romanticizing life
relationships
men
individuals
collectively
stripped

you are no longer what you were meant to be
fulfilling
like a buffet
knowing when not to get overwhelmed with the choices
but be humbled
and honest
to tell yourself what you know you really want
what you really need
what's
satisfying.

now i'm not trying to make men analogous to food
but i guess i am.
my meal
doesn't serve the purpose of leaving the table
with my stomach bursting at the seams
left alone
with a food baby.

my meal
doesn't serve the purpose of not serving a purpose
there just to quench a craving
to lead you in which ever direction because you think you want all of this when
really it's just
you don't know
what you want
what's the purpose?

my meal
is supposed to humble me
serves the purpose of feeding me with a thousand suns of your soul
to warm me
in my mind
and my heart
my meal is relevant
to my context
to your context
it's goldy locks
it's not being afraid to make mistakes
to learn and grow
and change.

my meal is shared with my family
enjoyed and just another
enriching aroma that give us a reason
to be together
not to
"bring us closer than we already thought we were"
we are not
a romantic novel
my meal is not a romantic novel

i know i'm a college student
that meals don't always align correctly
that they are forgotten
but always on my mind
i'm gonna be
honest
honestly
i don't know what my meal should be
where it should come from
why i will choose it
wait
what?

yea,
i'm confused, too.
Gouda.
can i marry you?

maybe if we laced our fingers together and made wings out of our mistakes,
we could fly off together forgetting where we came from

or maybe
if we spoke even
allowing our words to curl around our naive bodies
of uncertainty and happiness
we could go somewhere.

or maybe if time allowed us
we could understand an ounce of how far our souls reached into the universe
eternally

or maybe if we both were ready
or maybe if i was ready
and you tried on more time
(you didn't have to stop after fifty)

or maybe
there's a reason we didn't work out
maybe
it was never a maybe
but a clear
defined
nahhhhhh.

your blood shot eyes
so red and round
their juicy plumpness compels me
to eat my baby tomatoes

the pungent smell
of your ***** second-hand smoke
fills me with desire
for some beef jerky

the sickly sight
of your slimy, greasy hair
leave me desperate with longing
for some succulent string cheese
when you scarf down your food
as if the world was ending
i can feel my partially digested turkey sandwich
make its way back up my throat
and spew out
all over your yogurt
ruining it

calculus.


(co-authored)

i like things in twos
because everyone does things
in threes
and i want to be "different"
makes me
the same

i like two because
it's the number of dashes i put in my facebook status
and not to mention the number of ellipses that end all my sentences
in twos

i like things in twos
because
it's not things in threes
because
things in three come from
the holy trinity
and the bible
and i'm sorry, but
i wasn't born christian like
99% of those who surround me

my feet move
in beats
of twos
when i walk
knowing that
i'm strong all by myself
don't need  NO man
to stand on my two
feet.

i like things in twos
because
i feel like my family has never been together long enough to be called four
or three
and not it's two
but soon to be one

i like things in two because
two is short
like the time i had with you
like the memories i have of you
like my memory of you
are short
father

two is
the number of eyes that look at me
and speak minutes of words
with one glance
the ones that
have watched me grow
and don't judge me
and
give me the space to be
not like her
or him
but me
even though i am both

those two eyes that sacrifice ten more minutes of sleep
to sit with me
on the couch
watching garbage television that she doesn't even like
but it means to
be next to me
and to remind me
that there will always be 2

because 1 and 1 is two
because two is just as lonely as one
because life still goes on
because i'm scared of one
yes,
i'm scared of one
because two is the number of seconds my heart beats before i realize i still need you
and two is the number of beats
that were two too many to be away from you
mother

i like two because
one is lonely
and i've felt lonely
but,
only the lonely you feel when you realize that
everyone
is lovely

breathe.

**** those twos.

sometimes i get lost in thoughts of you
don't exist.

i can't write a poem about you
not because i don't want to
but because
inevitably i will write a poem about me
i'm selfish
i don't want to get walked on
but all i want to do it give
and listen
and tell you about me so you'll see that i really do trust you
i just don't think you care sometimes
okay, most of the time
but i'm selfish
i like that you are distant a little
you seemed not to be attached
except i think you act how you feel
i, on the other hand
will bring it back to myself
selfishly lock up my instinctual expressions and phrases so i don't seem too attached, or clingy
and i'm not
only when i'm feeling vulnerable
but i don't want to let you walk all over me
like men apparently always do
even though i know better
walking together in relationship stance makes it look so easy
am i coming on too strong?
would you prefer i wasn't a groupie
i refuse to be a groupie
you're good at talking about you
once upon a time you asked about me and said little phrases to get my attention
are we beyond flirting?
did i not respond?
are you beyond that thought?
or are you realizing that doesn't woo me anymore than spending time conversing with me
am i being impatient?
things are fine
this is the long run
but it no longer feels like it
one interaction determines little
we're growing together
but sparks aren't flying
is that a problem?
if this is a kevin scenario
i'd wince
not cry
don't worry
you'll grow from here

