any other reason I’ve ever had before, mostly because I’m running out of time.

(Time for what? )

I’ve got no clue. I can just feel all of my life slipping away before I’ve even gotten a chance to begin it. I want to scream. This font isn’t big enough. The words don’t mean anything. Life tends to be irrevocably terrible, at times.

I start counseling tomorrow. I feel like a story book character. I don’t want to talk to anybody. I want to be better. I just don’t want to be normal.

…

Hey, me again. I’m doing a little better than when I started this blog. I still want to scream, pretty much always.

Big things sometimes happen without me realizing it. I am just now in my life beginning to understand how much I’ve looked over in my past. I have a lot of feelings in me, always, and I have trouble expressing how much I care and don’t care and feel and just cannot feel sometimes.

I think this me is for the best. Being strange is like sitting in the part of a pillowcase that only holds air. While the rest seems tucked away tightly, I am feeling a little spacious, floating around above everything else, cotton clear. I keep seeing things.

(That metaphor was stupid, but I am not going to change it.)

There is going to be a lot for us right now, and there is going to be a lot for us tomorrow. We just have to wait it out.

Dionysus, I’m begging, but he’s choking me with grape vines
to watch me turn purple, then green, and his eyes
are dripping, pouring. I’m asking, is that for me?
Yes. His voice is that that of a hundred crying babies.
It’ll make your troubles a little lighter. The panther looms
in the jungle behind ivy, ears back. soft. scared.
Dionysus is flicking away a patch of marble on his cheek,
spitting bout how they chiseled him rotten
and how he preferred bursting from his father’s bloody thigh
more than that statue. He’s smiling at me with a thousand teeth
and three jaws, grape juice and slobber dripping off his tongue,
carved like a gothic pitchfork, all underneath the canopy
of two thousand birds circling above, waiting. ready. hungry.
Baby bird’s sharpening his wings and snapping his dull beak in half
to have shards, screaming obscenities in form of a light tune.
Thunderstorms in the distance. Don’t worry, Dionysus is laughing.
He’s spitting teeth and liver on the ground. Dad doesn’t visit here.
Divine snot is running free from Dionysus’s nose, and his teeth
are glinting three thousand bottles. Take a sip, he’s saying.
And then we’re kissing ecstasy, his lips rigid like a wine bottle.

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.

My best friend’s girl

You think you’re tough just cuz you can turn into a dragon, huh?

You don’t even have arms!

Alone at Steak Escape at 5:42 P.M.

this has all made me into someone i don’t understand

i feel okay

i feel okay too

pretty wild

makeup wipes

body wash

sequential art

Mitch Welling

i just feel like us getting back together would fix everything

it wouldn’t  fix me

i can’t believe i’m going to die a virgin

i can

virginia slims

elliot smith

daphodils

you’re all i have

i don’t want you to want me now that you have nothing else.

leave and love you

address mail as follows:

(name of student)

msa student life center

355 west monticello street

box(student box number)

Brookhaven, MS 39601

the only reason you were chosen is because you’re expendable. you’re invisible. you have nothing to loose. no one would care or notice if you died.

dissociating is like 80s cartoon interactions

good luck i am extremely hard to kill

carter kiss

everytime boy pablo

i guess my point at the end of all of this is that it’s not always your fault for the bad things that happen to you but its your responsibility to figure it out

end stage

xochipilli uses broom as weapon and hits quezlacoatl in the head with it

jamie’s friend tells her about the beat up gay kid

mom friend anxiety override

good manners

thelma

signature move

draw characters 80s anime style

fire flannel jesus

ganas de vivir

just when i thought you couldn’t get any uglier

sad jesus angry caroline

draw robots

i look like hell

feel like it too

don’t ask me why

just take a look at the news

while i’m getting older

your body will just be getting colder

F*** love

i’m sorry someone hurt you

this isn’t your first drink?

did you really think it would be?

i don’t really know what to think about you, tho i must confess i find myself thinking about you a lot these days.

do you now?

you’re always in the back of my mind.

why is that?

i was hoping you could tell me.

brat

chill

spoiled

pig

std

boring

sob story

not confident

sensitive

los lobos

angel thot topic

cheap demons lemons

9/11

get along sweaters

be wary little man, it is not god that listens when you pray for such things

:))))))) 🙂 🙂

yea one second let me ask my mom

2/21/18

(This is an odd post, bear with me please.)

My outlooks on life are seemingly crude despite my inner outreach for positivity. It is for the sole and simple fact that I am constantly and irrevocably terrified of everything around me. I am scared that if I actually show the amount of content I am with myself, someone or something will come along and take that security  away from me.

It’s something I’ve feared for a long time. Life was not simple or fun or easy before coming to school here. Heck, it’s usually not any of those things now, but days are easier and I feel like I can breathe. It’s an odd feeling.

Going years and years not realizing how the thoughts in your head are not right and the way you see yourself is actually distorted is something that people can get caught up in. I spent years (I feel dumb writing this because it makes me sound older than I am and I hate that but at the same time I feel older than I am so I’m just going to go with it- I’m sorry) doing and feeling things that I shouldn’t have. I’ve gotten myself into situations that not only hurt myself, but the people around me. Years of, not only physical, but mental self-harm left a lot of scars that I feel like I am constantly trying to cover up. With like, metaphorical scar cream or something.

I put people that I care about in unfair positions just to see how they would react. This is not a good thing, I suggest not doing it. It causes more problems than its worth.

