I remember the night you were most disappointed.

we turned down the studio lights because

it was well past midnight.

doors open because

it gets pretty warm in July and

the noise keeps the June bugs out.

your ankle was twisted

blood on your knuckles

your teeth were pink

eyes black and blue but

it didn’t matter.

I was the one who answered the phone

and almost cried when our teacher told you,

“there’s always next year”.

I remember the night you were most disappointed.

we turned down the studio lights because

it was well past midnight.

doors open because

it gets pretty warm in July and

the noise keeps the June bugs out.

your ankle was twisted

blood on your knuckles

your teeth were pink

eyes black and blue but

it didn’t matter.

I was the one who answered the phone

and almost cried when our teacher told you,

“there’s always next year”.

you always told me to stop apologizing because nothing was my fault
but what you meant
was that
you knew i never hurt you on purpose.

I inhale into my back bend as my mother and pregnant aunt do the same.

my mother’s toes begin to wiggle on their own

my aunt, eyes closed and belly full, mumbles along with the mantra

words that are unfamiliar to me

yet are home.

Keith prefers to be called Di Laoshi

but I call him Keith in private

even though he compliments me on my characters

and wants to send me to Beijing.

I smile because

xiexie is easier to pronounce than

wo bu zhidao.

my teacher

named for a province in Spain says

he has adopted himself.

the yoga DVD instructs to

drink from the well,

so I

call to Aunt Lakshmi

Di Laoshi

Master Ozuna

and I do.

there’s no such thing as belonging

and i have learned this from you.

we found out

the world is not static,

stagnant water

attracts the most unfortunate flies and

planting your roots into solid soil

isn’t always best.

there’s no such thing as belonging

and if this still rings true

i’m really curious to know why

you think i belong to you.

and i'm one line a-

way from disappearing for-

ever. but i know



i will be missed my

smile and my laugh and my

tears and the way i



multitasked and the

way the word "resilient" could

be applied to my



name. so i guess i

will take another deep breath

and begin again.

the gentle clinking of

differently colored bangles

combined with

the savory scents of

spices I cant pronounce

and

chanting I can’t quite understand

feels more like home

than a television

and a frozen dinner

they say i'm a romantic at heart
falling head over heels to the point where
i don't so much need a shoulder to lean on
as i need someone to carry me around like you're piggy backing me for eternity, stay up with me all night
dry my eyes
make sure the scissors are put away and so is everything else that reeks of weakness
walk with me here and there because you know i can't stand to be alone
keep talking so that i don't even have the chance to hear myself think
can't get too wrapped up in my own head
you know what happened last time.

this is completely wrong,
yet you know me no other way, missing all of the bones i break and smiles that i don't fake,
the best friends that always catch me
the brothers that abandoned me
but i still call them on their birthdays
the confidence that gets me the enemies that i let break me
the cracked knuckles and
ink smudges in the strangest places
when i'm back in my element
i am tall
at my best i can jump four feet high
put a smile on your face
and
cookies never get burnt.

they say that i'm a romantic at heart
i say
they wish i was that selfish.

i don't get angry often.

there's no point

for

it's a short fuse and

i often get caught

in my own explosion.

but sometimes

on very rare occasions

it's not an overreaction.

sometimes

justification

hurts worse

and in the long run

means more.

head hung low

he used to get that far off look in his eye whenever we talked about family.

I was looking at the floor too so

I was the only one who saw teardrops land on his toes

and when our teacher called for us to begin

our heads snapped up

and nobody could read us wrong.

later in the parking lot

while everyone cleaned

blood and sweat from the carpet and themselves

we held each other

and cried again.

now that he’s no longer part of our family

I wonder if he wouldnt mind

if I held him anyway.

you can learn a lot from feeling guilty

like

the tightness in your chest will pass,

and

that too many people

take breathing for granted.

you begin to tell the difference between

blame and accidents,

that sometimes

you need to unlearn the term

“fault”.

but most importantly that

saying

“I forgive you”

is not saying

“it’s okay”.

i never thanked the man who saved my life.

I still smell the tobacco

and hear the noise his beard made against my face

as though the books beside him

would never speak again.

