I wish I was good at being myself
I spend my day overanalyzing videos, trying to understand what everyone does and I don’t
I try to find new ways of being myself while looking into others

I wish I was good at being a girl
Good at keeping my hair brushed
Good at keeping myself beautiful and available

I wish I could stop
Stop dreaming of running away
I wish I could stop feeling rage in every finger, it hurts to touch the ones I love with so much scorn in my hands
I wish I could be here without wishing to be there and away from where I am
I wish I could stop
Stop the madness in my head, the run on sentences that sprint laps around the person standing infant of me

I think thats why I’m bad at being a girl
I'm not the good kind of girl
Not the kind of girl who loves, I obsess
Not the kind of girl who savors life, I just try everything at once
The kind who runs when she needs to rest
I wish I could stop and simply be a girl

Purple like bruises
purple like the end of the day
Purple like my cool pencil that I never got back in grade school and think about when I walk past the school supply aisle
Purple like it hurts
When the swelling goes down and you can see the it for what it is

Purple reminds me of you

No
Purple like bruises that hurt but don’t remember how they got there
Purple like that pencil I eventually forgot about
Purple like the last color in the sky before it goes dark

Words spill out of me, overflow of emotions, I feel like I’m only words
Only confusion
Only incorrect syntax and tolerable grammar
It hurts you know,
To be so full and feel so empty
a pit that is never full, and grows when you feed it

Overflow of words
Overflow of unlovable thought
Overflow of me
It hurts you know

I feel so lost and trapped again. every turn is a wrong one
never enough space to breath or understand or talk
it’s upsetting that this is what it comes to sometimes
I need more, I need less, I need something
i feel so out of touch with myself, it’s makes things uncertain
but only for those who count on me to be blind
turn
turn
turn again
it’s always a wrong turn,
maybe it’s more of a circle and we are simply getting dizzy

she makes me look her in the eyes before she asks me questions.
she thinks she can tell whenever I'm not being truthful. the only thing I hope she sees is hurt. I hope she can see how badly I wish she'd just be honest with me. she says she can tell whenever I lie, she says I can't lie. but why would I when this is the only life I will live at one time and if I ever lived another, I can't remember.
lie detector.
I'm not telling the truth until I'm so overwhelmed with defeat that my eyes slowly push tears from my eyes, like a string of pearls.
I didn't know lie detectors could make you question your psyche's interpretation of everything you knew about them, about yourself.

doubt: as tiny as a mustard seed that grows a sequoia in your diaphragm.
its branches growing leaves in your lungs, making every breath you take rustle in your throat, further restricting your breathing day by day. doubt is killing you. doubt makes your stomach turn every morning and night when your mind is most tired, vulnerable, empty.

growing until its roots are attached to your bones and it becomes what wakes you up every day before the sun rises just to think about it. just to feel its weight on your body, sinking you further and further into the floor. before you know it, there is no more soul. there is no more you. you have been replayed with this flourishing sequoia tree of doubt, that when it sheds its leaves, and it is no longer present, you will never remain the same. the bowls of your soul will remain deep and echo. doubt has changed you. your lungs are empty, brittle, and ache. doubt has left you tired, vulnerable, empty.

"Shhh..." and just like that all of my anxieties are swept away at the same time she tucks my hair behind my ear.
"We'll figure this out," she says, without even saying a word. Her eyes bring me all the comfort I'll ever need.
"Trust me" say her hands as she holds mine and brushes the back of my palms with her thumbs. Soft, and full of light, I find calmness.
Her eyes tell me so much more than words could even convey and I guess that's where the magic is. That's where the stillness lies. That's where my peace is.

If you were ever to kiss me, I think the world would stop spinning.
My stomach would jump up into my throat and suffocate me.
My heart would explode out of my chest and lay on the ground, still beating furiously.
My limbs would go stiff, and I’d be frozen to the concrete.
My lungs would collapse, but I’d still be able to breathe, because your kiss would be the only oxygen I’d need.

"you're really pretty for a black girl"
I swallow that backhanded complement hard.
I can feel the shards of glass that came with it.
"you're pretty for a black girl" feels like beauty isn't synonymous with being black.
"you're pretty for a black girl" feels like passing a test I don't remember signing up for and I should be grateful I passed without preparation.
"you're pretty for a black girl" does not mean you're pretty. that means you're pretty by exception, and not because you just are.
   and that's not a compliment.
"you're pretty for a black girl" I hear them say it for the last time.
I clench the hem of my shirt , look them straight in the eye and say without missing a beat, "No. I'm just pretty."

