I do not feel free.
I do not feel free in these clothes;
In these interactions, media, the material under my feet on the carpet.
I do not feel free!
In my words, my voice;
In the way that we have become.
Another person is afraid to be called a Feminist and I wonder, what have be become?
Where are we?
What do we want?
Maybe it's sort of an existential crisis but I cannot make a way out of my chaos without writing it out.
Growing up those books, films manifested into dreams of climbing trees, making wings out of stretched arms and one day, saving the world.
Here I am today, in the backseat of a car, scared of the cab driver at midnight.
They say I am a useless, angry feminist.
I flinch at the word.
Maybe it is true but when I was five, making bouquets of wildflowers I was less angry, less feminist,
...less aware.
I could forget the bruises on my caretaker's face,
or the time my father barged into our room in the night and asked her
"Have you increased your prices or WHAT!?"
only because she refused to sleep with him that day.
It was easy to not wonder then, why she never spoke up or why she kept serving meal after meal after meal
to him when she was crying, sick or numb.
I was caught up with being bullied myself to think more about why that guy
was laughed at for being feminine.
Maybe today I am more scared than angry. Maybe scared is a more acceptable emotion to negotiate my right to equality.
I don't feel free.
What do I do when instead of arguing with a sexist commenter, I want to hug them and tell them
how much I want to cry,
how helpless I feel and how badly
I want this world to be a better place for each one of us?
I am reminded
of the couple of times that my caretaker brought home, baby birds
that fell from a tall tree near our house. Each time she made a home out of stacked twigs in a basket and fed them grains.
I was afraid to pet them but she would hold them close to her fearlessly.
Each time
the birds would die in a week's time.
I always thought the house was too physically, maybe emotionally cold for baby birds to survive.
All I want,
is a house warm enough for baby birds to survive.
Is it too much to ask for?

The strands of my hair mix well with the breeze
and here you are, right in front me.
And it's a typical evening at Danny's
of slow-dance romances and marijuana smokers.
I'm sitting here with you in the night that smells of whiskey
And I can't help but wonder,
why do some people only exist sometimes?
People,
like you.
Who appear in the cab, on the way home or
in front of me when when I am looking at my reflection on the floor.
Or people,
like Danny.
Who don't exist until I'm writing a poem.
I'm sitting here with you in the night that smells of whiskey
And I can't help but wonder,
why do some people only exist sometimes?

Love, we are going to meet on Tinder.
or by the sea, in a four 'o clock rain, or maybe
while I sat alone at a cafe pretending to write,
and you'd come to me and say "Hi, I couldn't help but notice
how colorful you are on this grey morning."
or something more realistic.
We'll laugh a lot, make jokes to seem anything but boring,
and initially say a lot of "Um, so..."s to fill the silence.
You are going to catch yourself thinking of the brown in my hair,
the scent of the side of my neck, my skin in morning light
and I am going to memorize the lines on your palms like my favorite song.
Darling,
we'll kiss on my terrace and talk until, skies turn to drizzle and drizzle,
it turns to rain
and we would run, and kiss, and laugh, and kiss and burn like bonfire,
and the blues and reds from our chaos-painted bodies,
will turn into streams of purple, violet, lavender.
For a moment somewhere in between,
I will glance at your closed eyelids while you kiss me,
and wonder if you are here to stay.
In just that glance, I'd see dawns, teacups, naps on airplanes, and
several days, months, maybe years of quick glances at your closed eyelids.
And you, are going to spend days thinking of me at insignificant times,
like an old song from an advertisement you thought you forgot.
We'll talk, and then not talk and I will write you a poem or two
and you will say something like, "I appreciate that."
Years after, I'd be reaching for tea in the cabinet and maybe Twinings would remind me of you and I would stir you,
in my cup of tea like sugar till you dissolve to nothing.
and you will tell another girl
of how you haven't been a part of something serious in a while, "just a couple hookups" you'd say and think of me.
And all that there will be of us,
is an empty terrace somewhere stained purple, violet, lavender.

