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rayma Dec 2021
back again
in those familiar recesses,
the dark parts of my thoughts
that used to be locked away.

i miss the feeling of my safety blanket,
its weight in my hand,
small enough to fit in my palm.
in a glint of silver,
it reminded me that i have control;
to always look but never touch.

the tight grip was satisfaction enough,
just a hint of what could be,
the flirtation of blood beneath skin begging to be let loose.

but it's different now.
there are no piano benches to be broken,
no dark pools beckoning me to their depths,
no promise of escape.

i know that it will never be done.
the blood will never spill,
the skin will never break over bruised and swollen knuckles.
i will keep existing between the days –
existing,
but never truly living

– and just how many times can i think i want to die
an accompaniment to crescendo - i wrote this one first, wasn't satisfied enough, and then wrote crescendo. only depression in this house xoxo
rayma Dec 2021
we've been here before, you and i.
it was raining outside.
i cried for a while and had cake for dinner.
it was the night i didn't drown.

the moments fall together in flipbook photos:
swollen knuckles,
pills in hand,
never enough blood.

i would hold a pocket knife just tight enough.
i would study it,
imagine the sharp kiss of metal against my skin.
and then i would put it away and cry myself to sleep.

we became wonderful dance partners, you and i.
we could rise and fall with the music;
i would lift myself up and wait for you to tear me back down.
i learned to adapt.
swell to crescendo, fancy yourself untouchable,
then fall
              fall
                   fall.

the steps became familiar.
i knew them by heart,
falling into step like it had become tradition.
find the space to release it all,
and watch as it slowly builds back up.

but they changed the rhythm on us.
for all the adapting we can do – you and i –
can we truly adapt to this?
it makes you wonder how far there is to fall,
and if we ever really fell before now.

perhaps some day we'll rise.
maybe this is just a hiccup, a misstep;
you lowered me into a dip and i am patiently waiting for the fall to end.

i can't wait to never hear this song again.
when your regular depression meets pandemic depression, something in the song changes
rayma Nov 2020
when we first came to this land,
blood was shed for our entitlement.
when we first came to this land,
we took the things that were never ours
and trampled its native growth.
when we first came to this land,
we instilled in it a sickness that may never be cured;
we tarnished sacred lands with greed we call virtue,
and when we did so, we stood on the throat of humanity.

there are some people who are doomed to repeat history.
there are some people who will trample native growth,
spread sickness,
and stand on the throats of our people.
with the heavy weight of six centuries upon our shoulders
we stand,
a hobbled nation no longer able to stride,
heads held high,
through this sea of blood without meeting challenge.

with six centuries passed, we commit genocide anew.
it is not the native growth that suffers,
but the very peddlers of greed who are infected
by the sickness of consequence.
but they alone will not suffer.
as we march through this new iteration of history
wearing death masks instead of cloth,
thousands of innocents lose their lives
in a battle of which they were never a part.

the single day that we dedicate to gratitude,
the one day of the year some remember
to give thanks in between passing heavy dishes,
is not a commemoration of discovery.
it is a commemoration of consequence and greed.
and six centuries later,
it is our own people who we will massacre with the cry of freedom.
This year, I'm celebrating Indigenous Peoples' Day by staying home and staying masked. America's history is a ****** one, but there's no reason why we can't stop history in its tracks. With Covid-19 cases continuing to rise and falling further from our control, please rethink your plans if you're gathering with people outside your home this Thanksgiving. Anyone can get the virus, and your need to gather with family while others remain stuck in isolation could **** your parents, your grandparents, your nieces/nephews, and even you. Holidays happen every year, there's no reason why you can't miss just this one. Please stay safe and celebrate responsibly. Wishing everyone out there lots of love and healing, and a quick recovery to those infected/effected by the pandemic ❤
  Aug 2020 rayma
r
Poetry
to me
is taking
my pain
and making
it sing.
rayma Aug 2020
I started to write something
that wasn’t quite as nice as it could have been,
and I thought about you reading it.
I could waste my words venting about
every bad thing that you’ve said to me,
But instead I started to think about
what I would want you to read.

I miss you.
The person you say you are now,
She isn’t you. And I hope someday
you’ll realize that.

I agree that you’ve changed,
but I don’t think it’s in the ways
you would have liked. Maybe,
Maybe in the ways you think were right,
in the moment, to suit your needs.
But I think you’ve changed in the ways
that let you build more walls
and sever more connections.

I wish that things were different.
I wish we could go back to being everything
we were before, with the exceptions of time.
We were the dream team, you and I,
And there was no one I wanted to spend time with
more than you.

You let me down.
I stood by you and did my best,
Even while my life was barely holding it together.
I understood why you did the things you did,
because you had to. And I wish you could understand
that I did what I had to do too.

You want me to
“work on getting to know the new you,”
But I wish you could see this “new you”
from my perspective.
She isn’t who you think,
the badass who beat depression.
She’s mean, and she’s pretentious.
And I hope she hasn’t burned all her bridges
when the time comes
for reality to set in.
I wrote this for the direct address prompt in my creative writing class Sophomore year. It was written about someone specific, but as time has passed this poem has grown to encompass many more people.
rayma Aug 2020
people say what’s lost isn’t coming back,
but I don’t believe that’s true.
                                                           ­  if they can search for the holy grail,
                                                          ­                     then I can search for you.
Another very old, repurposed one from 2015. I'm rather pleased with how it turned out, considering I've since made a folder for very old, very bad poems that are beyond repair, haha.
rayma Aug 2020
with dreams of you upon my lips,
i slept like the world was mine to keep.
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