I wonder...

If love is more of a decision,
than it is a feeling.
Or that it's a constant fluctuating
Combination of the two?

The increased rate of
My heart beat when we talk,
The sudden invasive spike
Of insecurity when I take my
Clothes off for him
Or how seeing him smile
Sets the precedent of my day,
I can't Control how I react,
But surely these are signs of
Love? Feelings and emotions
Yes?

But these feelings come and
Go, one day his smile might not
Make me pause in my tracks
Like it does now,
One day, I won't care if he sees
My body unclothed,
One day, his voice will cease to
Excite me,
But will I still choose him
Will I not only stay
But refuse to leave his side
Will I stay loyal
And remain faithful
And cry when I'm hurt
And let the pain flow
Right against his blood cells
To mine own
Will I still remember his
Favorite teas are spearmint
And peppermint
Or that despite playing various
Instruments throughout
His life he still can't read sheet
Music but he can
Still read me
Or that when he's drunk
He's more open and
He sends pictures where he smiles
More
Or that he needs to hear my
Voice to fall asleep
Or that he feels desperate
And clingy sometimes
Despite me desperately
Clinging onto him
Trying to to not trap him
But grab his attention
Everytime I sigh because
I love him so much
It's a choice.
I choose to love him.
And I will always choose him.

He is all encompassing.
His fire propelling sustainablity
In a place that's void of oxygen.

A foreign body against domestic needs.

How can I appreciate his presence in my life,
but fear him all the same?

Maybe it is just me, but
it feels as if I let myself cook in his heat.

As if I make myself absorb his rays with no protection.

Que lástima.

The things I have to do to not go up in smoke quema, to not be charred, quema, to not turn into a crisp, ¿Que más?


His understanding is beyond my reach.
Miles and miles over my head,
over to the beyond where I cannot breathe.

Yet he still manages to reach me
(always had and forever will)

I want to face this aspect of my reality,
but no matter how hard I try to make eye contact,
I must look away...

My father casts his burning gaze upon me again,
expecting answers to questions he has not
even asked me yet.

It is physically taxing to even swallow, much less to move around in the environment he created.

Every step I take around him sizzles as flesh makes contact with pavement.

What must I do to win back your favor, Inti?

What part of myself must I sacrifice to appease you?

To avoid being set aflame,
I do what comes second nature to me now.

My eyes close in search of shade, to preserve the reservoir that my father has yet to dry up.  



And all I see is orange.

Being the older sibling
I'm left with responsibilities
and in certain situations
I can't respond with hostility.
I am my brother's keeper.
I am his protector.
If I fail showing him what's right,
he wouldn't know any better.
Why does he look up to me?
I really do not know.
He's a repeat of me,
so he will have a ways to go.
If I ever wanted to run away,
I knew that I couldn't,
because I can't leave him behind
and it would be selfish if I took him.
I'm not the best older sister,
but all I can do is try my best
to shield him when I can,
so that one day, he can handle the rest.

You breathed into me
A new air
In which you gave my lungs
A reason to expand.

I know that
some things aren't meant to be
questioned
And yet... What happened?

Who knew that
There is more to living
Than existing;
Than to breathe the same air
In which we took part polluting.

You, who gave air, who had life
To give to those you did not know.
You're the Robin Hood of
Second chances. Maybe forgiveness.

All I have is my humility.
Let me worship you.
"Oh, thank you, my Goddess.."
I have not prayed since
I was a child, but

I will learn all over again
If I have to.

Give me time to adjust,
to find the prayers on my tongue,
to uproot my questions and behead
my curious nature.

For now, I must prostrate myself,
and give my all to you,
the answers will come in time,
they always do.

Let there be a grim reaper of sentences
so that everyone will know that words
have an end to them too.
These phrases die eventually.
Yes, they live longer than their masters.
Indeed they survived further on paper.
But of course they became "eternal" on the internet.
Yet, these words eventually come to a stop.
So far, all dialogue has end quotes.
Up til now humans thought that commas extended these fragments...
when it only signaled the coming
of an end.
Eventually, these words will be lost.
They will stop being recorded, and
worshipped, and needed.
These utterances will be nothing more than dead particles that vibrated the air.
They will become just past tense.
The grim reaper of sentences does not even
wield a scythe,
but instead, a pen in which they engrave
the periods to complete the statements.
Oh, how the reaper is thought to be grim when in reality,
they are only bringing these nameless terms to peace.

