A little angry

I want to know that the validity of my emotion has to do with me and me alone
I’m tired of you only caring when my sadness has to do with someone else
That when I “update” you on my “relationship status”
Your disappointment in my endings are filled with more sympathy
Than when I called you crying at the age of 12
Because your brother could never do what I said happened
Until you understood
But that’s the thing about having pride as an adult
We don’t do “apologies”
No
That would mean we were wrong

on the metro in Paris

Falling in love with strangers in public

Is a much safer way to fall in love

A fleeting moment

Eye contact

Temporary butterflies

Everchanging motion

And just like that

You’re both on your merry ways

Like pressing your thumb into a sunburn

Just for a second 

You feel the warm pressure 

and see the yellow glow

But as soon as you let it go

It disappears

written for music

I know you feel trapped

Because surprisingly enough

I do know what it feels like

To feel like that

One ocean away

It doesn’t seem so far

But hearing your voice

Leaves me no choice

It’s hard to know that

No matter where we go

There will always be that one thing

That keeps us apart 

But I’ll keep growing, moving, loving

And I’m sorry that sometimes you didn’t see that part of me

Home is still home without you 

Torn between letting go and keeping it in

No matter what we both can’t win

The distance washes away the pain

Maybe you’ll come home someday

What you (maybe) never understood

I write to you not because I miss you
Even though that’s true sometimes.
I write to you because there will always be words floating in the air between us,
Even if that physical air has no oxygen
No way for you to inhale it
It is still thick like the fog that you have left my mind in for a long time now
And even though your words cut like edges of this paper on my fragile fingertips
I know you feel it too and you can’t convince me otherwise
Because on average it takes someone 17 months to get over someone.
But getting over you has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.
Case closed.
And I think you may treat me differently if you had seen yourself the way that I saw you.
Maybe you wouldn’t be so angry.
Maybe you would understand why I held on for so long.
Maybe you would understand.


When I watched you in the rain
You said it was the first time you saw a downpour
Your childish excitement and curiosity about the sky
I wondered if it felt the way that you felt when you told me about you
I know why I made you feel so special
Because I basically knew nothing
But watching you love something that you had never seen
It made it all make sense

I’m sure the electric energy in my eyes was the same
When you showed me your favorite poem
Reading Rumi
Finding comfort in the language of love
Learning words have no translation
Feeling a part of something new -
Driving you into Manhattan
Coming from your first airport visit where customs didn’t throw your passport at you
Her massive glory: high rises and blue fluffy cloud summer skies,
creating probably the closest thing to home you would get

There’s something about watching someone experience things for the first time
And you were someone who experienced many of my firsts
That’s what makes the connections with people from our homes so special
They know us in our firsts
But there was so much
So much
That I didn’t know, so yeah
You knew me in a way most people in San Diego could never
And one thing I know about coming back home
Is the foundation of firsts is a connection that never goes away
So I’m sorry but it’s unavoidable
I’ll always be here

a brief interlude

I can't change that heartbreak draws the more beautiful metaphors from my mind. Pain is simple to write about. The facts are that I'm a sensitive human and have experienced a plentiful amount of pain. Conjuring the feeling for the purpose of art can be instinctive. That's okay, but it does have an effect on the feeling of my poems.

My future goals include expanding on the metaphors locked in the more peaceful parts of my mind. And maybe the reality there is that this internal peace has only been found recently, so the part of my brain that indulges Euphoria just hasn't been awakened creatively. It's a process but I'll get there.

I would like to be able to build my courage to share my poetry to a wider audience, even publishing it. I'm hoping that's something I could even work on with my mother while I live with her.

Maybe this is just an exercise speaking things into existence, but reflecting on my poetry subjects has made me understand that it will require a deliberate effort to switch to positive narratives (that don't revolve around romantic love).

So excuse any more sad ass poetry I have to get out of my system.

The happy things will come soon.

it's just a beach ball

I used to bounce life on the tips of my fingers
like a beach ball
it felt so weightless
and forgetfully empty
the abounding ocean spread before me - sleeping on it like a blanket - soft and lulling
but also able to sweep the ball away
the current - set and predetermined
never knowing when you'll be engulfed
but hey
that's life at the beach.