I like to think

just being here

is thanks enough.

rumi said

“this being human is a guest house.”

and i have spent great time in mine,

in the very beginning

slipping through

the cracks in the floorboards

after the rug was pulled out from under me.

i spent a lot of time in a painful free fall

grasping at straws

and feeling like i was alice,

tumbling down a rabbit hole only i could see.

but there’s no sense

in abandoning your own guest house, i think.

my homage to rumi is

still living in mine.

the basement still counts.

someone once took a match and lit a fire in my belly

and ever since I first became aware of it I have tried

almost desperately

to find out who.

it wasn’t until the hair pulling and nail biting became a problem that

anybody taught me

what this fire was.

I thought it was anger

I was thirteen and mad at the world.

it was my right.

I thought it was fear

because I don’t know how to control myself

how can anyone else?

and then he told me

that my emotions weren’t the ones driving the car,

winking

knowing

I was trying to master stick shift.

since then

I breathe smoke

and sit on hot coals

and when I feel the heat

it doesn’t burn like

motivation does.

we exist in packs, in flocks, in ******* smacks of jellyfish, you know?
but you won't see us
as broken
as timid
we bare our teeth like machines when we brush our teeth and we put our hands in our pockets so that you can't see our ****** knuckles, the cuts on our arms or the scars
you have to know that this isn't a sign of weakness
that we're the brave ones for sticking through with this,
i was born in a mental institution and i sleep one hour a night.
but i spend most of my time in this sick bed
too much time inside my own head
we roll with the punches but never pull our own
you are nto who everyone else wants you to be
if you were you wouldn't need makeup to cover the bruises you wouldn't have without us
wouldn't have to crawl back to your bat cave every night
lying about where you were and who you were with
as though spilling some blood wasn't already sewn into our genetic code
ironed on to cover up some emptiness we couldn't have otherwise patched,
just know that this craving isn't some sort of temporary fix,
it's your only answer.
it's pulling at you, tugging at you every which way
making your blood boil like your soul is on fire
like you could blow smoke out your nostrils and scream a symphony
don't hate yourself for that hunger
that screech inside of yourself that refuses to be silenced or sedated
bring yourself
back inside yourself
and take a deep breath.
i want you to hit me as hard as you can.

i work myself weary all day long

and soon enough

i’m the panda

dark circles under my eyes

feet dragging sluggish and slow through aisles decorated with glitter and eight year old imaginations

head in the cloud

feet chained to the ground

heart six feet below

and i ask myself for certainly not the first

and certainly not the last time

“i wonder if you miss me?”

the hickies on her shoulders are an answer enough.

I am not mad that you took my toothbrush on your way out

or that

I never received an apology.

only disappointed

that your definition of

family

is blood and bones

instead of our home.

last night i dreamt with raw emotion. i felt everything i’ve been afraid to feel all at once; i was scared but i was courageous and i was angry but i was proud and i was so in love with you.

i hid from sight because i knew seeing me would make you angry but i still stuck my neck out because i wanted that recognition. i knew that your shouting was better than your silence, and that the force of your fingers sinking into my skin was better than the stillness of your absence.

apologies had never come easier and i’d never cried so much in my life. my heart was in my throat and refused to let oxygen through to my lungs making it impossible for me to just be still.

i knew i had what i wanted, which was the exact opposite of what i needed. i knew how things would end up but oh it just felt so good to be home again.

1.

I feel strange

grandfather

referring to you by

your first name

2.

did you know

people always ask me why

as though i’m supposed to know?

3.

I don’t even question

that

you would’ve been proud of me

4.

can you miss someone

you’ve never met?

5.

I just want you to know

I

don’t

blame

you.

spring time

is

root root root

for the home team

but more importantly

ernies coffees

made exactly the way I like

mango

and

Mediterranean

empanadas

and

endless stories

from uruguay

I like to think of most things as circumstantial.

that

I am who I am

beautiful and powerful

and that

fortune

is a jealous ****.

Lyle

I once heard

went to chinatown

had a son and

three brothers.

I have only met him

in

stories and faded photographs,

tears and insecurities.

Lyle

I once heard

looks just like my dad

with fingers crossed

hoping

they aren’t

really

the same.

monsters live in more than just my closet,

making friends with the skeletons

I don’t ask either of them for rent.

but they take it anyway

in the form of

missed meals and

unnecessary arguments,

self proclaimed insomnia and

the sensation of skin scratching.

a hot head and loose lips

once upon a time I had these monsters locked up

but

left to their own devices

they did what monsters do and

escaped.

it is not

a field of daffodils

or

my grandmother’s couch,

the arms of another

or

sand between my toes.

it is

and always shall be simply

pages

cool beneath my fingertips

sturdy covers and

enough light so that

nobody will nag about

my eyes straining

when the problem is

my heart.

