This is what my 30th year looked like:

Running around naked in front of windows

Eureka, California in the summer

A side yard 40 ft by 40 ft shaded by a mature some kinda tree.

No job, just trying to get a life put together

Sitting cross legged across from two two year olds

Your infectious giggle cracking you up

Snapping timeless surf side photos of your sun streaked curls

Making a home at the health food store

Looking for family amongst familiar strangers

I will return to my own land
That sits lost between continents
And the countries of other people.

I’ll not look for a place to fit in,
Wanting acceptance and for them to fall in love.

Goodbye to following hopeless trails. Them always doing just as they please and me always dying over them to please.

Traveling solo.

Finding the world that opens its arms to me.

Not worried that they are lusting after something tastier.

$139 to get to Puerto Rico.
Arms squeezed in between two solid arms,
Seats could not be more than 16 inches on center.

Brown people going home,
White people going to get brown.
This is a 3 hour and 39 minute flight. One quarter of the time it takes me to drive to Kansas.

Dead expectations are grinding away at my heart. The only consolation is that I won him at a game of chess. But the end is in sight. How long can it last when he runs into the arms of another?

We’re sitting at the gate, our first romantic getaway together.

It was really supposed to be my first “out of the country with a passport “ trip of my own.
The El Salvadorian didn’t want to take me home with him, so his **** him, I’ll go my own **** self!

Enter Him.
And then the next thing I know we are on our way to Puerto Rico,
Don’t even NEED a passport.

So we’re sitting there,
At the gate,
He’s talking about the next trip we go on
Will be HIS choice,
As if he didn’t pick this one.

Then I say, “Then the next one after that I will REALLY pick!”

And he says, “Greece.” Like a whisper.
And I say, “That’s your pick.”

Thinking, he says, “Greece, Italy, yes, Italy.”
“I thought we were going to Guyana.”
“I’m going there on my own. Maybe Germany.” Where his ex wife lives.

Huh….interesting. Here he invaded MY private getaway, yeah, I let him. But never again.

Wow, what a heartbreak. And here I thought we were on a roll. And here he is, planning a getaway without me, to go visit his ex no less. Fantastic.

Bubble burst before liftoff.

I've always wanted to record my poetry and maybe set it to music.
My brother is a musician.

Here is me, playing around with poetic sound composition...

https://youtu.be/RapNkrkIdho

What makes things sad?

Why is the grey on the streets sad? Why is the song in our minds miserable and slicing up our spirits as we walk home from school?
Why do we tell ourselves that we are no good, a failure, ugly, untalented? Why do we **** ourselves or think about killing ourselves on a monthly basis? Why are we no good?