My tiny red sailboat carrying me through
helping me escape from the processes of death
and avoid the reality of my emotions,
my situation,
and my choices.

Why else would I think it's ok
to wake up everyday
get stoned out of my mind
and drive myself and her to school.

President of the social studies honors society and LGBT club
Math
English
Spanish
and Theatre Honors Society member.
She strolls in everyday, sporting sweatpants 2 sizes too big
the same jacket she's worn for the past 2 years..
(it kinda smells like smoke but Mr. Miller is too nice to say anything)
She takes her seat alone in the front left corner of the room,
lays her head on her forearm,
facing the front
sometimes dozing, sometimes not
and remains this way for the next hour and a half.
She takes AP psych quizzes and she defines "trauma,"
not really thinking about the fact that she's living it.

But life at sea can do that to you
We forget where we are and what time it is
and just like that your ball is gone
along with your youth.

How a Sunday should feel

I never expected that looking through a frame to view another's way of life
would conjure so many feelings
especially when that life is made of paint.
The absence of peace
from a dream I didn't know could be reality
only being able to feel the memories of pain
because something shows you that it never had to be that way,

That Sunday feeling
doesn't have to be clenched heart and swollen under-eye bags
The sun coming in even though it's cold outside
but you're inside and it doesn't matter
because you still can't feel that warmth
...
Audible sensation allowing the curtains to rip open
and there's no more guessing,
you just know it's already a bad day
and it's going to take a lot for it not to be a bad night.

Memories that get tucked away at the bottom of a box in that room of your house that you never go into.

the last love poem

stuck - like a caramel in the cavity of your molar
close enough to feel the sensation of sugar resting on your tongue,
salivating the sweetness but still unable to feel the chewy
satisfaction of breaking it down into a gooey stream..

The only poems I feel are made of love and heartbreak
"a walking cliche"

But I refuse to keep writing and allowing the continued ownership of my heart
by someone that doesn't want it.

I want to run on rainbows alone while piano sounds carry me through to a path of greater purpose and a stronger soul, all the while stopping to lay in all the gardens.

Getting grass stuck on my skin,
leaving lines and ridges on the surface of my legs,
tying myself in a bow
because self love can mean giving yourself a hug
because you mean it.

I do love me - I do,
filling those cavities because even though you love the taste,
an open hole in your bones, forever closing
but the feeling of swiping your tongue across the outer edges of your tooth
you'll always feel where that hole was, the filling..always gritty

And it hurts
knowing that I've written your last love poem,
because it always feels better
making a meal you can share with someone else...
but it's okay,
thank you for reading them.

The fact is - I don't know what a sunset feels like just for me.
I want to know the feeling of the sunset alone in a room,
Knowing that in this moment,
that enjoyment is just for me.
I always want to give it away.

Sleeping alone because I want to
and even though it gets cold and I can actually
still remember
the feeling of forearms around my waist
and the silent sounds of sleep.
I know the curves of my body still feel whole
without your hands rubbing them down.

And I know that it's over
because it took so long
but now when I wake up in the morning...
it's never you.

Lonely

Peace and loneliness are two different things,
but merging the two into a state of comfort, trying
to join two positive ends
of magnets
following the directions
to a place undiscovered...
thoughts written in a language
that only you can understand,
When that blank space somehow opens up,
and something that you thought was gone fills up that space
and the tightening in your chest serves as a sharp reminder
that even when something is gone
you can still feel it.
But that feeling changes when you know it won't be your present again.
So no,
you can't really feel it,
but this feeling is more than a little bit of enough
just to make you miss it.
And the longing for it just makes the blur of the memory
even fainter.

