Mi culpa

Sometimes it can feel like every bad thing that has happened is because of something I’ve done because I’ve messed things up so many times.
And it’s just really hard.
It’s the most lonely feeling realizing that the common thread of your loved ones’ sadness is you.

Maybe I'll never get over it...

I thought that this pain was over,
that when I turned 16, I finally understood that the way
I would have wanted things to be
was not necessarily what was best for everyone.

Those 15 words hit me like 15 bullets,
piercing my skin, driving through my major organs...
"In these moments,
I would love to hear what your mother would have to say."

We are made for dancing

Finding another function of
the human body is impossible
while I am tangled in a string of
synths, beats, ballads, and treble.

What kind of alternative purpose
would my arms carry aside
from rising and falling to tunes
like a refreshing summer tide?

Trancing, dancing, romancing,
the bobbing of light-washed skulls
frames my perceptional painting--
They carry me through the booms and lulls.

My body -- a crisp leaf, is whisked
and caressed by the slight, mild wind.
Hypnotized and mesmerized, this place
is unlike anywhere I have ever been.

silent tears in the library

The simple-minded would assume that the man who
labors daily for countless hours at a food
cart on the winter streets of New York City
would be someone that would envy
Me: a privileged white girl attending
university on the California coast.

But the truth is, I envy this man because
he has the privilege of being able to serve
you
and see your warm smile
as the hot and slightly greasy Styrofoam meets your
cold hands, bitten by the winter air. He watches
you turn, nodding your head to the beats of songs
on a playlist that I made for you. I can imagine
this scene but ceaselessly wanting to be in it
is a pain that the man who works the cart
doesn't understand.

Fuck the Quarter System

Why
do I do this
to myself
and suffocate
myself
and drown
myself
and burn
myself
and taunt
myself
and torture
myself
and lie to
myself
and beat up on
myself
and smother
myself
and overwhelm
myself
and expect things from
myself

The Poem Has Been Written (In response to: The Poem Unwritten by Denise Levertov)

In that instance, we both knew that no one would know us better.

Ever since that moment, the pen that lives

caged by rusty metal in my chest has yet to cease

scribbling the thousands of thoughts that you bring

to my seemingly insane conscious.

When hysteria knocks on my skull,

turning the soft thumps into deeper booms,

infinite ink oozes from the tip of my pen as my blood becomes

the words that I am endlessly sewing together for you.

As long as I am living, you will have poems.

Moving these words from blood to paper

Is not as simple of a task as moving from place to place…

Budging this boulder, giant and realistically an impossible feat,

with words and commas, suddenly becomes possible.

My dear, the poem has always been written.

people are garbage

The way that people ask me
"Why are you being so nice to me?" --
How is it that hard? To simply care for someone else.

Weird

When I see you in the morning,
I will no longer be mourning.

It hurts but it's ok

Sometimes it hurts a little too much

to care a little too much.

Is it too much 

to say that if I didn't care about so much,

I wouldn't care about living so much?

My Face is Leaking

When my face starts to leak,

I expel my quelled troubles

into Kleenex and

at other less convenient times

into the sleeves of my sweatshirt and

the space between my brows

grows two lines that know each other

but have never really met;

still, my heart promptly answers their loneliness

with escalation of oscillation

provoking a competition

between

my vision and my perception

to see which one will be victorious in dominating

the reality of this tender moment.

A Sunday That Isn't, Really

Petals crash onto the marble-tiled floor --
A broken plan made of shattered love.
The color of spring stains the ground
and washing it away would only erase the sting.

When water floods my view
am I watering the blossoms in my chest
or diluting a poisonous concentration
meant for only me to drink?

My dear, we are falling
upside down, so maybe it is flying,
but that doesn't change the fact
that I feel like I'm falling sometimes.

I never thought that the Strokes could make me cry,
but today they did.
Static creeps above the silence
and I breathe to kiss it away.

Cabin Fever

It doesn't have to be like this

and I want to find where it's different.

I live in a world where in a matter of hours

I can cross at least three oceans

And emerge on the other side of the planet.