i don't want to be another one of your messes that your best friend needs to clean up for you
i'd much rather be your friend

silently he snored
i noticed him laying
crampt
in the corner
full beard
tattered soul
the lights of the subway moving across his face to a steady rhythm
thump, thump
thump, thump
i was a visitor in his bedroom
his blanket of air wrapped him tightly
to wall his pillow
and my eyes a melody
of empathy
but not
of respect
of hope he'd find something better tomorrow
of a naive visitor
i was just a visitor

as the muffled fdsalg of the conductor slightly ruffled his blanket
we stopped moving
doors closed
still
it's cold
good midnight
the smell crept up to him and woke him of burning rubber
and i'm fearful
for you
for me
for us
this subway is a vessel
it shows no discrimination
and death would hit us all equally
but i'd want you to be alive
this is your home
not mine
i'm merely a visitor

i'm merely a visitor
judging you
writing your story for you
reading your feeling from your tired fact as if i know you
as if we go back to five minutes ago
without you speaking for you
i don't see you
i see your salt and peppa beard
your tattered clothes
your upgrade from pillow of wall to arm
your dark worn out skin
your eyes
i see
your eyes and they say
this is just another day

thump, thump
we move
to the rhythm of your breath
you blanketed me
thank you for warming me in your heart
involuntarily
i would give you a gift
but all i have is my complacency in my seat and the comfort of my hotel room at the next stop

but also because i'm a stranger
judging you
writing your life for you
reading your eyes
from mine
you have a voice
i'm just you observation
a stranger
meaningless
my pity would not last you more than second
it would hurt me to hear your
no, thank you
thank you for reminding me
there's life on the train ride
and it doesn't wear a coat of judgement
or lover's holding hands

key words i don't want to use in a poem:
demon,
love,
father,
permeating my insides,
****,
*******,
****,
and every other word that seem to be used by everyone
cliche
including my story
and poetry
and real feelings
tonight i finally realized i was beautiful
in all my glory
in my pain
my lack thereof
my inability to write poetry the past four years despite
watching
and observing
and hoping
and imaging
and picturing
hopelessly
in my inability to feel relatable
in my inability to conform to anything that appears to be a trend
in my safe bubble in my head
in my mother's arms
in my demons
in my loves
in my father
in my permeated insides
in my *****
in my goddamns,
in my *****,
in
me.
i am beautiful.
and i will forget, so please
throw compliments and pitty parties
my way
because that's what i've remembered throughout my days
not the night that i was reminded that
poetry empowers me
on a cold night
in new york city
for the first time
when amazing auras of poets,
and women
surrounded me
just another day for them
but not for me
that opened doors i've been trying to figure out how to open for quite some time
this on the last day of march
of women's history month
of the beginning of april
of poetry month
of liberation
of beauty
of me.
i truly felt beautiful today
with help
but not from you.

if there's one thing i try not to do
it's write the dreaded..
LVOE POM.
i would do without the eye rolls
but secret heart melts
and the awws
but the
*******'s
another one of these?
don't we have any other meaning in our lives?
i do
plenty
but i can't deny
that this is a part of me
i'm a hopeless romantic
by training
and in my mind
it's taken over my heart
and i can no longer tell the difference
enough for me to hate it
and myself
i am an empowered, "strong"
-whatever that means-
woman.
i should be
saying
**** IT.
i don't need no man
but let's be real
we all want someone
i want to hold your hand to show you i care
i don't want to analyze why i should kiss you right now
i wish i even knew what it meant to kiss you right now
why would i even need to kiss you right now?
but i get caught up in this fantasy
longer and longer
forgetting to remind myself that
i've never seen a successful relationship up close
that i grew up in a house of women
forgetting that i'm supposedly prone to marrying an alcoholic
surrounded by enough love that i should stop being so greedy
always looking for more
when it's never even been there
that isn't any different than the way my life has always been,
what am i expecting?