I’ve never met you, but I’ve memorized your face.
Every contour, every curve, every centimeter of skin and shade of stubble
By now I know you better than you know yourself,
And yet I know nothing at all.
I have met you only in old photographs, black and white or the few with a yellow tint to them because they’re so old
In all of them you’re wearing the same half smile with a cigarette
Knees propped up like you’ve got nowhere to be anytime soon.
I know every seam in the navy uniform in grandma’s bureau like they could be the creases on the hands I’ll never get to hold
The hands that I’ve had to imagine finished carving the Thanksgiving turkey
The hands I was told built those lamps in the corner of the picture- there, in the back. If you squint you can see them, you are the reason there was light in that photograph.
I know everything about you from what you left behind
How you walked, your every move
I bet if I thought hard enough I could imagine your voice
Your cough from too many smokes
Your laugh
I can close my eyes and see how you smiled, how you rolled your eyes and how you looked when you were angry, when you were sad
I see that in everyone you’ve met.
That’s how she smiles
And that’s how he rolls his eyes
And that’s why she left
And that’s why dad never closes the garage door all the way
And that’s why she cries sometimes
And that’s why he drinks so much
You are the reason she’s still around
You are the reason he’s so sad all the time
You are the reason I’m so sad all the time,
Because your name is taboo and I have so many questions.
I’ve never met you, but I know you better than you know yourself.
I know how you walk
I know how you talk
And I know how you would apologize if you were here today:
“Cleaning up the blueberry mess of your life, daughter
I’m sorry I was not a better father.”

I almost didn’t believe you understood the concept of “depression” until I remembered that day.


today.

I sit on our broken couch

picking at my cuticles

trying not to let you see me cry

secretly angry

that you think you understand.

I bite my tongue because biting my knuckles is too close to cutting.


then.

I have the vaguest memories

of a house where windows never opened

nobody left

nobody visited

the carpet littered with books and toys

tv the only light

metaphorical or otherwise

getting out of bed at 2PM

cooking pancakes

I threw away underneath the sink full of ***** dishes

they were still gooey in the middle

but you didn’t notice

and went back to bed.

I thought you were sick.

I was the one who didn’t understand.


now.

we joke about the heroine you never did

only because you don’t like needles

and all the cutting I do

because I do

and I think we somehow

feel equally guilty.

i see him
in my sleep
everywhere i go.
he sits next to me on the bus
he watches me eat my cereal in the morning.
his eyes are red as he stands in the doorway
his face is blue when we crawl into bed.
which is funny
because i found him face down.

I’ve only been in love twice.


the first time I fell

I was thirteen

he was fifteen

lived around the corner

and the reason we became such good friends was

because between the two of us

we had all the answers.

we fought fire with fire

and after the explosion

we remain in the aftermath still

to this day.

I know it because she can’t look me in the eye

when she talks about you

for fear I’ll see

I still have what she wants.


the second time was trying

at eighteen

he

I was sure

was someone special

and so foreign to me.

I said there was something between us.

he called it “Canada”.

and I spoke to him

my favorite words

and to this day

I carry his heart, I carry it in.


part of the only reason i have so much hope for the future

is how

limitless our world is now.

it makes me sadder

for all those who lost out on love

because the right mode of transportation

hadn’t been invented yet.

i’d spend more time with you if I could

but

leash laws are strict

and you don’t have a collar.

hogging my bed

will have to be enough for now.

it costs a dollar twenty five for the drier that leaves your clothes still damp

but the lemons on the tree are perfectly ripe

and the wind chime sounds like

namaste.

though the clouds are thinning

it’s just cool enough for sneakers

and warm enough for tank tops.

gram is in the basement

dad is at the liquor store

and mi madrastra es talking with

the man who rents the apartment upstairs

exchanging recipes

and munching on chicharrones.

today

I live in the Santa Clara slums

and

feel as at home as I did

in the rain.

