Jenny Aug 25
you should see the way they look at each other
as if the universe exists in the specks of their eyes
as if the sun and stars
were brought to their knees at the parting of his lips
both depraved of soft looks, soft lips, soft fingertips
they think their eyelash flutters go unnoticed
but you could practically feel
how the air softens around them
the earth herself couldn’t help but smile
and when they sneak glances at each other,
each when the other isn’t looking
there is an obvious moment of genuine awe
and i can see them fall head over heels again,
as if from the beginning
the moments and memories slow,
as a halo hovers above him,
galaxies gather to admire the angel and his lover

anything is possible when they’re together
death cannot grasp them,
disease and dissatisfaction try in vain
but the warmth they feel towards each other
fuels them for lifetimes to come
the red that bumps in his heart seeps through his smile
and for once,
the cold evenings that once were filled with eternal darkness
no longer feel so lonely
they don’t say it, but i see it
i see the way their pinkies brush when they walk together
and the way they admire the sunrise together

earth stopped rotating to give the lovers
a moment of silence
as the waves, foaming at the lips slowed,
and hover over the sand,
completely still in anticipation of impact
he stared at him then, and slowly took in the boy’s face
he focused on how his eyes glazed over when he was admiring the seagulls,
their wings outstretched in the pink purple sky
and he knew then
however many lifetimes he had to sacrifice
he would do so without hesitating
for the boy with smile lines that gathered at the corner of his eyes
for the boy who could make his heart speed and stop altogether
for the boy who, while so unaware, was so beautiful
in both their chests, they knew it was love,
and from both their eyes, they professed it
read the tags ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

