My "type"

I've never thought long and hard about the type of girl I am,

But at the budding age of 23 it somehow almost feels like I've been them all.

The do-anything-to-get-the-guy type or the 

run-away-from-my-problems-into-a-boys'-bed-type or the 

I-think-my-boyfriend's-toxic-parents-are-less-toxic-just-because-they're-rich-type, 

but don't forget the

I'll-sacrifice-my-dignity-and-friendships-to-make-this-poisonous-relationship-last type or the 

I'll-pretend-to-like-sports-so-you-take-me-to-concerts-sometimes type or the 

I-swear-I'd-never-become-dependent-but-here-I-am-dating-you-so-I-can-use-your-car type

and last but not least at all, the

This-boy-said-he-wants-to-marry-me-so-I'll-believe-him-type or the

Love-defies-all-cultural-bounds-even-ones-that-threaten-world-war-III-type or the

We-never-got-back-together-but-I'll-still-fly-across-the-country-to-make-sure-you're-okay type

And isn't this type of girl tragically predictable after reading these descriptions? 

That this type of girl is doomed to write poems that chug on a little red cart up a mountain, 

    Just to find time and time again that the abandoned mine is empty,

        licked clean with not even salt remaining to sterilize these sores,

            cast away, racing down the ridge, over the pass, blood dried and sores scared by the thin but 

            strong gusts...yes, these are the poems that this girl is doomed to write.

For someone who is so bitter about love, I write some damn good poems about it. 

The bitter-ex-lover who-writes-poems-about-love...that's the type of girl I am.

i can't help it

 when a man tells me "i love you"

i can't help it

when a man says "i'm going to marry you"

i can't help it

when a man declares "we are going to live together forever"

i can't help it

all who came before you also thought the same

and i wish you nothing but success because i would be the primary benefactor

but those who came before you sit waiting in line without consent

waiting to see if any man can break the spell

because my sweet, "it isn't you, it's me"

and all who came before you ultimately chose the path

with less thorn bushes and stinging nettle

it's been a year since i've written a good poem

It's your clothes strewn across the bedroom floor

it's the extra ache in your knees as you climb the stairs - one flight too many

it's the drum in your heart that resounds through your chest

and the ropes tighten, clenched fists and grinding teeth

but no anger, just the tension.

That the giving, sometimes for things that no one ever even asked for

nips away at the wool that wraps my bones.

Not knowing it was winter because I didn't know what day it was.

gliding on ice skates across a mirror but never being able to look down 

Too much of one can crush the other - be careful.

The freedom of loneliness (n): 

A brisk chill on what should be a bright spring day;

A beach with gray sand and a sunset like the day after a wildfire;

A plane to return home from whence you sprouted and thrived;

A detachment that always felt to good to be true.

There were things that happened when I was with you,

And now that I'm older, I've thought things through.

The mind remembers less than the heart,

But the electric currents are years apart.

Acceptance; breathing for myself again

Today

I crawled between the corner of where the highway meets the air

and for a second the cars are floating on asphalt

because really, how does that even make sense?

I stared at the cigarette butts and tiny pieces of who knows what

non-biodegradable material scattered

between the blades of grass

Plastic bags dangling from dandelion brambles and bushes

holding on forever maybe

but no one knows about this place

or even cares to know

so if I stay here forever,

who's to say that every day isn't today?

Confronting Conflict

You said I was as sweet as vanilla

but only when it's straight from the bottle. 

You bit me,

your lips sewn with fleece so it did not sting.

    And why do you set the water temperature

    to steam when its ninety-two degrees and 

    the shower curtain is embarrassed by 

    its incapability to block out the sun?

You lather to rid impurities

but I've lost track of which

of the droplets skating on your skin

were tossed down from the piping stream

or had risen out of biological response.

   You're pure and your intentions reflect it,

   Though the consequence is to inadvertently craft a 

   an alluring morass of paradoxical scenes   

   left for me to untangle.

What I would give to wriggle my tiny body

into your ear, following the electric paths to arrive

inside of your mind - just a peek

The reality: a discomfort of never being able to understand.

   

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