I have

what they call

“the shakes”

which may seem troubling enough to you but

is something I’ve come to terms with:

lines that are never straight

always spilling just a little salt

sometimes swerving

enough to look like a drunk driver

sometimes

rattling a fork against my dish.

never a moment of stillness so

sleep

is distracting to my other half

and sometimes

just looking at me

makes you want to move.

I grew up in your tattoos.
the gentle curves of dark blue lines held me as a child. now sometimes when i can’t remember your face i color in between those lines and let the rest of it fill in. the rose on your shoulder. the fallen angel on your ankle. the heart on your hip, the cherubs on your back, ever since i was little i wanted to be that permanent.
when i got older my fingers started to itch for something to hold onto in your absence. i tried to tattoo myself but red isn’t permanent and scars fade you said, ‘wait’. and since then i have never been so impatient. i tried scratching at my own skin but found i wasn’t cut out for art so i took to using the pen instead, scrawling hundreds of over used words and when they wouldn’t flow i used red again, unable to decide on what sorts of lines i want to replace you with. i’ve taken to writing on my wrists and found a substitution for scarred skin i think i have decided. this is the tattoo that i’m going to get:
See you in Hell, scribe.
Well, I thought. Probably.
But not today.

my fingertips itch

for something iknow

i'm not supposed to want

to have.



it's within my grasp,

i can feel my veins

rising to the surface of my skin

because my body wants

what my brain

won't allow it.



blood boils better under pressure

and i can't come up for air soon enough.



do as i say

not as i do.

you listen to every song that makes you feel and try not to take such deep breaths.

you think of every crucial moment and ignore your stinging eyes.

but

eventually

your chest tightens to the point of no return and

your face is suddenly hot

eyes swollen

as though the more you fight it the faster you lose.

waking up after a night of heavy tears

though

makes everyone a winner.

there is a word on my forehead

as though God took a big rubber stamp

and a bright red ink pad

took me by the back of the head to steady me and

pressed it right on

making sure every letter

was permanent

then He let me go.

i wandered around lost for awhile

at first only vaguely aware something was there

i knew very well the looks i received

meant i had a lable i could not see

but the more i squinted at myself in the mirror

the deeper the lines bled together

i knew i was smudged

but was still illiterate.

i woke up to it one day

the world suddenly

all too clear.

and when i looked in the mirror then

reading the word meant now

i could define it

no longer allowing the opposite

turning stigma and shame into

something i can work with.

Two things that do not go together:
Oil and vinegar
Like two puzzle pieces that don’t fit, one bigger and heavier, the other smaller and lighter. One sits slightly on top patiently, waiting for some impatient six year old to try and make them, squashing, trying to change them and mash them into one picture, you take your bread and you dip, and these two things that cannot physically mix taste perfect.
Fire and ice
For one is too hot to handle her own heat and the other is too cold to be touched by human hands. Get them too close and sparks fly- he melts from a glacier into a puddle at her hearth, but to his misfortune leaks a liquid love and puts her out.
You and me
Like the puzzle pieces, I sit smaller and savvier, waiting patiently as you sit heavy and heartbroken over what you could never have but always deserved.  But nothing is perfect, because for five years you were too cold and I too eager, and we destroyed each other- you when you caved and I when you drowned me out and now you are so far away. We wait patiently for someone to force us to fit, while everyone who comes along merely samples and says we are perfect.

this life is taken for granted

with harsh words and

heavy hearts of unforgiveness,

unappreciative thank yous

and too many

i love yous

left unsaid.

and we never really realize.

too many of us

never

really

realize.

I know you better sober

but still

know what will make you cry.

the hardest part

is knowing what will make you happy

is lying through my teeth

saying

“I’m back where I belong.”

waking up is the worst.

it's that all of a sudden awful snap back into reality

a dark, unforgiving room stares right on back

as though

"now i have to try and go back to sleep"

is the only option.



i've given up on counting sheep

on classical music and breathing exercises.

it isn't that i can't fall asleep

because on those nights i am the luckiest,

it's the

suffocating

dream pattern

falling back into place,

sometimes dropping right back in where you left off

in the middle of the sky falling

or fighting for your life,

it's the

illusion of control

that

this is my kingdom

and you'll do as i say

when nothing is really yours anymore.



but waking up is the worst.

even after

morning coffee

a shower

breakfast

not remembering

what made you this way

is the worst.