Write about being seen, really being seen.
(Remember to go with your "first flash," and write for 10 minutes without stopping or thinking.)

I was so humiliated. Besides feeling humiliated, I felt like I was on display. Each step I took down the hallway, every person in every little group glared at me, glanced away, and the whispers were buzzing. I felt it unjust, but I knew I brought it on myself. I cannot say I felt betrayal, as I was the original betrayer, (well, he was, but our emotional volley had collapsed with the weight of my action) but I hated him for savoring the revenge of my ruined reputation. I knew the pain I bestowed on him wouldn’t go away, but his smug satisfaction of broadcasting my shame only added to my humiliation.

When is graduation? Exactly two months away. That was April first, and I would have my high school diploma June 1st. I was a survivor, for my whole life, and although it was awful, I knew I could get past it. Still, every step I took in the hallway following that dreaded day, every move I made, every word I spoke, every breath I exhaled– was noticed, and I was judged without given the opportunity to provide an explanation of my perspective. High school rumors were ruthless, but what was worse is when it wasn’t a rumor. It was a scandal.

Even though no one dared to ask about it, to obtain information from me, I knew they all knew. Everyone knew, and once the basic information was known, details were not important. I wondered how many other girls experienced what I was experiencing, having to hold their head high and act proud despite the shame. It was strengthening, inadvertently, but the only other option was to hide away and avoid everyone. Even with a reputation, I couldn’t do that. Peers whispered and laughed degrading words, female faculty cast judgmental stares and all male teachers avoided eye contact, to avoid any association with me.

They call me crazy: I guess it’s in my right. I’d say I parallel Plath and Dickinson in their poetic plight. It’s a part of life. It’s something I’ve always known. And this holiday season shows how my disdain has grown for lies; I even hate the Christmas lights. I’m a Grinch-like *****. I won’t pretend to love consumerism, plastered-smiles of family—I lose my sanity every night there’s a holiday party. I sneak multiple glasses of wine. I text my lovers while my parents laugh at boring stories my relatives share. I am the coal of children’s stockings. I am the hair in the drain of the virtuous people showering off Christmas cocktails.

I was raised to be scared. I was raised to believe magic. It was so ******* tragic when I found out Santa was a lie. I held him in such high regard, the accord that I’d get some kind of reward if I was always nice. These terms included rejecting all vice and feeling faith in the stillness that even mice couldn’t be heard. I wouldn’t ever share a word of any sadness or doubt and this shutting of my mouth would promise prizes. Santa was my savior, my lord. I had a hard time adjusting to the fact that he was a fraud, but even worse—my parents were. My mother was a Mary. I couldn’t see her having *** as a means to create me. She was the wholesome, proper etiquette of French perspective and Muslim heritage. Santa was a separate thing. Santa was my father’s way, his mechanisms and faults that taught us to be loyal kids. I prayed., I prayed. I prayed to a mystical man who’d promise me goodness and accept me for myself, only if I followed his guidelines. I could be rewarded later, later, and my dreams on Christmas Eve of this anticipation would keep me awake and wondering: “sleep, sleep” they said, so I’d lay my head on my pillow and think of marshmallows and wrappings and peppermint and cookies and milk. “Santa will love my favors,” I thought. “Just be a nice girl and he’ll provide all you want in exchange for your virtue and goodness. Toys and family are all you need to be happy.” I accepted this notion, along with wine and bread and didn’t question the thoughts in my head that asked for a better understanding.

I prayed. “Dear Santa, I want a pony,” all the little girls said. Who would know in reality how much I’d dread cleaning up **** and taking care of it like a child or sacred possession? I wanted something to ride, to love. “Don’t question Santa—he lives above in the North Pole. If you asked him he’s bring a whole bag of presents. His presence will bless you if you stay a good girl and twirl in nice dresses and count all your blessings.” I wondered about all children in the world. “Well how can he fly all around the world at night and serve everyone? How does Santa know who deserves any one certain present?” “It’s not a competition—just be a good girl and don’t worry your little head about the mechanics of Santa’s magic: get good grades in school and listen to the authoritative teacher who expects you to learns but scolds you for asking questions. Listen, but don’t be heard. Believe our word that Santa’s coming to make your life better. Just be a good girl.”