Mary Cassatte - Jeun Fille au Jardin

Mother did my hair today and told me I looked beautiful
'mon cheri, tres de soleil'
and sometimes I do understand what she means,
when I catch the gaze of the farmhands
or even the older boy who lives down the road.
But sometimes, all I can focus on
are the little pieces of skin
hanging on the edges of my fingernails.
They derive from the pricks and pokes of the needlepoint,
these days this being one of the only activities that brings me true peace.
Even sitting in this flower bed
in my favorite powdery blue dress,
I can only be reminded of my beauty
by the reassuring words of my mother
or those male gazes.
And sometimes I do feel like a brat,
because I get to enjoy the countryside of France,
the smell of the leaves in the spring breeze,
the leisure of this needlepoint -
but still, I am just focused on my fingernails.

A Poem in Athens

I told myself that I would write a poem in Athens,
but for the life of me,
it is that when I am really struggling to do -
write a poem in Athens

I feel unworthy, like the cigarette butt
nudged between 2 corners of cobblestones
at the foot of the path to the acropolis.

I wonder if Athena knows it's there,
or did she do anything
to the chap who chose to litter
on the foot of her sacred temple,
the same temple that has protected Athens for all these years.

Or after the 100th time,
did she just give up?
How many cigarette butts
or slaps on women's asses
or racist comments
did she punish
before giving up.

Then maybe I am worthy for giving a hint of consideration
when even the locals don't seem to give a damn.

bzzzz

I despise that the swarm of gnats
in my brain only crave the
sticky
messy
sweetness of love
and that the bees in my hive
only make honey
when the queen bee feels adored
by her colony
so why can't I spin my own web
without a fly trapped inside
because I'm just as nourished by the taste of the rain

I want to weave my own quilt
but it must include the
unwanted scraps
of fabric left from my past
because right now I can't afford anything new

From him

I only feel safe in spaces where I am surrounded by women.

Not once would I ever question the nature
of the woman massaging my hands so tenderly
as she coats my nails in glossy, glittery polish.

Never would it cross my mind that her questions about my life
are anything more than a friendly chit-chat
to pass the time between guests.

No, there is an unspoken trust
because in the dark we both feel it
and "it" isn't from each other - it's from him.

Dear Dad

I wanted to be home for myself 

I was always waiting for you to come home

But you never did 

Or when you did you weren’t you

And then there were men that would

But they weren’t you

If you didn’t want to come home

The least you could have done was tell me

That it was still home

Even if you weren’t there 

But you never taught me that home is still home on my own 

even still

The way my eyes shift

Glazing over the products 

In a perfume shop

Somehow signals that I’m still heartbroken

Because maybe he can see that when

My eyes search for a scent

That I’m hoping maybe something about it

Will remind me of you

When I hear that song come on in a coffee shop

I can’t help but think of the day when we asked to hear Frank off of Houston

And maybe you still walk by that coffee shop some days

But you’ve probably found a way to rewrite those memories

Instead of thinking of me and the home that we were supposed to have made together

And it’s not necessarily a longing

Because I really am happy

But what am I supposed to think

When a total stranger can still tell

That something is broken inside

La Luna

To run beneath the light of day 

Keeps consistency beneath your feet

But to run under the light of darkness is a movement so variant that it is never completely your choice

Because the sun does not change his shape

He burns the Earth’s surface bringing life but only by means of the processes of labor 

He takes our water and replaces it with growth but you must learn to rehydrate on your own because he will never move to give you rain, only when the clouds are fast enough to gain a lead

But the moon,

She understands the complexity of relief

And that some days she needs to give her guiding glow

Even when we are tucked cozily in the comfort of her indigo blanket

And she also concedes that there are days

Where we would rather hide under her layers

Only feeling the pins and needles of the starlight that pitters and patters like rain falling on the windshield of a closed car

His heliocentric warmth paints my skin on summer days and cuts the biting winter air. He makes the water feel just a bit better and allows me to see just what is there for me to see.

But the moon,

She knows,

She knows that in the depth of her bounds we find solace in solitude and comfort in confusion and delight in disorientation

She shifts and shapes her shimmer to show us the shadows aren’t so shady at all

Even the insomniacs can turn to her in their restless roaming because she is reacting in hopes of returning them to relaxation 

The moon

She knows

almost

The sting of loss is like nettle - spreading
and attempts at removal do more harm than good
so we suffer

Loss - still something to which we can adapt if it's truly gone,
With loss, the road to recovery begins even if
the gate that opens it once held something so sacred,
now permanently closed...