Sun-faded

There's something about Southern California that
makes you feel as if you aren't missing anything.
But, I think that may be the problem,
that sometimes the palm trees and ocean breezes
function more as blindfolds than escapes.
In that case, ignorance is what it is, not bliss.

There are days when I wake up and the sun
leaks through my apartment window and I'm
not upset that it woke me up but instead I'm upset because
I want to be woken by the smell of rain on freshly mowed grass,
And watch the raindrops on the pane as they race each other,
Slipping down the condensated glass
and finally forming one puddle at the bottom.

Desert plants are hard, sharp, with pointy edges,
and deciduous plants are soft, fluffy and lush.
Sometimes I feel sun-faded here,
And my thirst can't be quenched by the saltwater
that is gorgeous but draining. Sometimes I want to taste
the water that falls from the sky and have an excuse to
wear rain-soaked clothes. Even though it's uncomfortable,
the relief of changing into fleece sweatpants after running
from the bus stop into my overpriced student housing
makes me feel something that I can't begin to really explain.

I want to wake up with the rain falling on a tin-roof
in a warm apartment, with the window open only ever-so-slightly
so that I can feel the crisp air and bursts during the
moments when the breeze picks up. I'll close my eyes and
breathe and understand better the feeling of making a home.

Baby Fat

I've always wanted a flat stomach
but today I learn to love the little flab
of skin above my womanhood that refuses
to be gotten rid of no matter how many
reverse crunches and mountain-climbers I complete.
This little flab is a reminder of my resilience
representing years of dinners that consisted of pasta
and homemade bolognese, not really knowing
at the time that this choice was subsistence and not
nutrition because the grocery bill totaled half as much
when my mother made this choice for our family.

No Captain

Synths slip and soothe my sleepy soul,
Seeing the soon-to-be stages,
Swaying side-to-side,
side-by-side,
Suddenly serene and surrounded by sound

We Flew to the Forest

I’ll always remember how it felt when we went.
There was never a need to take a photo,
The things we can remember from a simple scent.

Snug and burrowed, stuffed in sleeping bags, cozied up in a tent,
the diamonds danced on the ceiling, kissing good-night.
I’ll always remember how it felt when we went.

Smothered flames left smokey pungence to document
our marshmallow-covered lips in wholesome talks
The things we can remember from a simple scent.

We traipsed through the wood with unknown intent,
Lush grass, damp moss beneath bare feet...
I’ll always remember how it felt when we went.

The glacial water pounded my head ​— crisp, pure and hellbent.
We floated below, shivering but untroubled.
The things we can remember from a simple scent.

There will likely be few times when I will be feeling more content 
than when I escaped to the forest with my two favorite people. 
I’ll always remember how it felt when we went.
The things we can remember from a simple scent.

Welcome

Set free, engulfed by notes, opaque and blue,
They drift and flit about, unhinged and bold.
I’m small, alone, inclined to rest but there
Is more to night than sleep. I sway and twirl,
Consumed by thumping, BUM-bum, Wub-wub bass.
Closed eyes, I see the beat, the pulse, waving,
Fluorescent lines drawn by awareness to
Sonorous rhythm. Eyes sewn shut, I am
Absorbed in deep vibrations fashioned by 
A faceless one above the crowd. Champagne
Exhales and sour hazy breaths exhaust
The fleeting pain, inured by booze and bass. 

In a Café

It is a sunny, autumn afternoon,
Approaching the time when the sun paints the day
Faint shades of amber and gold.
The spouses’ shadows stretch on the faded wallpaper,
Darkness of the night is an impending doom
But it is seemingly present in their hearts.

She sits and stares, back pressed against the mahogany booth,
Still dressed in her Sunday Best,
Watching the afternoon crowds trickle out to return home.
The morning cocktail server greets his evening relief,
Rubbing away the condensation of the watered-down drinks
From the tacky bar that knows the weight of 
Tears, sweat, and blood.

She is particularly aware 
Of the itch of her corset beneath her fanciful blouse.
The feathers on her hat 
Generate a soft and blurry outline in her vision.
She watches the feathers dance in the draft and
The lofty ceilings allow the sun to cast light and warmth on her skin.
She is completely unaware of this.