I never even knew I was different. And by different I mean not white.
My mom has green eyes and light skin with freckles. She has brown hair that beautifully sprouts white strands sometimes, but she's never not beautiful. Or never not has green eyes, or light skin with freckles.

I have brown skin. No freckles, and eyes that look like almonds that didn't make it into the bag, in shape and color. My skin is dry. Except my face. My skin is more than one shade of brown, especially on my face. My skin is stretched. Never been tight. My skin reminds me of a potato, not so much "cafe con leche" like my nana says.

I grew up in this white town, with white people, and white expectations. I was never allowed not to act like a child because children of color are barely seen as children. I was never allowed to run or yell like the white kids on the playground because that made me look like I hadn't been "raised right".

I could never sit on the lunch benches outside like the other kids because the yard-ladies would only see my brown skin in the sea of whiteness and only tell me to not sit there.

I could never struggle in academics because that meant my hispanic mother didn't invest in my "academic success" and CPS would show up and ask me questions about whether my mom loved me or not. My mom worked three jobs, and saw us for less than three hours a day. she worked so she could invest in our success.

I couldn't say I was hungry because that meant my family was too poor and couldn't feed me. And then have CPS show up and ask to see the fridge. [I wasn't actually hungry, it's just that  by the time I was 7 I had developed an eating disorder because I had no idea how to cope with anxiety].

I could never not listen to authority because it wasn't teenage rebellion, it would qualify me for special behavior programs targeted towards "troubled youth" and we all know that's code for "kids of color who won't make it past  without being put in jail, being *****, pregnant at least once, or dying-- and by dying I mean killed by the system... choose any system because they're all designed to **** POC anyway".

I could never play in the sun during the summer with my white latinx cousins because the sun is not a brown girl's friend. The sun made my skin dark and made my aunt's hiss about my color to my mom and how she shouldn't let us out without sunscreen because we'd turn into "negritas", and that's what we shouldn't want.

I could never love myself because that doesn't exist when you aren't white. I mean, how do you love a body with thick brown hair, cracked skin, and a nose that doesn't look like Cinderella's?  I mean, how can you love a body that doesn't look like anyone in the new J-14 magazine? I mean how do you love a body that's never seen the sun because she's scared of being too dark because then shes's ugly? I mean, how does a brown girl even love herself?

I caught my reflection today and didn't recognize myself. I knew it was me because I saw the eyes widen at the same time I felt that mine did. If I could jump out of that skin right then and there I would have done it, and left it there. Part of me is still in front of that mirror right now trying to make sense of it. Of who I saw. Of who I am.

I live in this this weird place. Not physically, but literally. Or is it metaphorically? Anyway, I live in this space where half of the time I know I exist because it hurts and the other half is present. Just present. There is nothing. There is no weight, just a feeling of being present. And that's where I'd like to stay. But there is no room for nothing because nothing is occupied by something and I think that something is me.

I think my body is not my body because I don't recognize it. I have no ties to it, I don't even think it belong to me. My body feels like an overdue book that's registered to this weird library I've never been to and I want to return it. But the problem with that is that there is no address to this library and that makes me feel like there is no library. And that makes me feel like I bought this body and I don't know why I would even do that because I would probably choose to be a butterfly instead.

I think my body is missing something. And by something I think it's missing me.

who the **** am I?
what the **** do I look like?
where the **** do I fit in?
I say as I'm mindlessly brushing my teeth.  I look at the image in the mirror and ask them, "where did you even come from?"
There is no reply, only an echo of what I think my face is.

where the **** am I going?
how the **** am I going to get there?
what the **** do I even want?
I ask the image. There is no reply, only desperation in its eyes. "Do you even want to be here right now?" I ask the imagine. No answer. But I think yes. I think the image wants to be more than that. I think it wants to be. Simply, be.

