mama don't cry. mama gets high
in pool halls and bathroom stalls
and nighttime bar-brawls
all while holdin' the boys down
with her bare hands
and cutting through
their bones
with her blue eyes and words of
desperation.

mama don't fight. mama don't hide
not even when there's 10 squad
cars chasin' her on the
405 cause she did it again.
and again.
and again.

*-z. vega

it was 99 degrees so
tamar and i took
5 shots of tequila each
and lied down on
asphalt that was 99 degrees hotter
199 degrees
watching clouds
melt into each other
like they were
scenes from an old black and white
movie and singing songs
about jesus
until god's tears began to
fall down on us.

*-z. vega

how did anyone expect me to be okay when
my baby brother was on xanax
and my mom told me that i turned
out to be the exact opposite
of what she wanted me to be?

i had frizzy hair and braces and glasses but i still wanted to be liked.

i was eleven. i think i had just started middle school. my friends who just months ago were playing hopscotch during the last recess of the day had started experimenting with orange foundation and bleached strands of hair and clumpy mascara and even though i would get down on my knees every morning and beg my mama to let me wear makeup the answer was always the same,
"what are you, 35?"

i didn't tell her that just the day before the boy that was sitting in the seat in front of me on the bus put 2 pieces of scotch tape on my eyebrows because it would make me less ugly and everybody laughed so to avoid showing weakness i did too. the next morning another boy pulled my waist length hair in the hall when i was getting my books from my locker and when i turned around to see what he wanted he shoved me against it and told me that i would never be taken seriously if i didn't stop being a ***** hippie and cut my hair so that night i took a pair of scissors and chopped off a foot of the hair that had taken almost 2 years to grow. the next day i was tripped over a rock and called "osama's daughter" because i was middle eastern and the boy who did it had his friend record it on his sidekick. for the next 2 or 3 weeks i had a gnarly **** on my right knee that i tried my hardest to hide because i didn't want mood to know that his oldest kid couldn't ******* stand up for herself. the next day one of his friends broke my glasses that i couldn't see without because "they aren't making you any smarter. you're still failing all your classes, might as well be less hideous."
2 years later i received 1. then 2. then 3. then 4. then 5 anonymous messages sent to me on tumblr that listed everything that was wrong with me and why i should **** myself. i wonder if that person knows that i actually tried and i almost, almost, succeeded. i wonder if that person knows that my first boyfriend spent the entire time we were together trying to fix me.

then i grew up. and the same boys who tortured me as a child didn't hurt me anymore but instead complimented every single breath i took. and i wonder if they know that the reason why my need for male validation grew with every orbit around the sun was because of what they tattooed into that 11 year old girl's brain - "NO ONE'S GONNA LOVE YOU. NO ONE'S GONNA LOVE YOU," written in perfect cursive, in the brightest neon green ink that they could find.

*-z. vega

just the other day i was driving to coeur d'alene and this old red jeep with the top down (even though it was raining) passed me on the freeway going way over the speed limit and i swear to god if i didn't know any better i woulda thought it was you.

they tell me that you ain't nothing special, that you're just like the rest of them. i can't help that i see you differently than everyone else, i can't help that they don't see that you have a field of sunflowers growing within you and dying to break free. you're more than just the dude whose always down to drink ***** and **** around. i was always skeptical of any seemingly good thing - they all ****** me over and last august i didn't do anything but drink while lying face down on the grass and if i'd had anymore whiskey i would've drank myself to death and you're the only good thing in my life that's stayed. i can't help that being around you reminds me of sitting on the rooftop at dusk in tehran and watching the city lights turn on, one by one. i regret 70% of the time spent wishing that we never met so that i wouldn't have to deal with this. you don't notice how much i care and it breaks my heart cause i just want you to know. i really want you to know.

*-z. vega

i never expected myself to be at the point
where i would chew on dead flowers
to numb the pain even though
i have no ******* idea where the pain
comes from.
i don't know if it's because you're
a nine and a half hour drive away
and you're not
around to tell me that i look
**** in a shirt that's 3 sizes too big for me
and a pen in my mouth
when i'm trying to write something
romantic but then end up writing
about packing a bowl with 2
older guys in the back of a '79
ram.
my life revolves
around coffee and twisted dreams
that i don't want to wake up from
and double plays that end innings
and cigarettes and boys with tattoos
and waist-length hair and
it could be because those are the only
things in my life
that have ever been permanent.

*-z. vega

all 9 of us put our money together and bought a '78 silverado that had a ****** up transmission, loose timing belt, blown headgasket, all the works. i can't remember much from that night. i fell asleep in the tailgate in the lap of some guy who had a budweiser in one hand and a backwoods blunt in the other. he kept calling me "babygirl" and he'd chug another beer and yell "LET'S WRECK THIS *******!" i got it from my mama. the ability to fall asleep to the classic rock station and the sound of teenage boys livin' their dream.

2. i broke all of their hearts on day three because i was so hung up on the one who played baseball and never stopped asking questions. maybe too much. he was the only one i wanted to love with every centimeter of my soul. the funny thing is this: i never had him to begin with.

3. august was a weird month. i never wanted to do anything except lay face down on the grass while drinking whiskey straight from the bottle. we liked to tell pointless stories and talk **** about congress while watching the sun fall deep into the crevices of the olympic mountains. his girlfriend and i had something like a thursday night ritual of going fishing then coming to the house and grilling silvers while i chainsmoked and sang songs reminiscent of her hippie days. big kahuna and i spoke to each other in dialects, okie accents, chi-town street slang when i was burning on thursdays. the crash always happened on saturdays. they tried to keep me from drinking but i didn't know how to tell them that it wasn't the borderline alcoholism that was killing me - being around so much love ignited a fire in me that wasn't there when i had nobody. i was in love with the world, so in love that it became a kind of insanity.

*-z. vega