But no one warns about almost loss,
That when it gets so close
The bruises on your forearm may fade
and your scars will glow white instead of pink
But the blood inside remembers
how fast the river flowed
when the gates were about to close

Knowing that the current can be controlled,
that maybe you have enough strength to keep it open,
but you don't care at the time
that you must give all that you have to keep it open

That's something you only realize after
After you reach the gate just in time
But no one else is there
so there you are, forever
the gatekeeper, trying to always keep it open

Growing Pains

Do you remember being young
and being able to feel the pain of growth
and the piercing of your shins
and the cramps in your calves?

As I quickly approach 23,
Less do I feel the pain
but more do I feel the panic,
because I can never see or feel enough in any place.

Two Sets of Lips

I have two sets of lips
but sometimes it feels as if the set
between my legs speaks louder
Even though the one
below my nose
is the set that speaks.

My p*ssy lips are taken more seriously
even though you all consider them dirty
But when I say the word "pussy"
then my mouth is dirtier.

Yes - both sets allow me to feel,
but unfortunately only one can fight back
And it's not the one that should - arguably
But arguing is the exact problem, isn't it?

Look at my face and listen to me only
then go between my legs
Because the set of lips that allows me to taste
can only taste empowerment if it comes first.

as days go by

May the creases in your skin be carved by the tender fingers of laughter and the soft touch of smiles.
When your salty tears grace your plump cheeks,
           May their trails nourish your heart as the moisture easily settles into your pores.
May the only marks on your body be rooted in victory and adventure,
But even when they are rooted in fear and mistakes,
           I hope you can kiss them just as smoothly as you kiss your others.
As you carefully construct your home in your heart,
May you choose materials that are just as malleable as they are sturdy,
Because brick will keep you safe but seldom warm at night without a fire burning from the inside.
Line your walls with wool and make your bed with satin,
But always know that no matter who you lie with, that your fire is sparked by you.

confoos

There may be some songs that I can never get back
but I can rewrite them because sometimes
the keys beneath your fingers glide just as smooth
and the hum in the back of your throat simply croaks instead.

But walking away I notice that my bare feet feel better walking on the grass
than walking on the sidewalk and I also know that I don't know
many other people that like to walk barefoot at all
but I know why I love it and that is why I love myself.

Even though I don't know what color it is, I know that I glow
because when I walk I can see it in people's eyes
and the shift is so specific that realistically I could be delusional
but if I am, then why does everyone still want something from me?

senseless

I wish I could clear your pain as easily as
I wash away the sand on my feet after a day at the ocean

but lately it seems as if we are constantly swept by the waves,
tumbling through the saline and spray
but only gasping for bits of air
obtaining just enough oxygen to survive,
lungs filled with water
but never enough to make us numb.

but maybe
instead of a lifeboat that I am actually
the current
and you are helpless lost in the middle of sea
and I'm sorry I can't save you
I'm sorry

It is one of my most distinct childhood memories
that I only remembered yesterday after forgetting for a long time.

I remember the heartbreak and choking on air
hiding in my mother's arms and sobbing
from truly understanding the reality of pain on this planet.

living in my flower

I've been living in this flower
and it feels like home.
Gold dust sticks to the wrinkles on the bottom of my feet
but never tickles my nose enough to make me sneeze,
only enough to make me feel something.

Living here is beautiful and whenever I think differently
I am quick to be corrected because who wouldn't want this?
My walls are perfect petals, long and smooth with
perfectly spaced nourishing lines forming a path
leading me to the sky.

I lean into the walls and even though they don't move
they are still soft.
I quickly forget why I was leaning into them in the first place - a cycle.
Light leaks through lapping lines and long lengths of lace
I can't remember wanting to get out of here.