I walk back to the mirror. Exist, I tell the reflection. Just exist, I tell myself

since the first time i saw you, for you, i knew i belonged to you completely. i knew it was the beginning of the beginning for me. a new beginning for a something i didn’t even know was coming. and not for us, but for me. being with you, having you touch every corner of my mind and having every neuron fire in your name , in your direction, is what it’s like being touched by an angel. and i don’t think that anything, if anything, is worth dying for. but if kissing you every time made me feel like the ocean’s tide changes to match your heartbeat i think that might be. kissing you feels like i can taste a revolution, like if your tongue is te only thing that’ll touch me in this war. like if nothing could save me, i’d turn to you for my last sweet moment. even if you’re painfully bad for me, and everything drove me away from you, i’d crawl to your feet and surrender my tongue for the taking.

i’ve been thinking about holding on, letting go, resenting, freeing oneself from the nonexistent constraints of... everything. i wish someone would have told me how sweet life is. not just sweet as in cool, but sweet as in tender. sweet as in rewarding, infinitely giving. i don’t know if i’m just experiencing this for the first time but i’ve never felt more happy to be alive than now. i always tried to control life. control my surroundings, people, situations and circumstances. i was afraid of change. but why? since when was life supposed to be controlled? when did experience become scary? why are we compelled to do and feel these things? isn’t life supposed to be about growth? about challenges? about becoming the us we were MADE for? how are we supposed to develop into these people if we are scared of letting go? what is there to lose? most things are temporary. if anything, almost everything is meant to be ours temporarily, so why hold on to things that aren’t meant for us anymore?

i knew that from the moment that i texted you for the first time i would come to love you

i knew that every pen-stroke from then on would be a confession of my love with no remorse. i knew that every ink-filled page would only be about how i couldn't get myself to look away from your eyes and how every word to drip from your lips sounded like Shakespeare's sonnets

it's crazy because i never understood you or your love. i didn't understand why you would never let me in completely and why you would only come back o me after a long night out

what i wanted to understand was why it hurt you to open up. i wanted to know why i couldn't be yours when the sun was out or why you could never fall in love with me

i don't understand why you would look for me in other people, hurting yourself, why not come back home to me where you'd be unharmed and warm. i don't know why you don't want me to be yours

i'm sorry for every night i fell asleep waiting for to come home safely. i'm sorry  for not being beautiful enough for you to be proud of me. i'm sorry for ever making you wait. i'm sorry for not being what you imagined me to be.

but i'm begging you to see past that. see past my frizzy hair and dry skin. see past the uneven melanin and my slightly lazy eye. see past the treads of fat on my abdomen. look past by stutter and thick glasses. see the i want to give you love and refuge and i can give you something to hold on to.

my heart aches and I can't tell if it's because I miss you or because while you look at me, you're dying to find a piece of her, too.

I can't bare to see anyone cup your face or love you because that would mean that it's over for us. over for me.

and I can't believe you brought her into the home we've created because now she knows where the cracks are in the foundation.

I can't believe believe I was so afraid to tell you always poured salt on open wounds in fear of seeing you go when all you did was leave anyway.

I prayed for your love every night and right when I got close enough to kiss you your feet, you walked over me and into the sunset of her eyes.

I begged for forgiveness; every night night I spent washing your feet, I failed to see that the dirt n them didn't belong to the road leading back to me.

I begged for your love all the nights I spent crying in my own arms to be forgiven because I was dreaming they were yours.

I begged for mercy since I knew I wouldn't get any from you.
and now I sit in the rubble of what we could've been, instead of basking in the love of sacrifice.

They always say the best relationships happen unexpectedly.
And my god were you unexpected.
It's like you fell right from the sky
And into my life where the puzzle piece was missing.
What a perfect fit you were.

my friend Lily always says that we accept the love we think we deserve. it's a quote from her favorite book. but i don't think it's quite accurate. in fact, i don't believe it's true at all. I think we accept the love we think we can change. i don't think that a relationship should be based of skepticism oor uncertainty, lack of agreement or trust.  but those things change. they have to, don't they? can i ever love someone fully if i don't trust them? can i ever love somebody if all i'm doing is revisiting their social media page every tume i open the app? do i love them? am i obsessed with them? or am i obsessed with protecting myself?

i accept the love i think i can change because my grandmther once told me that my love can create chaotic fires in people if i really wanted to and that love can do almost anything. and i think that's why i like church, because they teavh you to love with every ounce in your body. they teach you to write loe letters with their voice, and to never hesitate the spilling of your own blood even if that means you can't save them.

my grandmother taught me that love can transform, love can change. love doen't come in decorative bags or in Kay Jewlers wrapping paper. love comes form understanding and the desire to give more than you will ever recieve.

i accept the love i think i can change because maybe, just maybe, that love will love me in return.

It was so easy with my first love. I never thought twice about my feelings for her. Loving her seemed so **** effortless, like breathing. She filled my lungs with pure oxygen and pumped blood through my heart.

But you, ******… It is so hard to figure out what I feel for you. It’s like you shove smoke down my throat, into my lungs, making it so hard to breathe. You fill my veins with poison, slowly stopping my heart with each beat. But for some ******* reason, I still believe I love you.

