“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.

Just When I Thought ...

I never want to go home. To taste the bitterness of the past that clings, no, claws the walls.  To smell the stench that burrows itself furiously inside the comforters, to a cold that never leaves. I never want to go home again, to the tears that are showered all over the floor, over my mother’s face. Tears that never seem to scrub off no matter how hard you rub your cheeks, or despite the concealer applied.  I don’t want to go home to the silence that passes through the glass-less windows. I wanted to stay calm. I want to stay here: on this corner, in this moment, in this place where laughter abounds and peace oozes, pours.

Sometimes I yearn for the normality, for a peace of mind. I want to feel the normal cadence of my heart thumping against this chest.

I don’t want to feel the cold dishes clashing against each other. I don’t want to feel the screams that erupt. I don’t want to feel the specter of winter mutilating my sanity. I don’t want to feel your disappointment, your sorrow every single day of my life.  I’ve stared at that face for the past 23 years. It’s time that time began to deteriorate. I simply can’t keep refilling every single Mason jar with it.  We have caseloads. The truck is overflowing, it’s breaking. I am breaking. Cracking like hands accustomed to water and harsh soap.  

I don’t want to live with your regrets hanging loosely across your shoulders. I don’t want to deal with your remorse draped across your body for display.  Tell me what I can do. But first, you must let go. You must let those hurts heals, with scars momma. You have to let me bandage them, wrap them. they’ll heal. Just let me…

I don’t want to be another tragic brown story.

So today I decided. I am not going home today. I’m going keep myself away. Until I can leave, truly, and come back mended. Only then can we begin yours. Maybe next time I can stare at the mirror and not look away. I need to become the sinew, the meat, and the heart.

I won’t be another brown tragedy. I refuse. 

"I Can Feel Your Energy From Two Planets Away"

I don't want to write words for you anymore. I detest the fact you might be reading this, indulging in my sorrow. Can you tell me something? Reach your hand out of the screen and embrace me, for a minute. I want to feel your heart speeding up next to mine. It's difficult. Why did you come last week? For them? Yes, who else? Certainly not I. It's crazy that some silly ass shit that happened (but didn't happen) months/ year (?) ago could still stick like resin on my skin. It's a blob, a mess that covers my entire body. I hate that I can still cry about you when I see you or think about you. When I truly let my memories enter me. It's that pit in my hands again. The critters on my finger tips don't come until I let you come out.  I was afraid you were going to pour out of me. Even without having held your face in my arms, or on my chest, or on my lap, there's an indentation of your exact height and built next to mine. It fits the side of my hip, my torso, and my arms. It's like I refuse to hold anyone else, even though I've touched and kissed someone else.  I finally kissed someone, someones. It was fun. I suppose. A vacuous feeling. Nothing compared to just being with you. Holding your smile, and your smirk. It doesn't even touch the margin. The proximity of their tongue next to mine, and their hand touching my back was a distance incomparable of what you reached. My heart. My soul. It was a sticky sweet feeling. You were so grand. Something that came so easily, yet with you I wanted to take my time and see you first. I was ridiculous thinking of some alturisitc bullshit before I could even hug your lips. Because yes i was thinking of some holy alturisitc thing of not even touching you, your lips. your hands around me. It was all a wiry mess of feelings that refused to give in, until you left then it was all done and those things shattered.