The tip of her nose is hardly rosy on her colorless face.
Impossible to comprehend, her cheerless gaze holds mystery.
Most would assume that with the changing of the seasons,
The dust and pollen have irritated her system, causing this blush irritation.
But the fact is, she has been sobbing relentlessly,
Only comforted by the vast goblet,
Filled with a chartreuse solvent that will eventually
Drain the pain of her brain.

Absinthe: A libation for shattered hearts
Silence on repeat,
The only sounds that resound her gray cognizance
Are the drip-drip-drip of the faucet
A stream of suffering
The dam: another sip from the goblet

She does not know how, when, or why she will be returning home.
She knows very little.
But suddenly, she can hear the chirrups and coos of the sparrows on the patio,
Above the roars and honks of the buses on the street outside,
Over the clitter-clanking of silverware being polished in preparation for the evening rush,
Beyond the slurp of her husband’s fourth whiskey sour,
And just as the birds are done their song,
The pianist enters through the great glass door and the grand piano erupts,
A tune from a time before she knew the comfort of absinthe.

The Giggle

Purity and innocence is earned at birth,
The miracle of parturition - 
Wide-eyed and open-mouthed, 
A giggle forms on the infant’s bitty lips,
Swelling at the corners of the teeny mouth,
Slightly slimy but still clean and fresh,
A gleaming, perfectly round and wet bubble floats into the air,
And the tot can see his bulbous, fuzzy head
Still just as wide-eyed, a reflection staring back in wonder,
And the giggles begin, spitting dozens more bubbles into the nursery.
Instead of bursting as they bump the mobile hung from the ceiling,
Twirling and dangling in the spring breeze,
The perfect bubbles grow
And are swept out the window of the house atop a green hill in the countryside
Down to the valley, 
Embarking on a quest of adventure
Discovering the bountiful journey of life.

And although the joy that fills those bubbles
May dwindle through the dark forests and violent winds,
The bubbles will not burst
As long as the innocence remains inside them.

Is it that I’m asking too much
If it feels as if my heart is being crushed by two boulders

$

is it a proper definition
to call it depression
if every problem could be solved by a couple thousand dollars

idk

Winner, or so it seems

But am I a winner if by the evening,

When I'm alone after the trials of the day,

I'm still crying?

I understand that reading a mind as complex as mine is a feat,

Especially because I do this fucked up thing

Where I hurt the people I love with my expectations

And as soon as you mess up don't think I won't let you know somehow

And by the way

If you think you're the first person

Who I've done this to,

You're wrong

And there's a big part of me that hates myself for doing this

and the pain I feel when I realize I've hurt people I love

and the part that hates myself fuels the anger that I burden people with

I'm still crying

The weight of things feels heavier now
The more I love you the more it hurts me sometimes
Because I worry when things like this happen you'll get sad and angry
And I'm scared that you may go home or leave me or both

I can't explain my illnesses/traumas/memories that make me this way
But it's not like you telling me how to change it is going to help
My head feels really ill sometimes and I don't think you know
There are so many bad feelings that I have learned to hold back

There are so so so many bad feelings
You know but you can't understand or imagine the kind of fear that I've had of myself
From within my own body that I've attempted to cut myself out of
The fear of this girl's return is so crippling sometimes and I wish I could show you

The feeling of not knowing yourself is common
But I'm very much less sure about fear
The feeling of being in love is common
But I'm very sure I'm so in love with you that it makes me scared

And I know I'm not the only one that feels this way sometimes
It's no excuse
You don't deserve it
I'm sorry

I really, really love you

I love it when your smell sticks to my clothes
After a long evening's sleep
Held close in your arms, wrapped around me like a blanket
I slowly stir and kiss you good-bye, knowing we will soon be reunited
(Because I can't bear to be away from you longer than a few hours)

I stroll back to my abode in the morning fog and dew
I wash away your smell,
But the places that you have touched are still glowing
I'm filled with satisfaction and the warmth of affection,
This warmth being hotter in temperature than water could ever be,
Because then it would turn into steam

I paint my face, knowing that you love it both ways
And there's nothing like seeing you after just a bit,
Because I can see it in the light of your face,
Like looking in a mirror
The feeling of love,
The feeling that you give me