My mom and I have a very complicated relationship because of me. And her. I can’t say mostly her or mostly me because it was team effort to screw up the whole thing. Even though it has gotten better, things are still tense and weird at times. (Update: she’s not mad about my tattoo.)

I don’t really know what else to put for the last 100 words. This was as personal as I’ve gotten in a long time, and it’s not even that personal so that shows how I am, I guess.

 I’m tired of hating myself? That’s a thing I can add. It’s boring and cliche and extremely exhausting. I don’t technically love myself, but I’m in the process of at least accepting that my stomach is not completely flat and how my nose resembles a bird’s beak more than an actual nose. I love birds. I want to be a bird when I grow up.

so i’ve had my fair share of phases in my life, as i assume we all have. i’m sure everyone had that weird random phase from 4th to 6th grade (somewhere around that window). i went through a period of really hating justin bieber and one direction. i had a big thing for american girl magazines and making stuff out of duct tape for a little while. really had a thing for zebra print at some point in time? also: there was a pretty big window where i was obsessed with charles schulz’s peanuts cartoons, particularly snoopy and woodstock (the snoopy shirts infect my closet to this day).

my phases have been… questionable, to say the least.

but where my phases really kick it into first gear is middle school.

see, 6th grade was pretty innocent. i was hangin’ out, doin’ my thing, just bein’ a weird 11-year-old on the tail-end of her snoopy-&-woodstock days. i really loved the beatles (the only positive residue from 4th grade), still wore clothes from justice, and thought i was très cool with my new side bangs AND glasses AND pierced ears. this was also the point at which i was introduced to a little sci-fi show called doctor who by my gifted teacher and quickly fell in love. it was absolutely disgusting, but mostly harmless.

then we get to 7th grade. this is where things really go downhill. see, this is the year i became simultaneously obsessed with sherlock, which was already a mistake (however, i still love this show and watch it with my dad so any poking fun at it and we’re gonna tussle). this was also the time i discovered panic! at the disco, dan and phil, and some other stuff that i’m most likely repressing. i was also introduced to some band called fall out boy by one of my friends i had art class with, and yall already know where this is going.

the summer before 8th grade (and just the rest of 8th grade) was full of bad decisions – GO TO JAIL GO DIRECTLY TO JAIL DO NOT PASS GO DO NOT COLLECT $200 GO TO JAIL decisions. but somehow, i pulled through. and fell straight into black skinny jeans. this was when my chemical romance and muse became staples in my itunes library, along with the bands discovered the previous school year, and also when i generally just said really dumb things to people because i was in such a terrible mental state that i couldn’t register how to be a not-stupid human being. however, about halfway through 8th grade, i had a Transformation. i went from emo, black-sweater wearing, hipster-despising weirdo to pastel, flower-crown wearing, sweater-loving weirdo. i mean, the weirdo part stuck around because i was genuinely just WEIRD in middle school, but it was definitely a 180. this was also about the time i first started talking to my best friend, and god bless her for sticking around after that atrocity.

i used to pride myself on being “not like other girls” (barf), being one of those ~edgy~ alternative kids. i refused to listen to bands like arctic monkeys or the 1975 (lol). i thought the perks of being a wildflower was the most pompous, contrived movie/book franchise i’d ever heard of in my life. come 8th grade, however, i was laying in my bed with tears ROLLING down my face as i held a torrent of the movie on my phone screen, singing in between sobs WE CAN BE HEROES *sniff* JUST FOR ONE DAY *cough*. 8th grade was a hot mess and a half, but it spurred the transition from disgusting emo kid to disgusting pretentious hipster.

and with the end of that, we have high school. that’s a wild ride for another time.

In the beginning I was unaware of everything around me. I was what a ‘woke’ person would call “sheeple”, a person who acts like sheep, following what they’re told and waiting for the slaughter. When I first learned of being “woke” I was completely astonished. It was a surprise to learn that most of what I’d been told or taught was not true. At the start of my research I started with listening to conscious music, rappers such as Ab-soul, Kendrick Lamar, and Capital Steez who more or less preached about institutionalized racism, overcoming stereotypes pinned on African Americans/African(s). In the process of becoming conscious I’ve learned about feminism, misogyny (the dislike of, contempt for, or ingrained prejudice against women), and hatred towards interracial and same sex couples. I’ve diverged from my old self, the immature, naive, and ever so lost in the world me. I no longer speak badly of others, make racial jokes, or act the role of a stereotypical “light-skinned girl”

While learning about misogyny I’ve discovered many cases, including the ever so on going rape crimes. Misogyny is simply hate towards women, which I believe stemmed from men (and women’s) youth. Starting with mothers, or a lack of, the hatred towards and/or for women come from the lack of love only a mother could give. Misogyny is more common in the Middle East than anywhere else. People there tend to treat their women like less than human. The animals are valued there more than females.

In becoming conscious I also have learned about Buddhism, which is my philosophy. The Golden Rule being “Hurt not others in ways that you yourself would find hurtful” (Udana-Varga 5:18). While practicing Buddhism I have learned to turn all my negative energy into positive behavior. Buddhism is a way of life that I’m glad I’ve come across.

Overall, becoming conscious has turned me into a more mature and understanding person. I no longer make racial jokes or pick on others because of their differences. My consciousness has allowed me to see the world differently, in a new and brighter light, I am no longer a small child who knows no better, I am a young adult who is aware of the world around her.