*******, dad.
How can you destroy me
Just by speaking?

One two, one two
Each word chosen
specifically to rack up
the most damage.
To leave me winded
after every conversation.

Despite the language barrier,
you still manage to use me
as your punching bag.
Verbal assaults leaving bruises
into my confidence as easily
as you roll your R's.

One two, one two
You have beaten into me
That I am not enough for you
Or for anybody
One too many times.

But I still love you -
Through and through.
-
*******, David.
What happened to having
my back?

You know how spineless
I can be. I
am a mess around Daddy
Dearest. And I know
that he loves me
Dearly.
But clearly, we don't see
Eye to eye.

Your advantage in height
does not give you the right
to look down on me.

I know you try
to understand me,
but sometimes I know you
Won't.  
And sometimes, you just
Don't.
Refusing to meet me half way
or being unable to do so..
I cannot seem to choose
which of the two are worse.

You're my baby brother,
**** used to be so different.
Mom and dad used to be together
And siempre meant forever
But life is not like that,
No, not really. Never.
We tethered moments to
Permanence.  
And look where that left us.

We laugh
and we fight.
At opposite ends only
to return to each other's side.
-
*******, Blake and Q-tip.
What is this friendship, am I
supposed to hate y'all?

Y'all drink
And I'm intoxicated.
Y'all smoke
And I get light headed.
Y'all breathe
And I'd gasp along with y'all.

We were inseparable.
Like magnets.
Except now we're just
Far too opposite to
Even attract anymore.

I tried to leave
before y'all left me,
but I still felt abandoned
and I feel like I was
never part of something
so close knit.
I was a loose string
on the woven tapestry
that y'all've made
without me.

And so I wonder if I
ever belonged in the first place.
or did I just follow behind
refusing to see the shadows
where there wasn't sun.

I'd still pick up the phone and
Talk like I'm still worth y'alls time.
-
The worst thing about
Having a fragile heart is
The ability to break your
Own
With just as much abuse
And neglect
And selfishness that everyone
Else had.

Sometimes, you break
Your own heart
Much worse
Than anybody else could.

And it would mend
Itself together
just to be
Broken again.

Step 1: Whatever you are letting go, say it's for the best.
Step 2: Truly believe that you are doing the right thing and move on with your life.

.... If only letting go was that easy
Your heart must clench and throb and stutter within your chest.
You have to push your selfish need into the deepest and blackest void in your mind.
Try not to cry, then proceed to cry heavily and uncontrollably.

Letting go is removing the safety from your life into the world of change.
It is a bitterly received acceptance.
But most of all, it is sacrifice.
Exchanging your happiness for theirs.
It's the purest, rawest, and the saddest form of love.

Let love lavish your skin
And glide effortlessly off your tongue
As if it was a prayer.
   So desperate to mean it,
Are you as devout in worship
  As you are to breathe it into existence?

Let your forehead kisses be felt
  Even though you don't feel like you deserve them.
   I would kiss away every deprecating thought
Just give me time, please don't lose patience.

You say this love is too much at once
Too overwhelming
My tenderness is too unrecognizable
But you understand primal lust
The heat coiling at the pit of your stomach
The need to be taken rough
To have hips rolling over another
And lips leaving bruises onto skin.

You want me to make you gasp for air
But not have your breath taken away.

Our needs are different.
It doesn't make us less whole,
How I want you more,
   How you lust me so...

Who am I telling this to?
Myself, my mom, or no one at all.

Let me sleep away the stress.
Give me a break from the pressure.
Close my eyes to my denial that I am falling
falling helplessly into deep sadness.

I don't care if I miss dinner;
my dreams are much more filling.

So what if I miss a few calls?
I rather talk to no one.

All I want to do is cry
and be by myself.
I need room to revel in
my self pity.

So let me sleep. Let me sleep forever.
Let me forget everything through sleep.

