” An Introspect of Afterlife”

meat sagging behind skin

dangling from crumpled bone

yellow carved initials in the marrow

tomorrow will our graves be given name?

call it distasteful, disgraceful,

but I slide from one shade of broken to the next

through the salt and tongue and lie and gone

bruised fingers and cracked knuckles

penetrate, disintegrate

integration the definition of our sick nature

join the army of restless rebellion to find anything but your

peace of mind

leave that behind

blink your black eyes and spit through

your blood lies

let them sit upon our teeth for a change

we are nothing more than overgrown penitence

personalities decaying as our bodies sway to a rhythm

bound and busted

its not that uncomfortable, being dead

I’ve dug my grave a million times over

and have lied in the shameful dirt

as safely as I did in that house

or not at all

the flies at first become bothersome

but after a few centuries

you get over it

 

 

I’ve always had trouble with sleeping – get too much or too little.  Not nearly enough or so much it affects me the next day and my ability to keep my eyes open in class.  Do not sleep a wink or sleep for what feels like a week.  This has been part of my unpredictable routine since the sixth grade.  I have spent countless nights, laying awake, staring at the bland ceiling above my bed, counting down the hours I could get in if I were to go to sleep right now and sacrifice breakfast in the morning.  Five hours on a good night, two and sometimes even one on a bad night, and six or seven on an extremely lucky night.  I grew accustomed to having bags under my eyes when I was thirteen.  Got used to covering them up as well I could with makeup.  And eventually, it was like they were hardly there at all.  It felt like, maybe in the world of the impossible that I somehow lived in temporarily, that they had just disappeared.  Truth was, they had only disappeared from my mind.  I stopped worrying about how obvious they were and how I looked like one of those mentally ill teenagers on sappy sit-coms that eventually have someone miraculously cure them of their terrible fate that had been made to live out.  I knew no one was going to fix my problem because this is real life; real life doesn’t happen that way.  But after a few years, things seemed to be getting better – until last night, when I barely managed to get three hours of sleep.  And the thing is, you’d think I would be half asleep right now.  But I’m not.  I am wide awake – or as they say ‘bright-eyed and bushy tailed.’ I haven’t felt this awake in months.  Three hours.  You know, they say the average human being needs seven to eight hours of sleep each night, and that used to be appropriate for me, as well.  But I’m not so sure anymore.  The past two months, I’ve been getting about seven or eight hours every single night, and I would wake up feeling as though I had been asleep for a total of five minutes.  Maybe I don’t need so much, after all.  I should be tired – very tired.  But I am not.  My mind is racing, my feet are moving – I feel perfectly fine.  But what keeps running through my mind is:  Is this normal?

I bet you were expecting this to be a blog about some dude making juice.  He probably cuts a whole bunch of oranges in half and twists them over a juicer.  He probably winds up questioning life with a glass of juice by the end of it.  I don’t blame you for thinking that.  That’s not too different from what I usually write.  I don’t know why it is that I write stuff like that.  I think it’s partially that I like to try to make people think.  I try to catch them by surprise with what I write, but that’s kind of becoming stale for me.  I’m not sure what I need to do about that, but I don’t want to let my writing go stale.  I think the same reason that I usually write that stuff is the reason I’m writing this, I want to defy expectations.  I think that I’ve set an expectation for what my writing should be like, and I guess this is me trying to break that.  I just don’t want to get stuck in a rut.  You look at authors that get old, and critics always say that they aren’t as good as they used to be because now they’re just putting out more of the same stuff even if the same stuff from before was good the first time.  I really don’t want to let this happen to me.  I have ideas for things that are different, but I don’t know if they’re good.  I guess that’s part of the never-ending risk taking that comes with being a writer.  You never really know what’s going to work, but if you stick to one thing, it’ll get old after a while.  I just gave this a random title that sounded like a title I’d give a short story when I started writing this, but I feel like it kind of applies to what I’m talking about regardless of my original intention in naming it what I did.  I feel like I’ve been juicing the same fruit for a while now, and if I’m not careful, it’ll run dry.  I know that I need to try other fruits, different kinds of fruits, but I’m afraid because maybe the juice won’t be as sweet.  I guess finding out that a certain kind of juice isn’t worth drinking would be better than squeezing the same dry fruit that once held a sweet juice until the end of time.

