It's been months since I last your his smile.

He holds it a bit nicer now.
Not so tense, not so reserved, not so much filled with rejection.
I was hoping he would be here.
behind the counter.
the Starbucks guy.
While I fill out forms.
while I move in my chair
to the rhythm of the Pharcyde.
while I was awake.
when i was done.


------

old posts. I havent seen that guy in months. but he seems tender. I feel that way of all tender souls.

The Self (part 30025)

Something radical has been happening. It's molding me and it's making me a bit anxious, more so than usual. It's making me spit with rage. It's making me more quiet than usual. I already survived some of the foray. I want to write but it it's all coming to fast. I wake up and heaviness presses against me. nothing new, really. How come I can't seem to function in the normal everyday life, of paying bills, working, getting stuff done throughout the day.

What's wrong with me? Nothing. Nothing. The madness of this world becomes difficult to handle everyday. I can't ignore the poverty the injustice. yet, I'm not helpess. I know that.


-----

I feel as heavy, but not the suffocating kind anymore. It's bearable. Things have changed. I've let go. of people and memory. Nostalgia. 

Sleep.

Sometimes I wake up with the intention of not. I feel heavy, almost always. Since I can remember. Sometimes it's incredibly easy to get up. Sometimes, it becomes laborious to breathe. I can't understand how people find it easy to live. To work, and come back home, and sleep and eat. I want to break down and cry. You can't understand how this feels. Unless you suffer from it as I do.  keep busy. Or else my life quickly becomes more heavy, unwilling to move. I can't even cry sometimes, because I'm never home it seems. I'm a stranger in someone else's home. I feel this sadness settle over me, how are people able to find happiness most of the time. I have to fight for it. Every day. But maybe not. More every other day. I have to fight to just live. It's hard. I don't want to sometimes. The safest thing to do in those instances are to sleep. For a bit. Life becomes bearable. It becomes. It helps to have lovely friends. And I feel guilty and not being a good friend. But how can someone be a good friend, someone like myself? I'm so tired. I'm tired of loving, even myself.

Cumpleaños.

My mumma texted me at 6:45 in the morning. Happy Birthday mija I luv you and I miss you y te queremos mucho. She said. No, wait. She wrote. It was an electronic message. Where nothing could probably even touch my heart. No voice to tell me love. no words were to touch me. No caressing of the heart.  The comal was cold. it was sunny and I was alone.

Get chocolate wasted, happy birthday he typed. he typed. He

Birthdays? What are they? Why so much pump and circumstance. Why so much celebration. Nothing to celebrate when you have accomplished nothing this year. The two people. Two people mattered, yet were muted. were constricted to that device that could not with the most beautiful and curving words move me to feel anything. Not even the hearts or the smileys that are are shaped into symbolic love could make feel like I mattered. So as usual, this day affirms to me, that birthdays are insignificant. If they did matter, does that mean I don't matter? I refuse. I refuse. Even if to me I am the only who I matter to, who remembers. If it's only I the one who cares. Because an electronic message doesn't convey anything. It conveys, I have to write, but I do not care to love. I do not care to love. I do not care. I am to lazy. I am too busy. I am too. I am. Not you. Perhaps guilty of this myself, once or twice or more.

So i've chosen. I've decided. Birthdays do not matter.  I don't care to tell anyone my birthday. I don't care to tell anyone when my birthday is.

I never cared to tell anyone.

Someone call my Ama, mi mama, my mum. Someone tell her that yesterday her daughter was born. Someone tell her that no one called. Someone tell her she forgot. I never cared to tell anyone. Oh, I forgot. I'm not supposed to care that she didn't call. The only one. The only i cared to have a feliz cumpleaños from. the only one of two. Im not supposed to care. I'm not. Im. not. I forgot. Perdón, Ama. 

Stamps.

