My mother comes from the earth,
she comes from moss, from dirt,
from loam, from deep roots.
she makes beautiful things from the simplest of beginnings,
From soil and seed, comes fruit,
her hopes, her dreams, her ambitions.
She turns manure into blossoms, ugliness into beauty,
options into opportunity.

My father comes from water,
he comes from ocean, from riptides,
from currents, from salty spray.
When the white caps are crashing over him, he perseveres,
unfazed by the storm, he faces his troubles head-on.
He comes from sailors, swimmers, fishermen, mariners,
ceaselessly stitched to the sea,
simultaneously searching for both freedom and discipline.

I come from earth and from water,
I come from deep roots and from riptides.
I come from softness and from stoicism.
I come from my mother and from my father.
I am also from myself.
I am from where I have been and where that allows me to go.
I am from strength in the hardest of times.
I am from love.

Stuffed animals and posters of Corbin Bleu
could have never prepared me for this moment.
Your hands touch me back like the pictures never could.
Your deliberate and calculated movements tell me
your experience is not just limited to teddy bears.

My arms are not as adept as yours,
not as practiced.
I have spaghetti limbs and wobbly knees.
You say I’m a fast learner but something tells me you're humoring my fumbles,
my awkward hands, and hesitant tongue.

You maneuver your frozen hands
under my Hello Kitty graphic tee.
My newly awakened ******* are firm yet flexible
like buds before a blossom.
Be gentle, the buds are fragile.

You fiddle with my zipper and reach into my daisy print *******.
These petals are not yet ready to be plucked.
Not ready to be stolen and scattered in
a game of “she loves me, she loves me not”
But I cannot seem to release
the one word that could save me.

I am quite literally petrified,
suspended in this moment like
one of those prehistoric dragonflies in amber.
My brain has called a moratorium on movement.
It waits for a moment of safety
for my wings to start beating again.

You will smoke me like one of your cigarettes.
Twisting me in your yellow fingers.
Taking drags of my innocence.
Until I am used and smooshed into the sidewalk.
I will not realize this until later.
Because I am somehow addicted to your type of nicotine.

Tears become crystallized in their ducts.
One touch could shatter me.
I plaster a smile on my face,
but even concrete crumbles.
My face shakes.
My mask falls.
The facade you wanted to **** disappears.
I am more vulnerable than I ever have been

You played my heart like a
slot machine, and
I played yours.
The amount of quarters that spit out,
judged my worthiness of
your affection.
Instant gratification was the name of the game,
or was it the name of our love?

I am addicted,
not to gambling my money away,
but to betting
against my brain,
towards my heart.
You are addicted to many things,
my love,
not being one of them,
anymore.

When I left,
the withdrawal must have made you ache,
I thought your calling would never end.
You thought your love never would.
Until it did,
after I remembered,
until you hated me,
after I hated you.

I could engage in this
push and pull,
endlessly.
I thought you could have, too.
I guess I wasn’t needed anymore.
My riches are not enough for you.
My coins are now merely decorative,
they have no worth without you.