A questionnaire of my family history is only a monologue I tell myself.
Practicing in front of the mirror to get better.
So, the next time the doctor’s words I am sorry falls back into their lips.
& I am onto my feet.
A vapid, monologue screenplay.
The rehearsed version of my life.
Answering the questions.
Somehow still fumbling through the words.
Yet leaving voids in my answers as my family’s members absence did.
Two strokes. She’s alive but not apparent enough to know it.
Her blood runs too thick.
Blood pressure always boiling.
Mother knew how to live fast but never well enough.
Dead. He was alive but never long enough to hold it.
Heart always dropping and head into the palms of his hands.
Thirst never stopping.
Alcoholism is a wicked thing I say.
Brother. Alive somehow not present enough to count it.
Healthy. We count his days as tick-tack-toe though.
Family history has a lineage that says the roots in this family tree are rotten.
Sister. Victim to mental health.
The prodigy of a broken foster system.
I reckon her days are counted in lines.
Between days she’s alive & the days she wishes she wasn’t.
The doctor does an homage in the way she bows her head.
Makes the hollowed-out chest of mine seem like it’s filled with water.
I let out a gasp.
Trying to fill the room where all the air has seemed to have evaporated.
Hoping to catch my breath.
My story filling their break room like a lingering coffee smell.
Keeping them brewed in satisfaction that it could always be worse.
My story always seemed like the punch line for better days.
Our family has been waiting since genesis for such.
These are the days I wish I believed in something.
A god to drown every nightfall with dawn.
family sickness death grief history health wellness doctor god
I realize that the time we have won’t be enough.
If you add all the moments up....
You have a lifetime that flashed by in the blink of an eye.
& Maybe if I can count all our moments together...
Instead I will have an eternity to share.
Today, I am 23 and tomorrow I shall be flowers arising.
I clench and whisper to myself to remember every detail.
Feeling the moments slipping.
As the way life arises into consciousness & then out to oblivion.
I am reminded that all of myself is only the parts in which I can recollect.
My mind the only bridge from meaningful to meaningless.
I pinch my crisp blue jeans in hopes that I can still feel that I exist.
I can feel my unmanicured nails piercing my skin through my jeans.
All in hopes of penetrating the impermanence nature of this moment.
The hourglass drips a grain of sand at a time.
Yet, it only takes a second for a desert to form.
Maybe on the edge of the world standing upon a desert I can find solace.
Finding comfort instead of fear about where I end and the infinite begins.
Her love is pressed lilacs in your favorite book.
I’ve been in love with her an eternity of lifetimes.
If there was an I, there was a her somewhere too.
& the world needed it.
Her bipolar disorder makes her superman ice cream in Mid-July. The spectrum far wider than the napoleon we're accustom to. Emotions melting into each other like organized chaos. Then, converging into a supernova of empathy. An amplifier to all that is forgotten in our ability to feel. I wonder on some days how she can cultivate anything other than mania. Yet, she is more harmonic than Beethoven’s ninth symphony. Do you feel – do you feel the weight of the world, my love? Her world taste of colors. The rainbow of emotions seeping through every orifice of her body.
I’m reminded how much is lost in the translation.
How it must be to feel without a filter. Then, every cry over a stranger seems to be the somber pieces of humanity missing. A world lost in alexymethia – she is the sanity we’ve never known.
To each of I, that is not myself.
Scrambling a puzzle with no picture.
Colliding letters but fumbling only sounds.
Falling deaf to the noise.
A prism that light can shine through, but never into.
They say there is always beauty underneath...
But, why must everything be beautiful?
A belief is a sweet dream.
An unconscious stream.
It tucks the corners of your bed.
A place to put all your dread.
Covers you in white linen.
Keeps your naiveness winnen.
Casts you away into a sleepful estate.
No longer shall you await.
A sweet escape from the truth.
A kiss of ignorance coming through.
Gives you faith in something.
Even if it’s a hopeful nothing.
Loving myself so deeply that a longing of another evaporates.
Dissociating myself into the tiny air bubbles of carbonated water.
Floating until I rise above the mountains that crave to be seen.
Carve the spaces of belonging.
Feel as effortless as water caving through solid stone.
Float down the river into the mouth of the sea.
Feeling no fear of the abyss.
I try not to define myself.
Spoken in a way that my story hasn’t already been written.
The hope that my story is not in existence before me.
That there’s still time to catch the beginning between two crisp pages.
Fresh ink that still smears off the edges.
