Chocolate, it's my favorite sweet.

Dust. Dirt. Brown. I can’t quite find the right word to describe my skin color. It’s not that I’ve really had issues with my skin color. I mean, I’ve grown to accept the infinitesimal qualities that come with it. You can’t tell very well when I blush. I’m like a chameleon, with spotty color here and there; it’s not even colored all the way. When an uncomfortable moment comes, my facial expression might very well give me away, but never my skin. I’m able to adapt to summer heat waves. In the summer I take on a darker coat that with wintertime I slowly efface.

I want to love my coat. I want to embrace my dark skin that houses my soul, which I am ashamed to admit contributes to some of my insecurities. I know, I’m not twelve anymore, but let me just deal with this for a moment. Especially when that color comes from my father. The one person I care nothing for, or rather cares less about my brother and I, gave me the only thing he ever cared to give me after birth: his appearance. I’m actually the exact same replica of my father’s mother. You should see how everyone stares at me (from his side of the family) when we visit them, as if their mother was breathing and talking right in front of them. Perhaps, that’s the reason why I associated my big nose, my dark texture, and round face to become negative, repugnant qualities. It’s as if the world transpired to remind each and every day, of the face that was responsible for the issues my mom deals with every day of her life, I used to think.

There was a time, when I wanted to stay indoors to retain the light, not quite as dark, color that would imitate that of my mothers’. Today, I can ignore any comments that attempt to degrade me based on skin color, but the funny thing is that the most offending comments always end up coming from family members – very close ones at that.

You see, I come from a very colonial background, a traditional machista Mexican family. We all come in various shades of dark brown - hazel, chocolate milk, and even white. It is customary to have that one guera in the family, and the negra. If you’ve seen me, you can very well guess my nickname growing up. They always have a joke about how -since my mom’s hospital bed was next to an African American lady - the nurse must have traded babies. Growing up, as family members retold the story countless of times, I felt embarrassed, but I accustomed myself to accept this and to laugh. I confirmed whatever they felt about color. The cries and exultations of adults in our family when a light colored cousin was born were never lost on me. If one came to the dark end of the brown spectrum, they’d be a chuckle, but I don’t like to think that there’s any hate. No, it was more of a sense of relief when a white colored baby was born – adoration quickly ensued.

I don’t know that I was treated unfairly, different perhaps, and I would really rather not think back on all those moments where I was for I would like to keep the image that I hold so dear about my family. Tragic events not too far from the present do not allow me to do this, and I know they aren’t horrible people, so I’ll stop here in the present.

 I just want respect, that which is bestowed on everyone else. I’m not perfect, and being a woman I grew up apologizing for many – too many -  things that I now realize I never should have apologized for in the first place. I’d rather you insult me on my deficiencies rather than on my skin color, as if I there were inherent undesirable characteristics that come along with pigment.  If you ask me, it’s a cheap trick. If you want to insult me, come at me, but without any references to color.  One day you will become mature, and realize how much this hurts. One day doesn’t erase this moment or the ones I am sure are still to come. Good thing I can move on and have the ability to not dwell on this, just don’t’ do this often please. I don’t want you to repeat this with your children, or in front of my children (if I ever have any).  I lose respect quickly for you if you cannot look past color, even if you are very dear to me. I will always love you, and treat you with respect, but I can never fully respect and trust you if cannot look past the tone of my skin. 

Baggy Eyes.

I'll have baggy eyes for endless days. Dark, ring circles around and below my eyelids.

Love. What is it exactly? So much to give, yet so difficult to give.

Dusty Clothes.

Racks filled to the brim with clothes long ago worn, to dinner parties, to parks, to weddings, to school. The creases tell you of something, of a life they once held. Those creases are filled with dust particles of their previous owners. Owners who would carefully smooth out those same creases. Others would simply let them multiply until the pattern became a sort of texture spreading evenly across the surface area of the cloth, making it less conspicuous.

On another wall a sort of glass mosaic exists. Tall, pear shaped, skinny, and circular shapes are found in green, yellow, red, and most commonly, white.  The glasses are mixed with the old and new, but they are all empty. They entice you with their cleanliness. They implore: take me home. they look pretty atop cupboards, dressers, and bookshelves.

On that same wall, the glass shares space with other trinkets. Sownmans sitting festively on the the shelf, hoping Christmas would hurry up and pick them up. Halloween ghosts and ghouls linger right around the edge. The best part is that a specific area must only be touched with our gaze, as the figures seem so delicate that a soft touch might prove their undoing. They are like those people you see, but never quite touch, as your harshness might make them crumble and hurt. The precarious balance you must use to naviagate the shelf makes looking and finding pieces a time consuming pass time.

Then, we move on to where there lies wooden, tin, and plastic boxes. They all intermingle furiously with each other, an eclectic bunch gasping for air. Once, I found a heart shaped box with walls and a lid made from tree vines. So much emptiness, to store treasures, to hold thoughts untouched.