I remember stacking cookies on a plate and leaving milk. The last time I might’ve been nine and I felt such guilt for not having them fresh-baked but leaving Chips-Ahoy! I went to bed but my brother’s ploy to catch Santa in the act—to prove for a fact that he existed—persisted beyond my parents answers and later went to destroy my fantasies of merriment. They call me crazy, but I’m not the one who lies. I found out later that Santa was a disguise. From sitting on the lap of every man who wore a hat and went to pat my thigh after asking for a bicycle, I learned Christmas was a cruel cycle of lies. I thought beyond it and wondered why my parents would deny the fiction they instilled. Did God advocate this kind of ignorance towards a child? Three years before I found out about Santa I learned about life and knew about death and realized one day my parents would die. I cried every night. I wondered when it would happen and the thought that no particular circumstance could rob their life made me anxious inside.

“What’s beyond life?” I’d wonder, in my little girl way, and my parents would reassure me to chase those thoughts away with Barbies and rainbows and sunshine. “Everyone has their time. There’s very little chance I’ll die tomorrow.” Tomorrow would pass and they’d still be alive but I’d ask about the day after and they’d chide me without providing answers. “How did Mary give birth?” asked the thirteen-year old me. I knew enough about biology to wonder how Santa and Jesus combined to make “merry”—a holiday of lies.

Adults despised my young eager mind and talked about a bible, a fairy-tale of St. Nicolas who once did this thing where he delivered socks to houses. I was wrong for my investigations and grown-ups had no hesitations in telling me so. “I don’t know,” they’d say, but just have faith and all will be okay. I knew about the Santa hoax so I figured Allah and God were also a joke I was too young to understand. Christian neighbors would reprimand my efforts and tell me about hell—saying they would show me the way and take me away if I went to church with them on Sundays. They were so nice and so threatening. “(Your Muslim friend is crazy but we can sway her back to normalcy). Would you like to try some bacon?”

Maybe I was crazy. I fetishized naught and nice later in life and I preferred the role of naughty. I thought if someone taught me a lesson I could get some answers in exchange for being bad. All I came up with was touching in the private parts with a warning “keep your mouth shut unless you want to be put up for adoption.” My mother was away. “Be grateful for your step-dad—that dead-beat Franklin isn’t the one filling your stockings.” I couldn’t endure talking because my silence was the exchange for “stuff”. Merry Christmas indeed—when mom was away we celebrate with shots of peppermint schnapps. “Do you remember those days?” I’d ask my siblings. “No-but I don’t really want to.” I wanted to ask “Does it haunt you in the same way?”

Mother was away. My siblings were estranged. I had no one to talk to so I used my own gift to make new friends. “Cute,” they’d call me, right as I was hitting puberty. “I thought you were older—when’s your birthday?” “Several weeks before the holiday,” I’d say. I’d find a boy with a nice sitting-lap and I’d talk about all the crap I couldn’t share otherwise. They’d sometimes stroke my thighs while they pretended to listen. I’d look in their eyes and see irises glisten but I didn’t know what I thought was trust was the human condition—a sin called lust. I wanted someone nice to provide me with goodness, but in my heart I knew that naughtiness earned the ultimate prize. I grew to despise the accustomed way men would lie and top of me and sweat out their secrets while robbing my thighs. I went with it anyway. You deal with this kind of celebration during the holiday and you don’t think twice about the lies—just do your best to be nice. I was nice in so many ways. They called me crazy.

I was born not understanding. Therefore I shall Die not the same way I was born. Life comes with experience and lessons. And Love becomes stronger when there's commitment and trust. So do not teach me how to love. But do try to appreciate the Wrongs and the Rights. Appreciate the good and the bad. For life is not For Sale. And Love is Key to no Door, but a key that can lock your heart and mine together...

#Therefore I was born not understanding. So don't let me love you, without understanding you...

