today.

When I was left alone and standing. I stood there in the precipice. The edge. The margin. The end. No.  not ready to jump. because I've already jumped. many. many times. I jumped. Bent. Broken. jigsaw puzzles unable to fit back together.  It's been done. Tragic. It feels like a pit is in your throat and you are about to implode with tear gas coming out of your mouth. Tears burning down your cheek. Silently. it happens that way. it's always been since you can rememeber. Sitting. or laying. on your bed. or leaning against the door of your bedroom. The portal that brought you joy, darkness, and solace. So life today isn't good. but today, at least today you decided not to jump. You decide to take the long road this time. it might not be ok. but at least you didn't jump. at least you didn't break. at last. you coiled your fingers around this life. at last. You begin to tell yourself. hey. it's been a while. smile inside for you. for yourself. no one else. 

Time.

my parent. My mom. and brother. My life left today. I feel strange. But also ok. I cried. I cried before she left. I have tears in abundance. It's time. To rewrite many things. First. I'll start with my name.  It's time to rewrite things. to find peace. finally. peace.

(old draft)

“I am a lover without a lover.
I am lovely and lonely. 
I belong deeply to myself.”

—

warsan shire ------- I've been attempting for a while now. To let go of those things I've realized I have to let go of people. Those very people that encourage what I despise in myself. It's a struggle. Sometimes, I need to meditate. I run now. It keeps me sane. I am healthier. Finally. Sort of. My breathing is still irregular, and my heart still palpitates abnormally. I need to delete my facebook. it makes me feel lonelier, tinier, insignificant. Yet I don't know why I still keep it.  I want to belong deeply to myself. It's making rough mistakes. But I've learned that is better to be alone than with bad company. It's hard going back to that place. I remember I made some of the best decisions when I followed my own path. Oh, but the loneliness that stuck to me like honey. Sweet. Yet, it would sting sometimes. Hm. I need to go back to that place. I think maybe this time I am more prepared.

Oh Woman.

Your ______ birthday is coming up.

I had nothing to say. Nada que decirle. 

The last time I saw him I was saddened. To call his wife 'woman' in such a condescending manner. To treat her like a child. Regardless of how he felt she should act. 

"Oh woman. Those are nothing but material things. They do not matter. " *Yet this sentence probably tells you nothing. You had to be there to feel the intonation in his voice, and his mannerisms. His actions. The context.

And while I agree with the notion about material things, there are some things that you do need to survive. Clothes. Books. Are these not material things that are necessary? 

I couldn't see him again after. It wasn't so much that sole utterance, but  actions that accumulated that fateful winter break. 

It hasn't been the same since. 

And oh how lonely it felt to not have someone, an adult, to talk to and confide to as I did with him. Yet, I've grown up so much from the pain. 

Baila con migo. Ven.

My friend posted this. Listen.

Mistakes.

When I was young I clearly remember my mother. She was a strong woman, stoic. Devoid of warms kisses and hugs. Today, quite the opposite. I distinctly remember the first time I saw her smoking. It was late at night, I couldn’t sleep because my family had recently moved into the government housing apartment. Think of a large box. With three rooms in them. Three empty large rooms. My room had a bed and a desk. Think. Pink: my least favorite color, with a bird plastered in the middle. You should have seen her smile when she pulled it out of the trunk. It was brand new, store bought. Her smile beamed, it hurt my face, so carefully with great effort pushed up a half circle on mine.

“ay ama, no deberias”

“no mija, te lo mereses, toma, ponlo en tu cama” 

and with a hug she gave me the bed comforter. She wanted me like it. With great difficulty she had bought it. My mattress had a simple bedsheet, and the blanket I used I can’t quite remember. I do remember the mattress. Horse riding cowboys, dozens of them were plastered on, the mattress. That’s what Texas must be like. I just remember the browns and yellows hues badly mixed in for colors. So I had to cover them so they wouldn’t run all over me. I remember that comforter was the warmest I”ve ever had. Now that’s an entire story for another time. The comforter.

The curtain, it wasn’t there yet. The large window was naked. I was scared to peer out of it at night. The moon would sometimes, conveniently sit there across from me, but some nights, many nights it was cold and dark. The only light that would come through the plastic was the artificial beam from a light post. It was cold and clammy. The only thing that kept me warm was the pink Tweety bird comforter. One day, out of sheer curiosity I decided to peek outside. I saw wafts of smoke come up as I looked. My mom was there outside, in who knows what hour of the night. Smoking. Looking out at the field of leveled grass. I once thought that field was our backyard. It wasn’t, but as child, it was nice to think that whoever owned that field, they let us have it, to freely roam around whenever we wanted.

Yet it was strange, for I never knew the smell of smoke growing up.

Today we got into an argument. Before I left, the smell was undeniable. The smell was dumbed at my feet. I messed up.

Hola.

There’s an orange sitting right across me. It curves in the right places. It hugs you warmly. 

Sometimes my hands tremble uncontrollably. I’ve probably said this many times. Sometimes it scares me. It’s the caffeine I say. So I had to write something, anything, to stop the shaking, before anyone sees and asks. I hate questions. Don’t query. Leave me alone. My hands seem to shake uncontrollably. Maybe it’s my vision that amplifies that shaking but they need to move -  to do something. So I make them type. Like this. These words that fail to make sense are all the doing of my hands that wont stop tying. They. Won’t. Stop. Even though I tried long ago to silence them. To shush them. it doesn’t work. They refuse to rest; they refuse to leave the keyboard. Although I’ve, somewhat stopped them from grabbing the pen, the pencil, the utensil.  I’m quite cruel sometimes. No one knows, or perhaps everyone knows. Yet they refuse to stop, they want to marathon out of here. They want to melt words. They want me to move in and move out. They want me to pursue that which they’ve been waiting for, what I’ve been wanting. They somehow know more than I let on. They know me more than I admit to myself. These hands that are my grandmas hands: brown and wrinkly. I remember the first time they touched that grass, remember? They never felt more alive, until I again made them pull the weeds and the dive in naked palms first. They never felt more alive. The garden was left prim and a little bit ugly. A crew cut at best, but they never felt more alive.