10 years

The word grief is too small
to embody the woes that flow
out of my fingernails as
my hands grab and dig
into my pillowcase while I scream
but I know you can't hear me.

I don't even know if you're there
and that's what hurts me
because what has kept me going
is knowing that you were still becoming
something
even though you left us.

That somewhere in Heaven or whatever it is,
you're bowling with your friends.
and I know you're probably cooking a lot
and I'm so sorry I can't be there to help
but I hope I get to eat with you again some day.
Holding hands to pray isn't as irritating now..

But what hurts is I think maybe
you would want to be here
which is why not knowing if you're still there
is so scary because
if you're gone and like, really gone...
what do I do?

Knowing you was knowing you forever.
Everything about you was perfect
and all of us needed you.
And I'm sorry if it didn't seem so at the time
because really I was still so young,
just always looking forward to what came next.

More thoughts

Anger is the only reaction I've ever known in these situations

which is why this feels odd because the truth is all I have is love

I used to hate myself

The feeling is still familiar, 
like a blanket from the same childhood home that created this trauma you struggle with in the first place.
I know myself and my destructive habits 
but these parts of myself do not feel like their origins are within me, so where do they come from?

There are days when it feels as if I've never left home,
That this world is a tiny cottage surrounded by trees that prevent me from seeing through them,
Woods so dense that my scream are inaudible, but the forest is filled with life that I can't touch.
It's not that I'm afraid of a life on my own, but that I don't know where a life on my own would begin.

Like eating the same meal everyday for years, but what else could you eat?
Instead of tasting unfamiliar flavors, you just don't eat at all.
Lack of nourishment does not seem like such an issue in a body that isn't your own--
A body that disappoints you in the mirror, that you've accepted but still refuse to love.

And the thoughts that are yours don't feel like your own, but instead those of a character that you relate to,
But do not always admire or understand.
Yes, her and I share passions, but is the way that we act on them the same?
Is my indifference to my ending something of concern? or just a phase because what the fuck is happening to me right now...

Sometimes I do wish that I could run away from everyone I know,
Because when I think of a life of my own, it seems impossible with others.
But would it really be a life of my own if I ran away from the things that do make me feel like myself?
The sweetness of a life of solitude is all-too-tempting.

From what I've learned, selfishness has always meant failure.
But to rip away these restraints would require hurting the ones I love.
A scale that will never be balanced, even moving the grains of sand one. by. one..
Walking a tightrope attached to neither an end nor a beginning, so what's the point of walking?

And the solution to these things seems so simple,
If only I had my own room to lock myself up in, where I can break out of this tiny cottage.
Because in my own room I could be anything, I could leave this world.
For hours, I could finally take the time to acquaint myself with me.

Accepting my existence is simple. Loving my truth is not.
For 22 years, I have insisted on pouring myself into others, but now I am dry.
To recollect all I have given would truly be impossible. Creating something from nothing defies the laws of nature.
Removing reality from my life seems to be the answer, so I'm sorry if I disappoint you.

When friends was the first thought
of how things were between you and me
I just remember how good it felt
to have you
for a friend
And yeah of course I still feel it too
Because how can I look at you
and not
kiss you
But when friends was everything
        That was really something
Because the pieces of my soul don't require definition
They just need to feel complete
The things made of love don't have names
because there isn't one so adequate

Palm Trees

How I love these palms
that for years of my life
felt so distant.
Even with an abundance at my fingertips
here in this tiny beach town,
upon reflection, it dawns
I seldom touch them.
I only admire their gleaming wispiness,
soft in the thick, warm air.

Oddly enough, when the palms fall to the ground
I find them less appealing
even though they are really the same.

But Golden Hour palms sway alone,
The sun sees her reflection with a tint of life
And the word happy receives a visual definition.

Welcome to the tropics
where neon is a neutral
and vibrancy is the natural state of being.
The summery air squeezes your heart
and despite being in a place meant for holiday
a small piece of it feels like home.

For a Whole Year

For a whole year you've melted my insides

by igniting tiny flames in places of my life that

sometimes I had forgotten existed.