broken surroundings hidden underneath discrete skins flat spots drowning in superficial layers of constricted capillaries walls embed in bleached skin
made of salty tears and eggshell crystals cutting out the wafting of diurnal light-blue ozone
resistant coating burning on crusted cheek beneath thin recalcitrant cuticles
forcing into lamping layers of red-blue- purple-yellow- green-white- ecchymosis symptoms justifying on its own
Many problems exist in a dormant state, individual or social, they are manifesting like ecchymosis in our life... at times we engage to solve them collectively or personally. While in other cases nature takes care of them as we evolve ...
My hair is black and yours is yellow But they never call it that; Blonde, or like spun gold Stunning, precious, unattainable. But you have it, Like I’ll never have you. My hair is black but my skin Is yellow They call it that “Slant-eyed”, “foreign”, “unnatural” At eighteen, I broke black locks with bleach (I’ve always wanted to be blonde) And it didn’t look natural at all I will never be blonde, I will always be Yellow. They ask: What are you? “American, like you” But they roll their eyes They tell me to forget my native language And I don’t know how to tell them I already am Black and yellow I think of me then think of bees, and recall Being stung in the first grade, and how Ever since, I’m paralyzed at the thought Of black, and yellow Black and yellow Save the bees! on shirts and posters But no one is saving me.
The colors of your memory, you can no longer contrast as they swirl into one another.At times they are vibrant as though you are vividly living them experiencing them,and at times they are dull as though they have faded and been acid washed.
Your past slips into the present and present slips into the past. Some days you love me;as though it was the first time you are holding me in the palms of promises. But there are days when my name never slips your tongue and I am a mere stranger to you.
The memories are no longer stored in your mind, but on gigabytes that I have to play – that has become your storage and retrieval. Your memory has become pixelated, but you can no longer remember them as though it was your own.
Some days you’re on a carousel of memories in your mind; revering and your tongue has forgotten its language. At times you speak eloquently, but at times they are stars that are unlinked and lost. You used to weave constellations but now it’s difficult to put in a thread into the needle.
Thread of your memories begins to wear and the tales woven through ancestry fray with details as the world slips away and the thread unwinds. You try revising the tales, but the thinning at ends of your recollection slowly fades.
The scent infused with ambiance sends echoes of familiar places, resulting in you having spasms of remembrance while the flutters of moth wings beat at the edge of your mind.
There are days when you become a shell of yourself, as your pupils remain fragments detached from reality. I watch you as you wind yourself back in front of my eyes. Ebbing and flowing, freezing and releasing; trying to make sense of the confusion and panic that riles in your mind.
Though you feel, your stars are growing cold and feel like an ethereal that has collapsed, your smile is still the brightest star in the furthest galaxy. It is made of combustion of crimson blue yonder and candy hues.
Though your palms are dreams wrinkled dry, and your memories are falling like baby tooth, as the color of your speech is bleached and you frantically scavenge for memories to ground and make sense - I’ll be there to hold your scattered mind with patience and love you the days you won’t remember me as your own