Tearing out the pages until I get it right.
A story re-written so many times I am unsure of how it ends.
Always a but hanging off the sentence like a cliffs edge.
Here we are standing.
Eyes wide open.
Palms out to the sky.
Ready to fall into the end as if it was beginning.
It’s been a long time since my heart has soared.
The days flickering by.
Rolling through the channels trying to find something new.
Alan Watts plays in the back-screaming LIFE.
My girlfriend says, "baby, just get in the car."
Sitting in the passenger seat heading to wherever next.
Your face shines through rear view mirror.
A smirk of goodbye.
******* out to the sky.
Screaming, “what is life after this?”
Holding onto eachother like there’s no life left to grasp.
This is my sign that life does get better after this.
The world is closed but our hearts open in a 24-hour vacancy.
She says, “do you remember when we first met?”
Apple blossoms and moon shine between her lips.
A taste of something I miss.
Her red stained lips traced the rim of her cup.
Yelling at the bar “I just can’t get enough”.
Her foot stomping at the bar stool.
Just one more song please.
Just one more dance.
Just one more moment.
& we keep grasping for those old moments.
A reminder to us that life is our last call.
I see the cracks between you & I.
The struggles of power.
A taste of control.
Dreams of a better life seeping through.
Bleeding colors of red and blue.
A rainbow painted in only two colors.
I ask you what is left to pour besides sand from the everlasting cup?
Desert cracks to remind you of what life use to thrive.
The pieces of you and me.
All that remains is the dust that accumulates.
The ashes of who we use to be.
Grief carves a part of your soul in its passing.
The gaping emptiness that fills you after its left.
Sweeps silently like wind passing through a leafless tree in the Fall.
The only difference their skin bares the truth of what they lost.
The labyrinth of a garden was to veil the corpses that it was buried on.
& it to dies with winter.
How nature teaches us to bear each loss.
But is it nature’s order to grow from despair?
Maybe I’d spent too much time picking flowers instead of watering them.
An unsolicited cry for help
The bodies of brothers stacked as fences.
To separate I from you.
In attempt to erase black from the color spectrum.
There are no grey colors here.
Grief painted in rainbows.
Our *** of gold is the silencing of church bells ringing.
A solicited cry for help.
Christmas music echoes off the walls.
Apple cinnamon candles fills the halls.
A mistletoe for every absent kiss.
To remember those who we miss.
A memoir to commemorate the old days.
The way to honor our ancestral ways.
Traditions pay homage to those who have passed.
To let them know our love will out last.
I am starting to see the cracks in I.
The voice that I could not differentiate from.
The part of me I mistakenly identified as I.
Whispers its grievances like ghost rolling upon 3am.
As if my mind is its corridor to haunt.
Oh, no longer I, the one that associates itself with me.
The ego is the one who pronounces I.
Hangs off your existence like Corporate America preys on the poor.
The part of you and I that questions am.
The one voice that separates us.
Same as the fake border that pronounces mine, yours, and theirs.
Ownership that never fails to remind you.
It’s the voice that degrades you.
Same as the men who teach boys that boundaries only exist for state lines.
It’s the part of I, that am bears in the burdening of pretending…
Pretending that the notion that you must be this or you must be that.
The promises we keep to I instead of am.
These are the same silent alliances our egos share.
Parts of us that accepts submissively.
That trades profit for war.
That values trees as paper.
That mistakes water as a product not a right.
That part of I that tells you that the land belongs to I…
But you see, you are not I, you are not the ego.
The part of am reminds you that reminds that you –
That you belong to the land, but the land does not belong to you…
They tell me to be quiet.
Quiet enough my presence doesn’t make a ruckus.
Small enough that my presence is untouched.
Shrinking into spaces that they wish I was forgot in.
They tell me I speak too loudly.
Take up too much space in the room when I make a proclamation.
My dad was the first man to teach me women shouldn’t talk back.
With every slap to the face my voice grew deeper.
My brother said if I didn’t put myself in a corner, they would do it for me.
With every push I learned to stand my ground.
My mom told me that my slick tongue made me unbearable to men.
So, it grew sharper to lash at those who spite my freedom.
Legs crossed, dressed pressed, and hair slick back in a pony.
Sit pretty but not enough to leave them tempted.
The only wise thing I ever learned from my parents was to carry a key in my hand.
Check your car before getting in.
Walk at night only in company.
Carry your phone, but don’t talk on it.