If broken men were like broken glass
then he'd be the jagged edges of a
smashed beer bottle - belligerent,
defensive, and prone to fighting
     because of the cheap drink flooding his veins in hopes of forgetting every and anything come the next morning.

If broken men were like broken glass
then he'd be the crack in his last bowl
as it gets bigger unable to contain
himself or his problems -
     unable to keep everything in one place, as it spills and pours into other areas of his life.
    
If broken men were like broken glass
then he'd be the various mirrors
around his house that he punched in,
7 years of bad luck for each -
     the reflection taunting and crooked everytime he so much as glances at one out of habit.

If broken men were like broken glass,
then he'd be a light bulb that burst
from its own luminescence - that
was too much to hold in its surroundings
     that's deemed useless since it can't perform its primary function.

If broken men were like broken glass,
then he'd be the splintered fragments of photo frames - the shards embedding
into the pads of his fingertips
     as he tries in vain to piece it back together again, to make it whole again, to make it picture perfect again.

If broken men were like broken glass,
then how does one handle a heart?
Is this why so many are callous to
the destruction they cause?
      Indifferent to the wreckage that follows them wherever they go?

Or are they afraid of themselves,
afraid of being naturally sensitive and
vulnerable, afraid of reincarnating into
the pieces of glass that they break?

Maybe it is both or neither, even, but
the destructive behavior of men are not
isolated incidents ...
It is phenomena that spans across the globe.

If the concept of Man exists outside of this world,
would they exhibit the same fragility too?

Feeling reminiscent for something I have not experienced before.

I am longing for something that I could not possibly recollect -

Out of my reach / too terribly close for comfort.

It's like a hurt without all of the pain.

My heart's feelin heavy for a burden that's not mine to carry. Kinda scary how sympathy seeps straight through me that way.

I don't understand it: How I grieve for others though their suffering is foreign to me.

Why does their anguish feel more at home than my own? Does the intensity vary? Oh, rarely, but not unfamiliar.

It's a curse to be wistful of an unknown - an invisible twist of a knife and the stab's dulled.

I am juxtaposed I suppose - when you feel so much, everyone's aches start to run similar.

I.
God, she looked beautiful.
Her hair hung in lose strands
around her face that ended
past her  chest.
She put on modest, yet accentuating,
makeup that could make anyone
draw their eyes to her defined features.
She radiated so much mirth and
glee, that I was able to
recognize it as soon as she sent
the pictures to me.
Maybe it was because she
looked so joyful, or
because she took the photos with
a bird on her shoulder,
but I wanted to tell her then.
I wanted to pour my heart out,
to the flowing stream that is her
soul and say that I was
in love with her.
"It's not the right time"
I told myself. And maybe it
was not, but I still should have
said it, even then...when things
still felt new.

II.
It was New Year's Eve,
and I was cold, impatient, but excited
to see The Peach Drop,
to reel in 2015 second by second.
If she was there, next to me,
I would have made sure,
the minute the clock struck 12,
that her lips would be mine and
that they would be bright red
and puffy, adorably so...
It did not have to be New
Year's for me to want to
kiss her like that, but since it was,
the kiss would have had
a special meaning attached to
it... soon enough it was midnight, the
Peach dropped, and I broke up
with her the next day.
What can say, honestly?
My emotions took a hold of me?
That in one night I decided I was
wasting her time?
Whatever it was, it was stupid.
so ******* stupid...
So, I did the deed, over the phone,
and while I was crying into the
receiver, I wanted to tell her that
she should just ignore what I've
said or to tell me to get myself
together. I wanted to tell her,
even while I was breaking up
with her, that I was in love
with her. Predictably, I did not.

III.
After pushing her away for
months, trying to forget her, and
deleting anything that
reminded me of her, a friend encouraged me
to talk to her again...
Heaven must have been in a
panic, because they were
missing one of their finest
angels right here on Earth.
She spoke with compassion and
sincerity, and she was even
worried about me...I didn't
deserve such concern from her.
Before I knew it, I was crying,
and told her that too because
I was selfish, and I wanted more
of her kindness and sympathy.
Everything that resulted afterwards
was nothing short of cliché, but
to us, it was unique as she
rekindled what I tried so hard
to put out.
I told her that I would
earn her trust back, that I would
make myself worthy and fit to be
called her partner, and that I
would make her proud to be with
me. She said she already was, but
she accepted my declarations
nonetheless...
There was a moment
between all the talking
that I could have finally
told her that she had my heart,
but it was too early, I did not
want her to think that I did not care
about the words I say.
Things at this stage
were so fragile for us, so I bit my
tongue once more.