Down the corridors, as you keep walking, you can't help but lose yourself in the world of so many people. The vivid colors, in my mind's eye, are bountiful. The shoe rack is somewhere in between doors and clothes racks. These shoes have many things to tell you. Some of the soles are worn so thin, you just want to get them finish their destination, whatever it might be. Sometimes, you find those shoes that empty with experience. Their luster provokes quick hands to grab them, as they are always the first to go. People don't know they are the less sensitive of the pair. It is the worn, rugged shoes that provide you with stories and comfort you might not expect.

On a long and rainy day, you might drop by a place like this, and people aren't needed. It's as if the people were inside those things. Their emotions, their histories, and their love. You just pick them up to continue or create new life into them. Reusing. Always reusing. The world needs this kind of reusing of material things that are meaningless - yet, oftentimes define our existence. The trick is to not let it define you.

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Coming back to this later, I should be studying. Procrastinating so hard right now. It makes for a busy filled week? ::Sigh:::. this way I can remain in that dark corner of the library's sixth floor, away from every possible person I might know.  Self-isolation at its best. 

Writer's Legs.

Sound waves touched my legs. Touching them quickly and letting go. They felt comforting. I could almost see them pushing air particles into each other. I felt happy. It is one of the most transcending experiences to feel the vibrations bump into you and then leaving, without as much as a goodbye. They give you a feeling that you are full of life. They let you know that you are not alone. As soon as my legs deflected the sound waves, I craved for them. I wanted them to shake my legs a bit. They were a bit cold, and needed some movement.

Cramped, in between towering shoulders and sound waves, some angst teenagers that attempted to burn a rolled blunt interrupted the rapture I was experiencing. My air particles began to fight against the smell. Why are so many obsessed with this little phototroph? As soon as they were escorted out, I was able to indulge in the pleasure of listening to a band. A band whose music is the sole remnant I have of the one person I've ever loved. Even if it was from afar, they left me their music. I find comfort in that, knowing that they left me something so beautiful.

The lead singer touched the drums with such clarity and love, that the music coming out was more than I could ever want. If I could mark and re-live one of the best expriences, I would not hesitate to choose this one, on this particular night. I pumped shoulders with strangers, and I, siting there without familiar people or surroundings, felt how beautiful life is. I, in a room with strange souls, feeling the sound waves hitting us, deflecting, loved my life. For that two hours performance, I felt in good company.

As the show ended, I glanced to all the hands clasping each other, at all the friends capturing moments with each other. I walked with the night beside me. I walked peacefully and content to my car. My hand clasping my happiness.

With my windows down, felling the night sit beside me was all the company I needed as I drove home.

End of the World.

I wake up in the morning and I wonder,
Why everything's the same as it was.
I can't understand. No, I can't understand,
How life goes on the way it does.

Loss.

Why? You had such a beautiful soul. The greatest. Why didn't you ever believe us? This pang in my stomach and heart will never heal. I will always have you in my heart. 

You were the greatest.

Smell.

 I used to love sleeping over my aunt and uncles' homes. They were always warm and full of bubbling pots, and laughter packaged in tiny mouths that were filled with tiny hands. Baby feet would scurry down the corridors -  welp as big corridors can be in relatively large mobile homes - and kisses would cover your cheeks. Each home had a distinct smell. You know, the smell that distinguishes one person from another, kinda like perfume, but without the nauseating part.
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Note: I HATE perfume. I'm probably the only girl that does not own any perfume. It is equal to a stomach-churning experience, and I get close to vomiting if you get within a foot of me. My aunt told me I need vitamins? ::shrug::
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I could immediately tell to whom (family -  not particular person really) a sweater, jacket, or shirt, belonged to when I'd find them in our home. My family used to come to our house all the time, ten to fifteen people on any given weekend. Clothes would be strewn around our home since our family get-togethers were more like a camping experiences.  They would spend the night and so backpacks and baby bags would be carried around.  Like that one medium sweater, yep, it had to belong to my uncle Moises' family. Or that baby hat, yea, it was from my Tio Tivos' little girl. The honeysuckle smell that they'd carry were name tags that would allow me to identify who was next to me with my eyes closed. It romanticized their lives, since mine was more like a cold dank room. My core family - my brother, my mother, and I - don't have a smell. We kinda are just there, without any type of warmth. Our house, growing up, always smelled like rotten fruit and vegetables, with a tinge of pinosol to try to cover the smell. It was either that or a supermarket type smell, the type that you wanna gag at the amount of clorox and pinosol used to clean the floor.

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I think I'm finally acquiring a smell in my home. Don't worry, it's not upsetting pinosol or clorox anymore.

Have a good night. I can't wait to be at school once more, even if I just want to be in the remotest corner of the 6th floor.