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 feel as if censorship is both a pro and a con. In whatever you do, you are trying to get your point across, and sometimes you cannot do that for whatever reason. It may be that the topic is controversial or it may trigger people. As a poet, my point may be proved by a lot of imagery, or hard facts. I can conjure up an image of whatever I desire in whoever’s mind. There are a lot of sensitive people in this world and for that reason, we are asked to “tone it down”. Now I can only ask, why am I, a poet, told to lessen the sense of MY medium. I truly feel that if you are that sensitive, don’t attend, read, ever participate in whatever is happening. But again, I see censorship as a pro, more so, it is a challenge. When you are confined within four walls, it will drive you to madness, which will become creativity. When you are not allowed to do one thing, you do others. So with censorship, you will find loopholes and crafty ways to do what you do best.  You will be forced to use your wit. Triggering scenarios in literary pieces are a big reason censorship is used, but trigger warnings can combat that.

Coming to MSA has been one of the weirdest experiences of my life. It’s not just the classes or the people or even the decent food that makes it odd- it’s the fact that I, without a doubt, am one of the most claustrophobic people in the universe. Now, I don’t mean in the sense of I can’t be in enclosed spaces or crammed in a large crowd but in the way that I can only stay in Wesson for two days, max, before my blood feels like it’s boiling and my fingers itch to get behind the wheel and just go. 

Seeing the same thing day after day and being stuck in the same routine tends to wear on my nerves faster than I care to admit, so being here has been strange. I have only felt the slightest itch in my hands and my blood has only attempted to simmer on less than a few occasions. You might could add this strange occurrence to the reality that I’ve only dormed here for two weeks instead of the nearly six that everyone else has had to deal with, but still. Being in a place for more than a few hours tends to send my skin into jitters.

The only place that I can’t seem to spend enough time in is my own home. And, in no way, do I want to even attempt to send the idea that I feel as if MSA is my home. And writing that sounds sort of harsh but that’s a discussion for another post. I just find it odd that, though I seem to stir here, its not the same  as if I was stuck in Wesson. Not Wesson school, but Wesson as a town- a whole place. Even though I can drive from corner to corner and feel better, it’s not the same thing as heading out and down the highway towards Brookhaven or Jackson.

My point is: for me, this whole experience as an MSA student has been pretty odd. Maybe the fact that I have my best friend here helps, or that I have made plenty of friends in order to occupy my time so I don’t realize that I am utterly trapped here has had something to do with it. Either way, I’m glad that I don’t have to constantly feel the pull of some far-off adventure while I’m here. The only exception, of course, being Fridays.

the question looms over me like everything did when i was a little kid. little six year old me is staring up with her little blue eyes and little white teeth and little pink bow in her hair, and everything feels gigantic. and when you’re six years old, it feels like everything’s gonna stay like this forever. the chairs are always going to be to big you feel like they swallow you whole every time you sit down. the door handles are always going to require tippy-toes to reach. you’ll always have to jump on the counter to reach the top cabinet in the kitchen to find the paper plates that are shaped like animals.

but then you get older. you get taller and longer and stronger. the chairs become smaller and the door handles become lower and the cabinets become easier to reach (although if you’re my size you definitely still have to hop onto the counter to find the honey in the back of the cabinet).

nothing got smaller. you just got bigger.

you grew.

i grew.

and maybe one day i’ll grow even more, and the question that makes my heart speed up every time i look at it won’t tower over me anymore. maybe i’ll become even bigger and stronger, and asking what i want to be remembered for will be as trivial as my birthday or my favorite color.

but until then, i have to sit on the question like the big chairs and think about it. what do i want to be remembered for? do i want to be remembered for one of the many facets of my personality? do i want to be remembered for my wit or my sense of humor? or do i want to be remembered for the aesthetics? do i want people to remember my laugh or my sense of style? or do i want to be remembered for my accomplishments? do i want to be remembered for the impact the books i hope to write will have on the world or the way my poetry moved people?

i don’t know what i want to be remembered for quite yet, and i don’t know what version of me is going to be remembered when there’s no me to be memorable anymore. maybe 15-year-old me is the me remembered by friends i made at art camp. maybe 18-year-old me will be the me remembered by the msa class of 2020. maybe 30-something-year-old me will be remembered by the people who read my books.

who i want to be and who i am now are two sides of the same coin, but i’m learning to let the space between them inspire me, not terrify me.

 

My name is silence,

Lost in the words you cared not to remember,

It is not a bad thing to forget,

Just remember my words,

Let my words soothe your heart,

Let them boil blood and start riots,

Let my words bring tears to the eyes of the heartless,

Let them crash into the wall of the close minded like wrecking balls into building,

My words are to be heard like the battle-cries of victorious armies,

They are not to collect dust on bookshelves left untended and forgotten,

I care not if my name is written in the history books we give our children,

But let my words take hold in your mind,

Let them feed off your emotions,

Give them a meaning only you can understand,

For these words are no longer mine,

They are yours

Lost Dimensions of You

The doctor recommends at least an hour of sunlight a day.
They say that it may have prevented what happened to you.
But they’re just guessing.
You were outside from dawn to dusk all your life,
Soaking in the light.
Darkness still overtook.
A picked wildflower.
Falling petals, you are losing dimensions.
You used to glow and grow,
Until those clammy hands caressed your lovely stem,
Sending a vine up your spine,
Draining your light.
You began to struggle,
Reaching for help with thorns extended.