IV.
I was lying on my bed,
still stubbornly awake
because I ruined my
sleeping schedule, and because
it was the principle - I refused
the call of slumber until I could repair
my internal clock.
But,
She sent me a text at 10 am
and when I read it, I cried.
Really, was she even real?
Was I really dating someone
so kind and pure?
How could  she even write
such a heartfelt text
that shook me to my core?
"She cares about me..."
kept repeating itself in my head,
and I knew she did before she sent
the message, but I especially felt
her warmth right then.
I had to stop myself from replying
back so fast because I knew that
she sent the message with the
intention of me waking up to it.
Of course, I could barely manage to
control myself, but somehow,
I did. When I felt that sufficient
time had passed, I attacked my
phone trying to come up
with the perfect reply to her
perfect-intended-wake-up text.
After taking too long to string
together the proper digital
poetry to my liking, I decided
to just write how I felt and
not edit anything out.
I tried to convey how much I loved her
without actually saying the words.
Once she read my message, she called me
and we had... one hell of an interesting,
albeit kinda awkward conversation.
I'd like to think that she understood
what I wrote, that she read
between the lines, but I
am unsure to this day.

V.
Sometimes, I wished that
I did not have a mouth to speak
with. I tend to either
say things that I don't mean,
or reveal some truths
that should have remained hidden...
My mouth and brain are disconnected
most times, and who would have
known that my constant babbling
would actually be worth paying
an iota of attention to?
I was talking to her over the phone
and she was gently guiding me
through a game I was playing.
At first, I could not get the hang of it
but a few soft spoken and accented tips later,
I became an instant expert.
My excitement took ahold of my mouth
so I shouted,
"Oh my god, thanks so much,
I love you!"
Everything was silent for half
a second before my mind caught up
to my traitorous tongue.
I started back-pedaling hurriedly saying
things like "I'm so sorry",
"God, I'm so stupid", and "I didn't
mean - what I meant was..." and
much more pathetic excuses.
But she, she must have
been godsend because she did not make
fun of me, or made me repeat my
accidental proclamation of love.
All she did was giggle against the receiver
and calmed my nerves down until
I stopped stuttering out incomprehensible phrases.
...All this time,
I told myself to wait for the
perfect moment to tell her how
enamored I was, and then it only
took a stupid game for me to expose myself.
Despite that, however,
I don't know what she took
away from our conversation that day.
Did she read into anything?
If she did, did she read into me
saying that I love her, or how quickly
I tried to take back what I said?
And if she read into the latter...
then what? God, I was so head
over heels for her.

~~~

She broke up with me four
months ago. Her reasons made sense,
she always made sense, but I cried
anyways. I knew it would come down
to her breaking up with me, I was
always waiting for the other
shoe to drop. But ****, I really did
disappoint all parties included.
I couldn't be the partner she needed,
and I wasn't able to get over
my cowardice to tell her how
much I needed her, how I wanted
her to stay, or that I really wanted
a future with her by myside,
It was always about how I felt...
Me, me, me!
Not once, did I risk being rejected
by her, not once did I take the chance,
not once did I unashamedly told her
that I loved her with all of who
I was, and maybe that was the straw
that broke the camel's back.
I spent half a year waiting for
that hallmark moment to
come where I could just tell
her and everything would
be flawless... But I guess, while
I was biding my time, she
probably felt that I was
wasting hers.

Talk about inconvenience, right?
I'm trying to move on with my life
And here I am, sitting outside
And letting all the rain pour on me.

How convenient it is
That the droplets are cold enough
To sting me every time it touches my skin,
But not enough to freeze me.

It is truly convenient that the rain
Is so persistent and relentless
But that no matter how still I sit
It can't drown me

I used to find solace in the rain
"Peace among chaos", I used to say
But how convenient that now when I'm sad
The rain doesn't bother to wash my sorrow away

How can I make these whites as uncomfortable as they make me?

Comparing skintones during the summer like there's anything to compare to, y'all just wanna brag about how brown y'all like to get without having to live like a *****.

Some masturbatory self ****, too pretentious to go to a tanning booth, but too cheap to treat ya skin right,