I never stop being in love which is odd for someone who has only loved three times in their life.
I never stop being in love with people. Even when time goes on, and people leave, and their things are no longer at my bedside, I never quite stop loving.
I guess you could say it's my fault since I don't believe in it anyway, but how can you?
I loved every butterfly kiss my first love gave me, and every pen-stroke the second gave. I love every subtly touch my current love gives now and some how I can't seem to let go of any of it.
I will never stop loving every note passed between us during passing period, and those extensive phone calls which ended at 4:36 am because the distance between us was far too great for the Wi-Fi signal to carry.
I will never stop being  loving the curly hair and green eyes.
I can't. It is simply impossible. And maybe that's my problem. Maybe I carry a little piece of them with me, and that's why I can never get anyone to stay long enough for the love between us to flourished like it has before.

The moment I saw you,
I knew how beautifully bad
we’d be for each other.

I had to be yours.

I think you give me more stomach pain than butterflies;
more heartache than skipping beats.
I think we are bad habits
neither one of us
want to break.

I put all my self worth in other people, my grades, my job, even my words.

And if one slips up, just by the slightest bit, my entire self begins to crumble

and I begin to wonder am I a still a good person even when no one is around to tell me so?

When I was a little girl I picked at my scabs.
I was obsessed with watching the wounds close after each time I'd pick at it scab. It was watching time do it's thing: heal.
I never quite understood how it even worked or what my skin was even doing.
Now I know that scabs are just clusters of skin cells and dry blood that patch up the wound, and soon it'll be nothing but a small mark on my knee cap.

That's exactly what I did after you left.
I kept picking at the pieces of me that you left, untouched
and I ripped them apart and picked at parts of me to try and find answers
I kept coming back to see if maybe this time things would change or if those parts of me would get smaller of heal faster
but they never did.

My dad would watch me on the front steps of his house pick at my scabs and say
I was better off if I'd kick the habit.
Maybe I finally will.

And I will fall for you all over again
Like a child learning to walk.
I will kiss my scraped palms
And dust off my bruised knees
And I’ll love you harder than I did before
Because we are not the same people
We were five days ago.
And I will always adapt to who you are today
And love you the right way.
— Everything changes but I’ll always love you.

Your name shouldn’t be the first thing I want to say when I wake up.
I always roll over to say good morning, but it falls from my thoughts when I see an empty bed.
But every morning I wake up with a smile and your name on my mind.
I shouldn’t want to see your name on my phone throughout the day.
I look at the screen countless times hoping it will light up, it never does.
That doesn’t stop me from holding my phone too tight.
Your favourite movie shouldn’t be what I fall asleep to ever night. The one you played when you were too excited to sleep; the one that makes me miss you more.
Still, I press play every time I collapse into bed.
You shouldn’t be on my mind at all, yet you’re the only thing I ever think of.

I loved the girl until my hands fell off.
My hands did not literally fall off, but what I’m trying to say is:
my hands no longer belonged to me.
I loved the girl ‘til it wore me thin.
‘Til all the give was
gone.
‘Til every silence deafened me.
I loved the girl all river dam,
no river run, no river flow,
no getting anywhere at all.
I loved that girl ‘til I was cruel about it.
I loved that girl ‘til it caused her harm
and even then,
a little longer.

You remind me of the thing I love the most
The rain
And how it makes you feel all sorts of things
From the good to the bad
A sprinkle to a hurricane
Whatever it is
I still love it all
At the very least I feel something
Whether It be happiness or pain
I’d prefer the worst than to feel nothing at all

The first Mary I knew was just a young girl, not much younger than I now, but she was a miracle.
Mary gave the new world it's light, but to many, she was the light

The next Mary I came across was a saint. A misunderstood soul who adjusted her way of life and followed the man who had saved her half way across Europe, and never looked back.

It must've been years until I encountered another Mary, but by then I was convinced that only angels were given that sacred name, and oddly enough, she confirmed my allegation.

Mary had wide eyes and a curious mind. Every wondrous thought to ever leave her conscious and slip her lips was nothing but pure goodness.
Each phrase, whether it be of love, comfort, or humor, resonated with every one of those who were in ear shot her voice. She was sugar, curiosity, and rain.
And with a smile and laugh as contagious as her's you couldn't help but wonder about her.

I believe in angels, and I'm glad mine is a Mary.

She tells me that I am beautiful everyday.

Her hands are always warm which makes sense since her body radiates most of the heat that keeps me warm.

