It was an early summer morning. The fog set in overnight as it often did on the island. We were a pastoral painting; buckets, rows of crops, and all five of us hunched over picking the morning harvest. Only visible as curves among the eden that swallowed our bodies.
The things that I remember from that summer are not what was painful then, but what is painful now.
I was crying. I cried because of her yelling, but my tears were more than self-pity and frustration.
There is no rest in this life that I've chosen, yet who I am inexorably needs to be rich in soil. And is it any way to live? In constant fear that the world around you can swallow your livelihood with their greed and destruction?
The farm is a living being. She will hold you tighter than any lover. She will take your hand and lead you to riches and paths of contentment
But just like falling in love, you never realize how deep you're in until you look up and your underwater.
In those rows, amongst the spinach and morning mosquitoes, I cried for everything I have chosen. I wept for that farm, myself, and the weight of my life as the solution to a problem.

Touch crisp and break heavy

falling pieces that will never shatter

but hang heavy

todo esto de espera

It’s windy here

but there is no use worrying for the newly sprung greenery

or small chipmunks already awoken from a long winter

because this wind comes every year to dry out the soggy April soils

it takes some lives just emerging from the earth but

we need it so we can finally break ground and wake up our gardens

there’s this thing in agriculture called hardening off

when you grow seedlings indoors they aren’t accustomed to the harsh climate outdoors

they need to be hardened off

slowly introduce them to the winds and cold beyond green glass

gradually and then all at once

just like how the spring comes every year

it may feel like a sudden drop of heaviness on your chest

but you are hard and strong just like new seedlings

and you will survive the storm

The thunder rumbles in sore throats

and rivers of yellow speak of high hopes

for the people who plant flowers and complain to pollen

the earth will give you too many chances to worry about sunflowers

because drizzles help

until there you are,

achey muscles and grey face ******* on Ricola

crossing a street to go to work

and how does it happen to be that the first day of rain in a month comes on the day you lose your sunshine

Well today the sun came in a bottle of Tropicana

and tomorrow I will count the losses of those who just can’t take one rainy day

BRING BACK YOUR HOLLOW HEART
FILL IT WITH THE TEARS YOU LEFT ON HIS PILLOW
NO ONE WILL EVER NOTICE YOU AREN'T WHOLE
IT STILL LOOKS LIKE YOU'RE PINK AND PULSING
HE WON'T NOTICE, HE'LL NEVER GO THAT DEEP

THIS IS NOT ROMANTIC.
THERE IS NOTHING ROMANTIC ABOUT CRIPPLING SELF-DOUBT.
THE HOLE IN MY BEING DOESN'T NEED TO BE FILLED BY ANOTHER PERSON.
YOU HAVE NO POWER OVER ME.
YOUR LONGER DAYS DON'T EXIST ANYMORE.
JUST BRING MY BODY BACK.

I've been waiting out these rainy days
with my head down
and my ears waiting eagerly for your call

I had my own whimsical hopes about you
and how maybe we could be
because I liked the way you don't say much
and how you only smile if someone actually deserves it
and when you sit alone in the farthest corner of the gardens
because it's exactly where you wished to be

I was captivated by your mystery
and the possibilities I had told myself were more than a good chance
My hopes built higher after you mentioned one evening alone together
they peaked, and pointed to a plateau of so much fantasy I could finally see clearly

There is always a caveat in these situations
and mine starts with a but,
but, you rarely look at me when I speak
but, you never even held my hand
but, you never ask about me
but, I can hardly get a word in when we're alone
but, I can't be with someone who doesn't value me

I've spent my entire life building up fantastical stories and telling myself that boys liked me because it was the only way that I could feel like I was worth something.
My main objective for as long as I can remember has been changing myself to make it easier for people to receive me,
but i'm not a ******* package waiting to be delivered to price charming's doorstep just so he can open me up, use me, and throw me aside.
No longer will I pretend that I am not a whole being.
The parts of me that are not soft and pink are still worth something.
I have baggage and rough patches but I think those scars are beautiful.
My thoughts may come out scattered but they're still worth hearing,
and I cannot go chasing down the love of someone who doesn't care to understand that I am more than just a sum of a few pretty parts.