Daily tasks became too much.
So you sank into the couch like a void,
Hating me more every time I left.
I know you live in agony,
But I shouldn’t have had to hold your hand
Just so you wouldn’t end your life.
I shouldn’t have had to be called names,
Shoved against the wall,
Spit on my face from your screeching.
Just for not finishing my Zucchini.
And I can remember the seven times I ran away from home–
No. The house.
And you told me to go to Hell the eighth time.
So I obeyed and I stayed.
And my feet still ache
From the egg shells I stepped on trying to please you,
The eggs you shattered.

You were supposed to be taking care of me.
I held you,
A flower wilting in my arms.
You always seemed to vie for my tears,
Hungrily guzzling them down,
But they never could hydrate you into the flower you once were.
And you pulled me close,
Melting me against your chest with the fire of your toxicity.
Tears to steam,
Rosy skin to scales,
Kind heart morphing,
Mixing and swirling together in brutal ways.
And for years, we were one in the same.

But who are you? I don’t feel like I know you.
They tell me you were great before it happened.
A wildflower, swaying in the wind,
Moving and grooving to your very own song.
But the vine fed on your brain,
And you slipped and slid from this dimension.
I could see you still, but you were not you.
As a young child, I remember you were two dimensional.
You were like a painting,
Though I don’t think a painting stings like that did,
An abrasive slap across the face.
And you have since become even less.

And anyone else would think you are just fine at first glance,
But I can see you glowing at the edges,
The outline of your body shaking,
As if your atoms are unbounded–
A bomb.
You always erupted cataclysmically so,
And your atoms swung like knives.
But you never did quite get all of them back.
Part of a person,
You have been seen again,
But never known.

And Mom–
Mom, I think I miss you.
I think I miss someone I never really met,
Someone I would have been proud to know.
And Mom–
I love you.
I love you when I see your mother in the reflection of your glassy eyes,
A woman who was so overtaken with the vine herself,
That she could not hold a conversation.
I love you even when you explode with fury,
And especially when you’re happy, almost a whole person,
Wonderful and bright!
When you’re funny, creative, ambitious, and you really like puns.

And I’m sorry I said all those mean things about you earlier,
You’re so strong,
The least I can do is dodge a plate and not complain.
At least you made zuchinni.
Please let me hold your head as you cry.
I’m sorry I left home.
I’ll come back.
I’ll be just like you again if that will make you happy.
I’m sorry
I’m so sorry.
Please forgive me.
Smash my head against the door
If it makes you feel better.

And I’m smothered in the shadow of the vine millions fed,
As it looms over me.
For multiple sclerosis
Is a genetic disease.

I have found that when I look at my past self. We don’t have much in common.

People who saw her saw only a toy.  Something to be played with.  Unsolicited, sexist, and vulgar comments they’d spit.  The cringiest things.

People who associated themselves with her called her ghetto, as if ghetto were an adjective.

The few people who thought they knew her, thought she was so strong, so tough.  They thought nothing ever truly got to her.  Never was she shook; or, so they thought.

But they never really knew the true me.  She had a sense of self.  She knew her emotions, and they were strong.  She had confidence, pride, and passion. She was headstrong but open-minded.  She knew where she belonged and where she could make herself a place to be.  She could make anyplace her home.

That girl was intimidating. She would step right up to the tallest boy in school and knock out his two front teeth despite the fact she’d have to find some sort of way to reach his mouth.

That was the old me; brave, sure, always standing tall.  Or perhaps I had myself fooled, because now, I’ve been put in a new situation; a harmless environment where I feel safe for the most part.  And now I am unsure.  I am not brave.  I’m quite scared, because I don’t know where I’m headed or who I am.  My head is not on my shoulders because my shoulders are already heavily burdened.  So I tend to lose it from time to time.  But that’s okay.  I will grow into myself; filling that mysterious gap in my personality.

My head will instead floats above the clouds and I will find myself never where I need to be, but I will not care.  I will be perplexed.  I will be ignorant to all my problems until I trip, slicing my knees on the concrete.  I will not feel it.  No, I will not numb in a angsty art-kid way.  No, I will be  numb because I choose to wipe off the blood and push the pain off into the grass.

Now I will never be sure.  I shall go with the flow.  I’ll roll with it.  I’ll try not to overthink things much.  I will strive to become impulsive.  I’ll have never been so ecstatic to make mistakes.  Of course, there are consequences.  However,  I shall continue this way because I am exploring.  I am finding myself.