sweet creature
Jenny Aug 20
for those who comment on your skin
as if it were their own
should realize they do not OWN you
or your body
the only thing they can own are your insecurities
so set yourself free
let yourself breathe
and reclaim what is rightfully your own
Jenny Jul 12
the skyline is a piece of thread stretching
from one end of the horizon to the other,
the lights from inhaling buildings
provide sporadic constellations,
like the night sky above the sleepless streets.
Jenny Jul 12
windows up
walls down
in the backseat of her toyota
staring at the green fluorescent car clock
he looks over his shoulder in the passenger seat,
the boy who could breathe without inhaling
a mere party trick.
i had always wondered what it felt like to be a teen
stupid as is seems
i was sheltered once,
hidden from night rides
obscured from midnight hikes
asleep instead of the early morning mcdonald trips
my friends were more persistent on making me to eat with them
than making me exhale dancing fumes with them.
i only know the double chin grins on our snapchat stories
the rude jokes, the black ripped jeans, and snapbacks
the lime green socks that matched the stair railings
and pink sliders never looked better.
the “6:30” movies (5:30, shhh, my mom can’t know)
and the crinkling of empty water bottles in the backseat
i felt alive tonight,
even through the tough,
sushi stores and reclining movie theaters never felt more like home.
and boba stores that stay open late with neon open signs
welcome us
the “oH mY gOsH iTs a DoG” screams
the photoshoots with random men wearing fake Coach hats
the posing by wooden desks
the lights that lounge effortlessly above
encaptures our spirits and brighten them
i don’t drink, but they smoke
but tonight, beer can’t buzz us more than boba
and childish giggles escape from my wide smile.
so this is what the lullabies were about
this is what katy perry sang about
this is what i had been waiting for
to experience moments of pure awe and affection for those around me
to see them smile in slow motion when they understand a joke
or react to something
our collective experiences are understood
no words need to be ushered to empathize
as we dress like the night,
we transform into it
the stars flicker for us
the moon gives us her blessing
and the sleeping sun gives us our space
was meant for us
the clock stops
and time stretches its arms to infinity and beyond
i could live in the frozen frame of this evening
bomber jackets, jean jackets, and tattooed planets
the inside jokes, the enjoyed hoax, our future hopes
they live inside the car clock that reads, in green, 9:37
a wonderful night
Jenny Jul 11
the electricity runs through our veins
and past the street signs we rumble by
in the car you stole, we go fifty above the speed limit,
the roof of the car is the noir sky above
and the midnight rain pelts our upturned faces
the dancing drops of water drip onto our smiling lips
the sound of the sky collapsing
echoes the flashes that streak the sky,
the flickering light casts paved roads with a brief brightness
(as if god were wearing light up sketchers)
the lacy brallette that wears me
gives me the bravery to stand up in the speeding car
the velvet pants that ripple with the wind
drink up the nighttime rain
and the rare headlights race past us,
heading into homes and hearts
the mellow playlist that connects the aux cord to our ears blasts
so loud, we can no longer hear our insecurity
the mascara that once clung to my eyelashes
now streams down my face.
on a two way street,
we drive down the middle
unafraid in the face of direct dangers
so unaware of the towering empty skyscrapers
and instead highly exhilarated
from the street signs we drive by
too fast to read the blocky lettering
the road signs glint, smiling as we wave and reach towards them
the cigarettes you smoked are thrown through the open window,
still smothering slightly.
i can still taste the smoke on your lips
and your hand tucks my hair behind my ear
and as the wind objects and inhales
unreal in the hazy a.m. car trip
the tunnel rushes towards us,
and we both hold our breaths,
as if breathing would contaminate us.
the lights that glint, cast a yellow-white glow
and for once, i see you for who you are
a boy too buzzed to feel
a kid who only felt "sort of"
a person who couldn't heal
and a lover who could never give love
about a boy who was my living teenage dream // nothing scarier than finding a broken loveless boy who makes you the same
Jenny Jul 9
a cigarette is clenched between her teeth
and as she takes a deep drag,
she tilts her head back to exhale
a trail of smoke curls and leaves her parted lips
drifting into the twilight sky
only a trace of its smell is left in its wake
she looks over the edge of the balcony
that hangs over her pool
putting her pressure on her elbow
the blue hues danced across her face
white and blue swim on her skin,
a projection, a reflection
the ashes that fall off her cigarette fall into the pool
and decide to either float or sink into oblivion
the horizon that was once god’s strawberry cotton candy
melted into the dark burnt curtain of night
and as the stars awoke one by one
she took my hand into hers,
and flicked the remains of the cigarette into the unnatural blue below
“come with me” she whispered, breathless,
a smile on her face, a bit more than buzzed
we ran up the stairs laughing,
and i could already taste her strawberry lips
and feel her soft tongue
as night was defeated by light
we lay down to our earned slumber
in the queen sized bed
half covered by blankets and soaked in sweat
as we sink deeper into each other
the fantasies that once filled our mouths
come to life, bursting, drifting, exposed
i would have it no other way
for rosa diaz, and although she is a fictional character, she appears in my day dreams and night fantasies .
Jenny Jul 6
A dog barks, the clock ticks, the keyboard clacks as I type. The sink hums as my dad washes the dishes, and the passing cars can be heard, the wheels going whoosh. You can hear the neighbor’s kid’s crying every so often. A door creaks, and a light breeze dances through the curtains. These sounds are the sounds I write to, the quiet that isn’t really quiet. These sounds are hushed, but if you really want to listen, you can hear it.
I sit there, in that beat up chair, and I write. It’s not really writing, it’s scribbling, it’s thinking, it’s the breath that comes in and out of my lungs, it’s the smudging of ink and lead on my fingers and hands. It’s me.
The beat up chair, and the stuffiness of the room, all things I can feel beneath my legs, on my forearms.

My life is ingrained in ink. The ink of newspapers, of my pens, of the words I’ve written.

The pen in my hand, clutched between my middle finger and thumb, with my pointer finger resting on it. The only form of comfort is felt in my hands, my companion [com(pen)ion haha], we communicate in our own language,

Writing is different for everyone. Some people sit for hours on end and cannot think of anything to write, and others don’t stop writing until their hands cramp up, and hurt too much to continue. I’ve been both types of people, but either way, I love writing. I love the feeling of a pen and paper. My pen bleeds onto paper in the ways that I cannot. It seeps, and it satisfies, and when times get tough, I can always go back to it, and write what I am feeling, not as a way to preserve my sadness or anger, but to let it out, to prevent myself from feeling hopeless, voiceless. There is always an audience with a notebook, and I don’t have to reserve a time; my notebook will always be there. I can speak how I feel freely, with no judge ruling over me. It is the only sense of freedom I get sometimes.