when did you decide that it was okay for a seven-year-old to mistake ***** for water?
when did you decide that's how she'd have her first taste?
when did you decide?
when did you decide it would be okay to call her "dhumer munda"?
regularly?
when did you decide she'd think it was normal?
stupid *****.
when did you decide she'd feel forced into a car with you
while you were drunk
to buy more alcohol because the other two had tried long enough to stop you
when did you decide you'd leave?
when did i decide?
when was i okay to know you were gone?
why couldn't i cry for you often?
did i miss you knowing what you did?
when did i decide there was nothing i could've done?
when do you give up?
let go?
embrace?
i'm tired.
maybe tomorrow.

poetry takes patience
it takes the deep breathe of your pen
it takes me being willing to
not write to tear myself a part to make it seem like i'm a
terrible being so i can call it
powerful.
i want to empower me
through you
use your ears as an avenue to say
there is nothing wrong with me
i am beautiful
i make mistakes and learn from them
i am...
not perfect
nor a destructive mess
poets always say they are the most emotionally distraught
but i'm obsessed with breaking stereotypes
so i'm gonna go out on a limb here and say
i'm fine.

my mother might have cancer
now, before i get all dramatic on you and fire shots of poetry
let me remind you of the keyword you should hold close to your heart
might.

might is scary
might makes you reflect on everything you've done in your life that
might
have affected the second most important word in that sentence
mother.
the one that comes to mind after you got done thinking about yourself and about
how this might affect your life
pause
little girl i don't think you quite understand the value of family
i'm not a little girl
anymore
you have no excuse
i have been carefully nurtured like that delicate plant you tried to grow in a miniature *** in the third grade
the nurturing that came from might
the strength of her
she poured out into you
your water
you grew
only to look back at you
i understand i can be selfish
but i'm hoping this scare won't be the only reason i truly question it enough to change
with time
in time

i am down for the cause
i promise
my skin shines brown
with what they say is a tint of yellow
the pores where my hairs reside
don't bleed the history of your ancestors
but let me assure you
i am down for the cause
my ancestors came from Africa too
and i'm not trying to claim i know what it's like to be black
but i'm **** sure willing to listen
to hear your cries and your frustrations
and learn from your strength
but not to pity you
to walk beside you
see
i've seen division
it's nothing beautiful
it looks like two steps forward
and ten steps back
it looks like inequality
so let me assure you
i'm down for the cause
i might not share part of your history
but i am your present
and i see you
the human in you
the daughter in you
the son in you
the love in you
you are human.

i never understood my mother until last year
she grows with me
discovering herself
as i discover myself in her
my mother chose to be in an arranged marriage
she chose happiness
she was convinced of a humble man
a caring man
a devote, dedicated man
but he was having an affair
her name was popov
she wore a red dress everyday

i've never had ***, but
i'd like to think i've mind ****** a few people
for whatever it's worth to you
because to me
it doesn't matter
i don't plan to suffer more than i need to
i've watched enough suffering in my life
the world cries my name
every morning
so no, thank you
i've got a world of time before
i need to worry about that

between lightening rods and moon beams,
we danced,
i remember it vividly because
i wasn't there.
if people say i'm interesting,
i wonder how many beautiful things i can't see in this world,
what is everyone seeing in the world?
i can't see.
i wasn't there.
my mind was with the lightening rods,
as i intricately imagined the perfection
in their creation,
you couldn't have been a mistake,
who are you trying to convince?
i was imagining what would happened if
i died,
if i cracked my skull open,
if it got trampled,
if the crowd forgot me,
if my toe would suffer,
if my shoes were getting *****,
if i should just let the crowd take me,
and i did.
i give in.
it's not enough,
i still can't feel.
i yearn for the cold air,
just to make sure i can still feel it.
that's cliche. scratch that.
because it's a contrast.
it calms me.
i'm never satisfied.
use your strengths, baby girl.
critically analyze yourself,
and radically restructure your being.
enough with the band-aids.
they heal, but they cover-up wounds,
make them puffy,
leave scars,
and pull your hair when you go to peel them off.
what are your deepest fears?
to be a contradiction.
to be judged.
to disappoint.
to die alone.
to die.
i can't fix this.
i will be a crazy person.
i am a crazy person.
my mom dying.
watching people suffer and knowing i'm privileged,
hurting people,
my ***** not being big enough to feed my future children,
not having enough flesh to carry a child,
being manipulated,
being tricked,
being innocent,
being inexperienced,
being me,
drugs,
addiction,
kissing,
having ***,
being fat,
looking like a man,
getting a heart attack at age 21,
disappointing,
men,
power,
control.
he says, "have confidence in everything you do , if you are gunna doubt anything, doubt your fears."
whatever the **** that means.