Y'all know that sunscreen is a must, but all I can think about when I go to the beach is tomato soup.

Y'all are the real red skins, but still dare to call yourself dark when y'all don't know what shade is. I can sit under an umbrella with long sleeves all day and still be brown by the time Autumn dries out the Summer leaves, I know y'all can't say the same.

Does it make you uncomfortable that I can other y'all?

White folk. Cracka. *****. Yall think that those are slurs? Where's the censor on TV then? Where's the national outrage? There isn't! But then when it comes to *****, oh then that's everybody's word. Like how ****** used to be everybody's word. Like how between ya ma-n-pops, they talk about how violent we ******* is... And y'all just listen... Complacent or uncaring, but still daring to say you're different.

Cut from a different cloth, you people got some nerve. And yes, you people, as in you white folk. Y'all better collect y'all's trash, like how incarcerated ****** collect it off the side of busy roads for free cos slavery never ended as neatly as y'all think it did.

Will y'all ever be uncomfortable over the right things?

Over black children being set up to go to prison from the moment they enter school because teachers give them more suspensions and detentions than anyone else?

That the FBI was found guilty of murdering Martin Luther King and has harassed him til he was shot?

That Lincoln never really cared about us *******, just wanted to win the war and ******* the south, no matter who suffered the most?

My fellow Americans, white that is, because in the census you're accepted as an American without question,

Y'all don't know the meaning of discomfort.

All I do is make
My loved ones cry
Or feel inadequate
I can only assume.

I speak of bad,
I bring up difficult
Subjects like the
Prospect of separation

Or that loneliness
Is not something we
Can control, or that pain
From distance is inevitable.

I always have to bring
Up the things no one wants
To talk about, I just don't
Want to be without a plan.

I am not one for foresight,
I'm blind to my own senses
That I can confuse for
Righteousness, I know.

But I hurt too, my throat
Closes and my eyes sting
Like theirs do, I'm not
Without emotion.

My problem is that
I'm too sensitive, and I
Rather protect myself
Than be exposed.

Loneliness is a starved insect with an insatiable hunger.
It clings to anything and everything that is willing to feed it.
Slowly, loneliness starts to overwhelm you,
though it's hunger is very much present.
Loneliness eats at your heart; eats at your soul;
while ravenously ingesting your flickering lights of hope.
By nature, you succomb to it's selfish needs.
Too weak, you're not able to stop feeding it.
Too late, you realize that you were the host to this parasite.
If loneliness consumes you completely,
like it has done with many people before,
It will just desert you and leave your empty shell of a body
and begin to feast on the inside of another poor victim.

...

I let myself exhale,

And then lifted my head
And saw you
Your face a mixture of pleasure
And Worry
All captured between
the soft glow
Of a lamp that did not belong to us
And a shadow
that belonged to the night sky.
Furrowed brows, flushed cheeks, and a smile that became unsteadied by a blossoming happiness, and dread.

I knew it all too well myself.

"Thinking about old fears?" I asked, trying to balance softness with the intensity of the conversation I was embarking. My breathing was calm and even, but I felt buzzing underneath my skin, goosebumps sprinkling across exposed flesh in waves.

Your vulnerability has often asked for mine in return.

You nodded, "Yeah," with a too perfect smile still on your face, your eyes shut tight, and your head turned to the side,
As if you were telling yourself that you were being ridiculous before I could.

How many times have you had that silent conversation with yourself?
I would have asked... but that was for another time.
Instead, I moved my head a little to the side to mimic yours, and brushed my nose against yours, pressed my lips against yours, and sighed.

I think I said I loved you.

I think I gave another "my heart belongs to you" speech,

I think the contents of my heart overflowed into yours,

But all I remembered was seeing you cry.
Your big stormy eyes welled up, and tears fell, and you gasped
And hips almost stirred again
Almost went looking for the friction we created.
I slid my thumb across your face, tutted lowly into your ear, and let my full weight rest ontop of you.
My arms wrapped around the valleys of your torso, clutching you closer as the outlines that separated our bodies began to disappear.