I always wondered how the world has groomed woman but never refined their men.
Never directed my brother that no meant boundaries.
Never spoke of respect as if its given and not earned.
Never addressed that a woman was object of desire but not possession.
Speak up woman, but not louder than those men around you.
Assert yourself but never over the men.
Be strong, firm but mend as I need you to when I need you to.
If I was to vocal, I was a ***** & if I was so quiet, I was a door mat.
If I was too conservative, I was a ***** and if I was to provocative, I was a *****.
If I was to a leader, I was bossy and if I followed, I lacked a backbone.
I wondered what strength I had in being all of that at once.
How I could be the ****** and the maker.
This was the closest to god I ever felt.
& it makes me wonder if god was a woman too.
30 days of isolation
I didn’t know who I was when the world stopped turning.
When the objections that once defined fell flat like a heart line.
The death of the way that was.
I was no longer written in the way I knew my self.
It scared me.
The way I could no longer sit with myself.
I couldn’t stop running.
The well turned into a drought.
& the rain came only once I cried.
I once lived in a rain forest.
Self-love as heavy as the water embedded on every oxygen molecule.
I asked her to stop.
Couldn’t seem to catch my breath...
But, I guess the point was to never grasp it?
If my body could speak…
It would say love me.
Love me like the frivolous men you chase endlessly.
Love my curves as you do the backroads winding.
Love me like a song you put on repeat.
Love my scars as you do thunder chasing lightning.
Love me like the willow trees you hide beneath.
Love my crooked teeth as you do kintsugi.
Love me like the silent streets painted in moonlight.
Love my eyes like the ocean you are weightless in.
Love me like a silent disco that ends with sunrise.
Love my lips as etches of the sky tracing the clouds.
Love me like tomorrow was to never arrive.
Love my impermeant nature like a shooting star.
My body would say love.
It should have felt like utter ecstasy that final feeling of relief.
My soul being quenched after lifetimes of reincarnation.
Seemingly though never quite reaching Moksha.
Just as a desert always kisses the mirage of water but never tastes it.
The solace of peace that I craved.
My finger still lingers over the send button.
Call it trigger happy, but this is sadness with a nose.
Running after people trying to prove something.
Trying to confirm that I was something worth missing.
Someone worth loving.
Bending backwards like a contortionist.
Doing whatever appeases to be loved even if it was me being sacrificed.
The gods were no crueler than I was to myself.
I was a lamb in a lion’s den.
Crawling under the feet of those who never served me.
A wanderer lost in the desolate space between her mind and heart.
Logic doesn’t speak love into the life that is absent.
I see a hand reaching back the feeling of utter relief.
My soul being quenched after lifetimes of reincarnation.
Seemingly though never quite reaching moksha.
My streets lay paved of broken dreams.
The corn fields they whisper, “Please, come back home.”
The city lights have swallowed all my stars.
A belly of hopes buried in the night sky.
Cemetery of secrets naked to the eye.
I hope my thoughts fill my journal’s paper as effortlessly as an artist’s paint strokes fills their canvas.
As if their expression of the heart was just muscle memory.
I want my words to fill the edges of my paper because they have taken all my head space.
Scribbling the words off the edges of the paper to be etched in the desk & forever out of my memory.
I wish the words may begin to fill the gaps of my emotions.
& I keep writing my own story over and over and over again.
In hopes that if I write it enough times the end will arrive differently.
Cause the years taught me that life can make you bitter as the grapes that fill your inner vine.
& Unlike wine I have learned people don’t always get better with time.
So, I write, and write, and write until all my grief becomes blessing.
She was beautiful.
The moment I was graced with her presence the air became a warm, calming breeze. It took me over in the way an ocean wave would. I’d been with her for five minutes before I wanted to undress her. Not in the way which her black lace dripped over her shoulder exposing her sun kissed skin. I wanted to undress her in the way which she was naked and exposed in the light of her own essence. I desired to know what dark day allowed her eyes to read such solemnness. I clung to know of the day that gave light to the darkness & allowed her eyes to twinkle of the stars.
She read books in the dim light corner of her faux leather chair surrounded by plants. Gleaming to the light as if she was the only reflection of its pure form. I’d been admiring her from the across the room as she grazed up the pages of her latest novel.
She always looked to have known something more than that was ever said. I swear, there was a whisper through the crack of her bay window. The wind breathing secrets to her instead of air.
The way she smirked led you to know that she knew of something you never would. I’d never have known what love was but looking at her in that moment I thought I just might.