“You ask too many questions and it makes you seem desperate”
Friends don’t really exist
But companionship persists
Every little competition is more
Than trying to only win
I have to win them all
Recreational soccer and tae-kwon-doe taught me adequacy derived from strength
Inner power makes it worthwhile
Things only matter when they’re worthwhile
It gets to the point where it becomes petty too, saying
I’m better, I have the most, the most, the more
“I’m taller,” or “I run faster,” “My life ***** more than yours,” “I’ve had more lovers,” “I’ve been to more countries” and “I will die youngest”
Compare and analyze
Texts reveal things
They don’t teach you that in public school, you have to pay for it
Money buys knowledge, mobey in exchange for truth, but neither really matter,
Years of life are wasted on propaganda and it makes me sick
Be like this, if nothing else, because you don’t know what else to be like
Control control when vulnerability strikes
But who really has more knives?
Let’s compare scars, inner and outer, to reveal who you are,
But some of these humans have their own tricks, scars on the outside to substitute the inner ones being washed away, like scratching a name into the sand with a stick, washed away, turned to steel, unafraid
Recycling elements and the nonsense of existing—learn this, be that, make money, reproduce, consume
Pretend pretend pretend
What for?
Who are you really? Really? How can you be a who? A specific person like every other,
Matter doesn’t matter matter matter matter I hear that word in my head so many times I feel like I could spend my life writing lines of it “matter matter matter matter”
Until the day I die from years of writing the same words over and over, only when the pencil drops, hits the floor and breaks, will nothing matter.

Call me an alcoholic,
Druggie, ******. I am none of these things.
I have my fits and fiends of wanting **** and wine, but
I am fine.

Have you ever written letters you don’t send?

I don’t think it was really unfair of me, but there were certainly better ways. It might’ve been easier if I’d said no—a jab to alert you of the no-ness—but I wanted to say yes, even though I knew I would possibly say later “I can’t”.

I’ve liked you for a while. I denied it for some time. Even though we dated briefly and it seems like smoke now, it validated the summers we spent together. Even in 2011 I liked you; last year I did and was scared to; this year I let it happen. I couldn’t control it. I saw you and wanted you, I had to; I had you. You were more than summer ******* and we both know it. It was hard to say and acknowledge though, because summer things come up. You’re not like other “lifeguards” I “******” though, and I know I’m not just another lifeguard you ****** either. We’re friends. We were something.

I’m sorry I left suddenly, rashly and didn’t talk to you for a week.. but I know you’re not emotionally weak and you dealt with it even if it confused or surprised you. It was a defense mechanism on my part. I wouldn’t have known how to approach you or maintain a long distance relationship, especially since I’m living with Rachel.. of course you could’ve visited, but it would’ve been uncomfortable once you left and we both know that. This situation has already been mapped out and I think we both knew the outcome of this fall. We’re friends however, well, I actually value you as one, and I would like to see you and hang out. Maybe I’ll hit you up when I’m back in the area—if you want to see me, that it—and as I said, if you’re in Annapolis and want to go out some weekend that’s possible. I wouldn’t even have to stay with you if it were too much; I could hang out with Katie. But either way would be fun, I think.

So I didn’t want a relationship. Yet here I am, trying to communicate and write you… yesterday was weird. I realized an entire week had passed since I left you and didn’t say anything. I wanted to write you. I texted you to make sure it was okay. Maybe you thought it was a bit ****** up or maybe you weren’t phased, but either way I’m sorry I left like that. I didn’t know how else to leave.

Please know, however, that I wanted to be your girlfriend, even if it was just for a little bit of time. I used to think dating you wasn’t even something to consider because neither of us seemed to be interested in a relationship and we are the type of people who don’t usually get attached. I have problems with that. And right now I’m in an awkward situation here because I told Rachel I don’t want to have *** with anyone right now—which I don’t (Salisbury is STD and I’m clean, plus I’m kind of emotionally drained and even though *** is physically fun it brings a lot of baggage.. not that I’m attracted to anyone here anyways but this fall is about ME and getting awesome grades/working on grad application stuff/trying not to lose it)—and she is included in that.

