in the hospital, it was as if i was suddenly suspended.

the motion around me did not stop, but i did.

i did not get a sense of being left out of the picture-

rather, for the first time, the picture was me.

i was 12 years old when i first remember thinking to myself,

“i wish i had a bigger butt”.

i believe that for some reason, i have a very close connection with the universe.

i know that when i ask,

be it within reason,

i shall receive.

as i grew, my body grew.

my body grew, and i did not like it.

“I’ve changed my mind,” i told the universe.

but the universe did not listen.

i found a few diet books.

i found a few recipes.

i found a new exercise.

but i did not find my old body.

on the inside, i was a child

but on the outside i was a woman

the dissonance was fraying my edges.

i felt as if i were standing in an old tv screen during an electric storm.

i picked away at my food.

i picked away at my body.

i grabbed a toothbrush and prostrated before a toilet

i bent at the knees and buckled at the spine.

“out, out damned spot!”

—————————————

when i arrived in the hospital, i felt like a child.

i was so happy.

i wanted to be a child.

i wanted to be happy.

i thought they would help me be a better child

but instead they conquered me.

they made me more woman than i ever have been.

and i cried for months.

my old body was a young body.

but my new body is an old body.

i just want my image to be a reflection of myself

i want to be the child i am.

so if alcohol kills the liver

and smoke kills the lungs,

then where does my childhood strike?

why does everyone else get to self destruct but me?

Shades of Gray

It’s not black or white, but

it’s certainly not shades of

gray.

Because these operate on one dimension

which is not to say that there is

no depth to the colors, but that

words like ‘murky’ are inadequate

because murky has no shape or texture–

texture, temperature: properties of

sentience.

Depth is not an empty space in your emotion/being

An artist, singer, dancer, poet

would love to fall

fall as if it were effortless, an

unimpeded descent

into

you.

But I know you

r more shallow depths

at least

and I felt the crumbs of static

mouse-bite-sized

nuboso

cotton wisp-er, clinging to my

hand

damp, dissipating

gray

deep

difficult to see

dark, tepid*.

As I fall,

my light reveals

3 inches from my body

my next encounter*

with sentience.

My next fall.

But 3 inches is not enough to

think, plan, prepare

so I sink and

I fall and

I feel all over again.

La vida nos ofrece mucho, pero al fin, lo que será, será.

A short passage from a short story I’m writing

Angel sits postured like a female, legs crossed at the groin with the fabric of his jeans bunched up in his crotch. He holds a Sierra Nevada beer by the neck with the first two fingers of his right hand. His palm faces the sky and for every twitch of his foot the tips of his fingers bounce the beer up and down, up and down. He is, needless to say, very distracting. I wish I could say I was focused on the dark contours of his jawline, or the smooth planes of his lips as they spread across his teeth, but instead my eyes were drawn to the wad of cloth at his groin that theoretically hid his dick. His legs were crossed so tightly that I wondered if he actually had one. There’s no way that position could be comfortable.

so about that work thing i said earlier

i’m pretty tired.

if i could enumerate all the things i’ve been through, it would be

sad.

i don’t want that.

but mostly i don’t want that because its work.

because i’d have to emotionally care for you.

you see, i’m exhausted. i’ve nothing left of myself to give. i used all my empathy up on myself.

and there is not enough good in the world for me to draw it up anew

so for now

i’m tired.

that is all.

Am I Optional?

sometimes i look at everything-

it’s a weird concept, i know.

“why don’t you see everything all the time”

well it’s just so much work

but that’s another story.

 

so sometimes i look at everything and i get real sad because i realise that 

“what outfit should i wear today”,

“will you help me hang this up?”,

and

“hey do you want to go get lunch?”

all don’t include me.

i’m kinda an after thought, like the tittle on an i, or the tattle on a t

dot me but don’t cross me.

“this girl’s a mystery!” they scream

i would put this in parentheses, the way i feel, like an afterthought, but

that would be giving to much credit to the designers.

i am optional.

 

this would all be fine, except the worst part is that i am optional to everyone

including myself

and i need to need someone

i need to

because if i didn’t i’d feel nothing

this pinch on my cheek would feel like nothing

my burning finger would feel like nothing 

this necklace would feel like nothing

my mothers death would feel like nothing

so you see i need to need someone

but i’m optional

i don’t need myself.

so i kinda just fiddle around until i get it right.

i’ll get it right eventually.

yeah

Here

I have such a beautiful life, here.

Everything is good, here.

I am happy, here, take my hand.

All I’ve ever wanted was to move inside you

A sign that what I am is not who I thought I was because I am broken on the inside.

But that doesn’t matter anymore

because I am happy, here.

The sense of melancholy that taints everything I do,

It does not exist, here.

Hear the way my heart beats?

It screams out my name! 

Lies! Lies! at the tops of lungs. Sweet.

 

Memories

Today, I went on my twitter page and saw drama from my High School, which is odd since I am in college. It made me think about the people I follow, and why, even though many of them are in college as well, would care enough to promote those things onto my timeline. All these things made me think about the different perspectives memories have for us all. I will take more time to think about what memories mean to me today.

Convergence

I hate the place where two roads converge. It’s nauseating to me, because it seems to the both of us as if we are always right.

One person travels down one road at 60 miles per hour, leading in, and the other person travels down another road. THE other road. This “other person” is wrong. This “other person” drives and as you approach each other you realize that you have both reached a primal stage in your lives, and something stirs within you. You both realize that you are competing for the same resource: the place where two roads converge. And one of you is going to get there first.

 

“I’m right!” you say, and you lead in with a heavy pedal. As the road gently begins to curve, you see that precious resource and visualize your desire. Oh, to occupy that space at the most convenient time!

“I’m right!”, you say. “My road was the original road. The road the other car is coming off of is just a random street, mine is the right of way!”

And yet…

“Mine is the space!”, declares the engine of the “other” car. The road gently curves and the car downshifts to accelerate.

 

The two roads converge, and I am nauseated.

Neither person was right.

Both, are dead.

Starving Artist

One time, I wrote a poem about pizza.

The pizza was good, but the poem was not.

The pizza was cold, but still pizza

aromatic

sensual

exciting

But the poem was dripping.

Turning dark under my fingers.

The poem, [which was like cardboard]

grew in my fingers and melded to a syrup consistency.

My fingers touched each other, and I pulled

Apart they spread

slow motion

The poem grew warm and started to slip from my hand.

I licked my fingers

And pulled the pizza out of the microwave.