Her voice reassure me that god is real and when she sings to me, I am sure she’s an angel (contrary to her belief that god does not exist).
There is something in her soft brown eyes that makes my blood rush and stomach turn to rocks when she looks at me.

Sometimes the playfulness that linger between us gets too rough but I say nothing. I know that her fingertips are her most powerful weapon that she holds and they feel like a whip against my skin when I least expect it.

I tell her things that I have never said out loud and when her hands cool down, and her touch is safe again, she strokes my cheek and reassures me that it’s okay.

I tell her that it’ll get complicated and when we will both least expect it, it’ll rip our tightly sewn limbs apart and we will be left bare. She holds my shaking hands and tells me that we’ll figure it out, and in the midst of the my outcries and most confusion, she is right.

Her words are strong enough to repair my cracked foundation, and harsh enough to ignite flames that had long been blown out.

You look at her like she is the sun to your sky, like everything is clearer when she is around. And she looks at you the same.

That’s okay.

It’s okay because you two are good for each other, you both love each other, and you will both end up so incredibly happy.

And even though that means I probably won’t, that’s okay.
I am so happy that you found your sun, even if it means I will have to get used to living in the dark.

My fingers always find you the way rivers flow toward the ocean ,
eager and desperate for the sea’s love.
You have tied a million strings
to a million memories
in my head and you
tug on my thoughts like the moon on the waves.
I don’t need to dream to see
all of the stars laid out before me
for I am in love with you, and that is
enough.

We are in a locomotive television.
Our head is heavy of the phosphors.
Glitch spills on our tongue.
Vases are going off the rails, blue cells, sick berries.
Endlessly in speed, our hands off the wheel.
Rotten, hulled in our own battling skin,
discordantly beaten throughout our membrane.
Insane, swiped under stumps.
Blackened spew forked our third eye blind.
Hooked to the ***** of pills murmuring us to keep calm.
Dying inside trying, can’t walk in the open
because it is already too late.
Shredded to worn, almost choking in the swarming
dead gore germs from our own mouths.
Our house has become a wolf hole.
Feasting on cold bodies blue,
eating the faces off of the unmindful.
Our feet in the gruel of grey maggots, black cadavers
and soft sad tissues.
We are tricked, taken for a ride whenever we are to transpire tiredness from this horrid immoral reality.
Nutmeg scattered on our nerves.
We are too close to the television, our hair roots are dull.
Tangles sea coral through our head.
Witnessing our own self into the suction to not turn it off.
We are in a locomotive television

Anonymous said:
"I love the way skin on skin contact feels. I love how I want to feel you're skin on mine. Want to touch you, not just sexually, but just touch you, because that's how you get close to people, by touching them. I want to listen to your laugh because I'm sure it sounds like a melody. I want to know what makes you feel and how I can make you laugh without end. I want you to know that you're the sun and the moon, and that there isn't anything else I'd rather do than be with you, to be apart of you."

I remember sitting there— wanting to die.
I remember how bad it hurt when you told me that you didn't love me anymore— that you never really did.
I remember how acidic your words felt as they made their way out of your mouth. And how my throat felt more like sand paper at that point, rather dry, and I couldn't even utter out the words: "please stay."

I can remember the look on your face. The look of anger and disappointment that ran across your face, and how your fists naturally clenched themselves, but what really scared me, was when you didn't unclench them, like you usually did. You yelled at me, "say something," And then, you did the most horrible thing. You looked me straight in the eyes, and whispered, "anything," but I was trying to find words, and I was searching in your eyes for them, and I could feel myself running out of breath.

You looked at me, with eyes of disappointment, and turned around. And when I finally got the chance to say it, you were already gone.

I remember how it felt. I remember I was shaking my head, whispering "no", one hundred and thirty-two times. I had lost you. I remember hugging my shoulders, and digging my nails into them. I was angry, my shirt held on to your smell. I remember falling to the ground, and falling apart— right there and then. I remember crying, I was crying so hard, and wondering what I did wrong. You never and told me why..

And now, I'm sitting on the bathroom tiles, and I'm further away from you, than I have ever been.

they say to be thankful for what you have
but what if you don't have anything?
they say to pray for the less fortunate
but what if you are the less fortunate?
they say to take care of yourself
but what if you don't want to?
what then?

they say to be thankful for what you have
but what if you don't have anything?
they say to pray for the less fortunate
but what if you are the less fortunate?
they say to take care of yourself
but what if you don't want to?
what then?