I did have *** with her when I came here though… I guess it was “I missed you,” ***, or “I don’t want to feel with emotions regarding Drew so I’m going to ******* as a distraction” ***, or maybe even “I wonder if we can just have *** as friends without any relationship ties,” ***.. which can’t happen either. She likes me still, or loves me, or whatever. I don’t know how because I’ve been so emotionally distant but I guess she misinterpreted me being nice/being down for *** for still caring about her that way. Between finishing my class, worrying about working and being around her (just her for now, the other roomies should be here next week) I’ve pushed down thinking about you because it was hard to. I remember last year and how it was then, too. Things don’t seem to change much.

Rachel asked about you. I told her honestly. I told her that I couldn’t attach to her the same and that I liked you and I’m sorry I hurt her this summer, but last year she got a boyfriend and I had you.. then I left and she still had him and I wasn’t sure how you felt, but I met Ben and when I realized it wasn’t the way I perceived it to be in my head she was there when I was alone and vulnerable. It took her a long time to admit she liked girls but I’m over it with her, honestly, even though I find her sexually attractive.

When I talked about you, however, she said she would get whatever needed to satisfy all aspects of my bisexuality.. but I told her there was a difference in the way it feels to be with a man, and I thought of you—your warmth, strength and ability to excite me with such passionate heterosexual compulsion.

My mind is so ****** right now. Both of you are part of my past and present although it’s different. I’m not going to sleep with Rachel, and I’m not around to sleep with you (not that you would anyways—although I’m not sure you wouldn’t if the moment was right) so I’m not going to sleep with anyone. *** isn’t always just *** and I am in a situation now where I’m being influenced by feelings and ****** ties and I don’t want any with her. I think about you, though, and it’s easier because I’m not around you but it wasn’t very long ago that I was. I guess I took it for granted. It’s really over now since I’m not coming back to PMSI, but it at least made me happy that I could validate the way I felt towards you. The last boyfriend I had was three years ago, and, besides Rachel, I haven’t been in a relationship. It’s hard for me to like people sometimes, and I don’t know if I can like anyone fully.. that’s why I didn’t want to try with you, really. I didn’t want to lead you on or give you expectations of how our long-distance relationship could’ve been, but I want you to know that I still like you and will have to eventually get over you, but I am going to let time do that instead of distracting myself with other people—that’s what I used to do.

You told me once I was a void you were trying to fill.. I don’t want to be that. I want to be a piece that something can be built on; I want to be an experience on which you can reflect fondly and acknowledge that, although brief and often unclear, was real. You influenced me, shaped me and changed me, for the better, I think. I think we’ll always be cool and I’d like to keep in touch and see you.. but I understand that things may not be as casual regarding the way we act towards one another.

Otherwise, things are okay. I’ll have two jobs this fall, five classes and hopefully a bit of time for chill activity to maintain my sanity but I don’t want to be with anyone here. There’s no way I could. Rachel asked about us.. I told her I didn’t want to talk about it with her. I don’t. I hope she moves on but she’s in her room currently hanging out and I’m doing the same. It’s nice to have time alone to think. I can’t help but feel bad for her.. but feeling bad makes me accessible to her—which I need to stop.

He threw
his half-filled
aluminum can of Asian pear juice
Out the window of his moving car.
I informed him of what he did,
And he reluctantly acknowledged
his pollution.
He asked for a kiss and I
reluctantly pecked
his lips and wondered
what number and rank
I was. I went inside and
He left, so
I took a hot shower, brushed my teeth, took
my medicine
and made hot tea. As I watched the soggy leaves brew
and the brown whispers seep,
I watched the water
turn into something else,
something else for me to drink—
and I’m quite fond of tea,
but I surely prefer water,
and I think my hands knew
because I
accidently spilled some
from my drinking glass into the brew
but it remained the same.
But anyways, it isn’t so bad,
It’s only a plant
causing this
change.

We had *** without *******
But more like a consummation of selves.
He entered me with his hands and his eyes
His thighs against mine when we were kissing and touching each other.

I blew him and I knew him well enough to get him off twice
I knew it meant nothing but still it felt nice.