Until your bones became my bones,
And the wounds you were tending to became my healed scars.
We only had days to be together, but our nights were infinite.

Once again I cross the road
That shortens with each step I take.
My heart keeps asking for more
But the more I try, the more I break.
It's time once again.
It's time to depart.
The memories I have of you
Is a vice around my heart.
Yes, another farewell,
But this time i'm not coming back.
Oh i'm done trying to choose,
When I lose everything I have...

I have a right to be hostile.
I have a right to place blame
to a person who has hurt me
in the "Lord's name".

I have a right to hate
when my people are scared.
You are supposed to serve and protect
and yet, your weapons are aimed where?

I have a right to shout
in the face of your ignorance.
Because just me being alive
is a ******* political statement.

Being a decent human
is not something to congratulate.
Be decent because that is human,
not because you must compensate.

Don't force me into a box
and say I cannot escape.
**** the paths of this forked road
I choose my own fate.

Adding pressure to silence
will only turn us into diamonds,
because in our hard-earned victory
we'll sparkle and be shinin'.

There are too many of our voices,
we're impatient, that much is clear.
We're angry not because we want to be,
but because we refuse to live in fear.

Stop these doubts, mental jail bars, and iron tongues.
I was never good at words.
I still cannot convey the emotions that
I want to come across.
But my mouth is all I can use.
Gesticulations are not enough.
Can I come near to the perfection of which I am pining for?
My love for the words, for the phrases
that turns into metaphors and the sonnets
which Shakespeare wrote
and the Roald Dahl books I keep on my shelves are what I have when things get too much.
Even with letting go my pain and coming to terms with things...
how come I still struggle against myself?
Can I even approach the level which all poets must come to so that it is not about the words anymore but about the overall picture these words make?
Do I have the strength to ignore grammar
and punctuation for even a little while?
I am so close and so far away.
I want to die as a poet.
In a bath tub where the walls are paper
and the water is ink and after physically cleansing myself, I can begin to clean my soul too.
Am I a flickering flame that refuses to be blown out after a couple puffs of air?
Maybe I am, maybe i'm not.
But If I were to be this enduring flame of orange, red, and yellow, I hope that one day I can understand myself when I write these words so that I can truly achieve what I am looking for.
I want to spit fire.
But right now, all I can do is blow steam.

As juveniles, we are at a stage of being different.
For others, it's indifference.

It's the ripe years of teenagerdom that makes
a youthful adolescent old, but still not wise.

At this age, it's when you realize the things that *******
the very foundations of your childhood.

We have become a legion of sarcastic,
depressed, and misunderstood *******.

We introduce each other by judging.
We talk in the form of rumors.

It's the era of headphones to drown the noise
and drugs to drown our thoughts.

It's stupid crushes, confusion
but mostly, it's hatred for highschool and people.

Misanthropy is not the reason for other's stupidity
,but through our own follies.

We are not untouchables because we are of a lower class,
but because our own class treats each other like taboos,

Heavily frowned upon in society.

His words are slow as
he tries to command
them into coherentness,
they're still slurred.

The lines are blurred,
like wet ink running
down on paper he's
messy messy messy

He says he loves me
the words come out
tangled but enthusiastic
there's no pain in them.

He says it again,
his heart must feel unguarded,
he must feel comfortable
to say it again without pause.

"Are you drunk?"  
yes, I'm very intoxicated.
That's to be expected this
**** ain't complicated.

Do I take advantage of
his drunkenness and
ask him to continue
saying  he loves me?

Or do I wait until he's dry,  
tell him I love him, expect
silence as my reply, and another
piece of my heart broken?

Because when he eventually
says it back, his voice will crack.
And I'll feel Guilty for
wanting to be loved like that.

It's not his fault, I'll say,
Everybody can't say it back.
Be patient, I'll remind myself.
I'll remind myself, I'll remind, remind

He only loves me when
he's inebriated. He's drunk
in love with me, how the hell
did this **** happen?

As I listen to him snore over
the phone, I know I'm in his
dreams. And maybe he's sober
when he says he loves me.