Greif is the shockwave that happens after profound loss.
The tragedy of our story is the ruins we are left to sweep the streets of.
Cobble stone collecting the dust of our previous lives.
These are not the days that lay heavy on our hearts.
It’s the days when the whole city has rebuilt itself.
The street lay paved of memory lanes.
Every stone in the mind still unturned.
The guilt that builds...
You want to feel as the world does.
Look as the city does.
Forget as the people do.
I’m scared that I have nothing left to speak of.
All my poems pour art of misery.
Making statues of our grief.
Filling the museum of my life’s ruins.
They tell me to smile it will make me more pretty like the art on the wall.
So, I paint love I never seen.
Polishing myself to be left on the shelf.
The art sees more truth than I.
Being loved for what is something I don’t know of.
Crossed legged, fingers intertwined.
Praying was a virtue I could only dream of.
I just needed to plead with someone other than myself.
Knees marry the ground as I have with my loss.
Who am I passed this pain?
Begging for an identity even if its not my own.
Ask yourself who is the lead character without their role?
Is there a story even to tell?
So, I reflect everything that is shown to me.
The art and I are only a muse.
A showcase of words that cannot be spoke.
An example of what could be.
A life in the mirror of what should be.
My art on the wall is painted with misery & so am I.
I feel inspired.
Inspired to write about the man in line who I do not know, but I do know.
Friends, strangers, & self.
So well acquainted as a seamless stich.
Hand touches arm.
The endearing laugh of an unfamiliar sound, but I hear you so well.
Faces around turned and gauged in.
Gravitation pull, loneliness lost in the open.
Closed by the proximity of our spaces colliding.
Today, a stranger saved me at the sound of hello.
The sound of the ending cue.
It’s colored in a grey hue.
No battle left to bellow.
Footsteps that use to echo.
Words that have already been spoke.
All that tears that have already soaked.
A surrender to the closing.
No longer are we apposing.
A welcome to the end.
There is nothing left to mend.
The matrix is just another name for institutions.
The ones that own you.
Come here, number 258-65-4562.
Provides you social security in that you are only a number.
Tallies on what they can take.
A way to count you.
Devalue your spirit down to a decimal.
The monetary value of what you can contribute.
A worth they just can never seem to buy into.
Enslaving our people, cattle to which they devour.
Turning brothers to thieves with slightest taste of power.
Putting our sons into attires that strip them of their generations.
Giving them guns to spite our neighbors.
All for those who we are nameless.
An extra decimal.
Partial space to a means as an end.
Hanging off the sentence.
History rewritten in the favor of those who should be forgot.
I get paid by the hour.
Counting time by all the dollars.
Trading my life with every transaction.
Trying to catch my life before it loses traction.
All that my life is the seconds that descent.
How much money until my life is spent?
We live in days where truth prevails second.
You no longer have to be right.
Just need to be the most convincing.
There are bonds that can’t be broken.
History spans times farther than us, but there are no I’s in it without us.
Just a bookmark where we left off.
Picking it up & finishing the story.
I told her I would always fold the page so I would forget I already read it.
She was in that way – the way in which a story just gets better with time.
One worth reading again and again.
It wasn’t a good novel without a tragedy.
Ours like a reckoning of a hurricane and tornado colliding.
One made for land & the other sea.
She was grounded in the ways I would never come to know of.
Split people like an earthquake beckoning for their essence to emerge.
I loved her that.
& I always will.
*Page Folded – Chapter 1
With each part of myself that I allow to come undone;
I surrender to the process of becoming.
My mind is a broken record player.
Stuck on the track of "take me home."
A place that feels familiar.
But, nothing feels as its remembered.
The time before my life was painted in anxiety.
When my mind closed before my eyes fell.
A point in which there was certainty.
The time when tomorrow would bring anew.
I miss the faith and trust I had in the morning sky.
The sun reaches the moon each night;
& I am reminded it too hasn’t changed.
A series of goodbyes to the life we once knew.
Remember me softly.
If we ever meet again, I’ll be a different phase of the moon.
Etched in the clouds and swept away in the sky.
An expansiveness that reminds us how far we come.
A dream of who we use to be.
Pressed so firm.
We grasped between the moments of breathlessness.
A growing restlessness.
The madness of just trying to make it through.
We’d never thought we would live to see the day.
2021 rolling through.
2021 cycles memory change drugs struggle happiness sadness
— The End —