My room is 10 feet by 10 feet, with my creaky bed in the far right corner and a peeling table across the room. Funny that it’s called room, when there isn’t a lot of it. But I don’t really mind, this is the only home I really remember. There are shelves on each side of the room, one over the bed, with 10 hollow ribs just like in a skeleton. This area is filled with ideas. Those ideas are books, a Scrabble box, and an empty camera. Another shelf is lined up on the far left side of the room, containing old text books and headphones that don’t work anymore. These shelves sandwich my mattress on the floor.

I lie on my mattress, wide eyed, heart beating, as my thoughts begins bouncing in the walls of my brain. I have a habit of writing them down now, so I can get them out of my head and onto smooth lined paper. The only sound in the house is the pencil scratching the paper I cannot see, and the occasional sound of a cricket's chirping. Night after night I sit up in bed, staring blankly at the wall, taking my thoughts from my head and onto paper. This has been a comfort ever since I was young, being able to express myself another way than speaking. I’ve discovered that spoken words come difficult to me sometimes. My lips may fail me, but my hands won’t.

“I just want to sleep. Just let me sleep.” It’s too late for that, my thoughts tell me. Ironic isn’t it? It’s 12 in the morning and my thoughts won’t let me sleep, which is really needed. Instead they decide to keep me up, constantly bothering me, asking me questions I cannot answer. These thoughts have always been there,  just suppressed, silenced. But now, they’re waking up, stretching themselves. When I need to sleep, they need to keep me up. It’s just how things are now, they live in my head permanently. It’s their full time job they take quite seriously. They constantly tap me on my shoulder and tell me things I don’t want to hear. They constantly whisper things I block out. And more often than not, they’re negative. What does that say about me as a person?

Have you ever seen a person slapped? I have. It was in a movie, in slow motion. My brain could not process the speed at which it was executed, as her head snapped left, the back of his hand made a loud thwack, followed by heavy breathing, and quiet crying, the kind where you tremble, and I cried with her, as she held the side of her face, tears dripping down her trembling lips, as he advanced towards her again, preparing to impart another blow. All I could hear was screaming, I was screaming for him to stop, he was screaming, and I’m sure we woke up our neighbors. And then silence. Too loud, too heavy. And I’m back in my roomless room, door closed, breathing hard, breathing shallow. Not the first time, and definitely not the last time. There is that feeling again. Helplessness. It eats up my insides, twists me, treats my brain like clay, pushing, molding, spinning me until it’s hard to breathe, hard to see. I don’t know what to say, what to do. What are you supposed to say? What are you supposed to do?

[Someone who does not have the same experiences that I have will not know what I know, it’s a given. But there’s a lack of empathy that I feel. Excusing my experiences because yours are not similar to mine does not make your experience more “right”. There is no right, no wrong when it comes to experiences. There just is. ]

We all wear different masks, some we make, others, given to us. We are told to play a role, by ourselves or by the people around us. We are to act as expected, as a stereotype.

I write. I write and I write until my pencil led runs out, until my pen is warm in my hands, until my crying has stopped, and until the pages are full of wobbly scratches.
Looking up, through the railings of the stairs of my apartment, all I can see is a heavy blanket of fog, clouds so heavy, I can feel it in my lungs. No sun can be seen, but it’s still bright, just cold. I’ve always enjoyed the rain, the way you can see it drip from a leaf, clear, calming, quiet. The way you can see it fall in sheets, in lines falling fast from the sky, and how it creates dots on the cement, how it stings when it hits my skin, cold, sharp. When I walk, it doesn’t mind walking with me. It likes blurring my vision through my eyelashes and my glasses, it likes getting in my hair, and it likes my smooth skin, it is the only thing that doesn’t mind my presence. With the rain, I don’t feel so alone, I don’t hear myself, and instead I hear it, hitting different surfaces, telling me the same thing. It’s a constant sound, whispering it’s secrets to those who are willing to listen. I love spending time with it, because it will never be disappointed, and it’s touch is comforting, it’s cold matching mine.
an essay i wrote about writing
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