I often feel these moments when we embrace
And somehow, I know that you know
And maybe you know that I know,
But we both know that this is what we are meant for
Together
And somehow, for the first time,
I'm at peace

And someday, many years from now
I can only hope and pray
We will have rings that bind us, inscribed with the Nikes emblem on the inside
Because when I watched you cry to that song,
I don't think there is anyone that I could love more

We Are All Mothers

We are all mothers in some shape or form, because we are women.
Not every mother has a child, but every child has a mother.
A teacher, a coach, a nurse, a supervisor, a friend.
The mothers in our lives are masters at the gift of giving.
But as a mother and as a woman, I am familiar with this cycle of giving,
The cycle that leaves us with little but the satisfaction of knowing we gave to others,
But as mothers, we feel that satisfaction is more than enough.

The acts that are expected of mothers are the kindest and most selfless.
The gratitude that mothers receive is not.
Still, we continue to prepare nourishment, wash mistakes off our loved ones' clothes,
Bathe the young, work for a less valuable dollar, but never ask for more, like those who are not mothers do.
The expectations are heavy responsibilities,
But we fulfill them because we know the weight of these responsibilities,
And we would never wish this weight upon anyone else,
So we do it ourselves and expect nothing in return,
Not because nothing is generally what we would receive (either way),
But because knowing relieving our kin from this burden is the best reward we could receive.

Although I do not have a child, nor do I feel the desire to carry one,
I still feel the fire that ignites the flame of motherhood.
The most heartbreaking thing that I have come to realize as my mother's child,
Is that no matter how much I do for my mother, how many times I call her, how often I think of her or how much I claim to love her,
The love that my mother has for me could never be matched by anything in this universe.
The combination of this ceaseless struggle and the perpetual will to give is the meaning of motherhood.

The current mission that we should all seek to complete is the perpetual opportunity to give as our mothers have given to us.
Because no matter how persistently we try, we cannot give to our mothers the way they have given.
What they have taught us is how we can all be mothers and care for others the way that they have cared for us.
Being a mother can be a thankless job, however this frustration, as we have learned from our own mothers, pales in comparison to the amount of love we can give and all the lives we can touch.
We can all be mothers.

How to make someone believe that their life is worth living

How can I help you understand
The beauty that I see
When I look at you?

What can I do
To make you realize
That your spirit radiates a child-like energy that simply cannot be replaced?

What can I give you
To make you feel as loved as you actually are
Even if you don't always feel it?

How am I supposed to tell you
That the pain that you feel is so valid
But it doesn't make you as weak as you feel, and that you are strong?

What can I do but listen?
To the horrors of your past
And do my best to assist you in finding a better environment for your future?

Who must I introduce you to
In order for you to truly comprehend
That this boy who says he loves you really doesn't?

How do I persuade you
To take the necessary and incredibly difficult steps
To free yourself of this crippling addiction?

What do I say
To convince you that there are so many people
That would be devastated and broken if you were gone?

What will make you see
That there is so much promise in your future
And that your current mistakes will not stop you from achieving?

How can I approach you
When the words you use to express your feelings about life
Make me feel like you have already given up?

How am I supposed to try to make you believe
That your life
Is worth living?

There could be something more than this

A hamster wheel
That's how some of the world sees America
And I can feel it
While I'm in it

I'm happy with my life and my productivity
But am I only happy, because this is all that I know?
Could there be
Something more than this?

From what I understand,
I'm doing everything right.
Going to school, making money, contributing to society,
But is this the only kind of right?

When I am told,
That maybe, just maybe,
I was born in the wrong place
I wonder what the world could hold for me

All this time
I have held such gratitude
For the fact that I was born
Into this land of "opportunity'

But I'm now realizing
That this opportunity that I have been presented
Is not just my opportunity
It is opportunity that is benefiting someone who only wants to benefit himself

The opportunity
Is the opportunity to always spend my life
Trying to get ahead of someone
Who is benefiting from my trying - it never ends

I want to explore
and I want to know
What could be beyond

1/25/18

We have thousands of little brilliant thoughts that flicker and fleet every second of everyday

There's something about you that makes me want to know
All of yours