Yesterday my sister and I lay on the bed,
while I read to her my diary entries from 2010.
We laughed about my desperate bouts of affection for my crush that year,
the time I broke my right wrist, outdated song references and how everyday started with "Today is the worst."
Sitting with my friend and her brother, he asks me "Isn't PTSD the thing that happens to soldiers on war?" I nod to him and say,
"Yes but I am the soldier who cannot come home from my war, can only come home to it."
I don't like the taste of my tea that I spent fifteen minutes making,
but I am going to at least drink half of it.
Every time I hear a love song, it reminds me of my caretaker; She is the only one I truly loved.
For years after I shifted to the city she kept calling me, some answered, some left ringing next to my pillow.
She doesn't call anymore and I can't help but obsess over it.
I haven't been to the beach in a longtime and I feel like I am forgetting how it looks, or sounds.
I don't like that.
Early in 2016, my therapist tells my sister to hide all pills, toxic material and knives away from me.
A week after hiding everything, she forgets.
I have tried to start taking my medication several times but I always discontinue it,
my therapist thinks my attachment issues with people is showing up with the pills too.
I think I have two favorite colors; a fading green and light blue.
I remember I always wore black clothes when I was in school.
My father once screamed at me at the movie theater for wearing black again. I wonder why he did not say anything in the car.
The night after I overdosed on Lorazepam pills washed down with old coke, I cried in the morning because I was still here.
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, is the name of a song that I really relate to;
A song I have heard enough to hate, but cannot find the stop-button to.
Making constant eye contact makes my cheeks and ears, very warm.
Most of my nightmares are about my father or my caretaker, both are not nice to me in my dreams.
I have a hard time remembering roads, conversations or what month or year it is.
Today I read my diary entry from two days ago.
"Today is the worst." it said.
Funny.

What is it about cab rides,
that make me feel so happy?
Just an hour drive, of uninterrupted playing
of my playlist.
Something about, passing everything by.
There is a comfortable place,
in the way between.
Something soothing,
about 'not there yet'.

The truth about me
is that my teeth need to be fixed
but I am too scared of the dentist.
Something about the whiteness of a clinic
and the smell of a previous patient's tongue,
makes me want to wait for dentures.
I am the kind of person,
you could bully and make cry,
to help yourself fit in.
Somewhere between society's rights and wrongs,
I paint my eyes too dark, struggle to smile in photographs
and constantly worry about getting *****, the next time I leave my house.
The truth about me
is that I am paranoid that everyone is lying to me,
that I am a potential alcoholic and my favorite hobby,
is a Russian roulette of self destruct.
I do not understand best friends, brown rice,
or how one cannot shut up about how much weight they need to lose.
The truth about me
is that I don't know how to say "I love you" and mean it.
That every time I try to build a home, it breaks.
I am a breezy sunrise, reeking of bad decisions,
sad memories with happy endings.
The truth is,
I will waltz into your life and make your skin tingle with soft kisses.
I will,
break bottles, kiss your ear, make you cry, make you laugh, run away, hike mountains, **** with your head and slowdance with you, till we mix like oil paints, smiling, and swaying till nothing at all,
exists except our whispers, and the blue-purple air that surrounds us.
Love. I am happiness, chaos and nature
and the truth about me,
is that I am not going to stay
but I promise you,
I will be unforgettable.

It's a tiring job
to lift the teabag out of
my cup before,
I drink it.
So I drink it.
In fact, I have started to admire
its soft touch on my lower lip,
kissing me.
My beloved cup of tea
is the only good in my world.
But am I not lucky
to have her warm love,
help me get through this cold morning?
Her cinnamon breath
and lingering sweetness
that stays on my warm tongue
is happiness.
In an endless world
my dear cup of tea,
you're all I have.
Just you,
and me.