I need to create a new space. because this space no longer is ok. It's a different time, it's time. I'm tired of recycling feelings and thoughts. I need to grow, i've already been, am breaking. How many times can a person break? Yet, I don't have that luxury anymore. to fall. the fall is a kind of privilege? Isn't it? No time for tears, or fears. I have to keep moving. Wether it's with those I wanted to come along with me or alone. Even if it's without my family. It's going to be a lonely yet incredibly growing and nurturing year for me. It's going to be lonely. man. I thought those years were done. They're never done, until I'm ok with myself tho right? Hm. I still feel like a child. 

Hey, Kid.

Im always the kid. 

the one that doesn't have it right. 

the one they leave alone. 

who is left alone to cool.
is uncool.
unkempt.
socially inept.
inept.

knows little of the real world.

whatever they mean.

Feels little.

but have you seen 

the feats of little things?

of aunts that can carrytheir homes on their backs?

I carry my home.

i am my home.

home is where the heart is.

i carry it everywhere

anywhere

i go.

have they not seen it?

i carry it sometimes in my belly.

as a kid

i could never find a permanent home

just like ants

i learned to carry heavy things

in my heart

yet

walk lightly 

with alacrity

towards 

home

Im strong.

I am the sinew and the meat.

have they not seen?

There's not time.

to unravel.

when i unravel.

i fold myself together

nicely.

They'll see.

always a kid.

but ive always been the sinew and the meat.

Coffee Shop Windows.

The beauty of this. There's three guys (men?) with a stroller in tow, and two precious little boys along for the ride, right in front of the coffee shop i frequent alone on Friday afternoons. Imagine. To my left that are three men as well. Two seem older, rough around the edges kind of men. They are talking to this young student (i imagine), most likely in his early twenties. Before they settled down on a park cold bench, the first man was there along with his bike and belongings. I've seen him before. He usually sits right outside of the coffee shop. He usually sits alone. He usually uses the internet outside.  The youngest man brings a manila envelope with him. Takes a couple of things out and shows him. I'm too far to see. Yet it's inescapable. It's probably computer parts they are sharing. Or super secret powers. Or friendship gifts of some kind. I want to sit here and bask in the beauty of this encounter. See. Because if people would see what I see they would be baffled. They would question the simplicity of it all. I've met people who have been baffled by it all. I want to live here where these things are normal. or is it that I no longer partake in that? As i once did. Where I talked to strangers. and I formed friendships seamlessly. without judgement.

See. The two men are light skinned. and the third man is a stocky black man. He can skate like no one's business. Tall and sturdy. He grabs the oldest baby by his tiny hand and and helps him climb his skateboard. The brother or the uncle, or the father films the skateboarding tricks (attempts) of the skinniest boy.

The men in the bench. A white man, a black man, and the young Mexican man. They smoke a bit, they laugh (i know they laugh because their glistening white teeth shine from far away), and they chat, they look over each other's shoulder towards the laptop and the smartphone. They marvel at whatever it is that has captivated their complete attention, oblivious to my gaze, or not. The Mexican man looks like a middle class boy, guy, man. The other seem to come from less money, most definitely.

----

and i leave before they all disperse. 

stuff.

Sometimes I feel guilty for not have wanted see friends for a while. Yet, when I'm down and I feel incredibly lonely I wish they would come and say hello. A simple, how are ya? or even a spontaneous. let's hang out. It doesn't happen. it makes me feel less loved. and it makes me miss my family. and it makes me realize with greater urgency how friends will always wither away. even those you thought were good friends. even the one's you thought you meant something to.yet im a pessimist i suppose. because friends you never expected do come and say hello. but does everything wither away?. i miss my family. I miss their hugs and kisses. I miss hugs. yet. part of growing up is knowing that we should let things go. we need to let things that want to leave, leave.

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.

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. 

...

I drove past you today. I drove past your remains on the highway. It was you who sat there, silently. You sat loudly next to me, screaming at me. Leave. Please. Leave. Now. I heard you from a mile away. I heard you push me away. It was inevitable suffering. They say I do this to myself. It’s everything I wanted, maybe more. How could it be what I wanted… when all I did was… never mind it’s useless. It’s inevitable that the cut will go deep. It’s almost branded. I have your name branded in my soul. And every day of my life, I still find myself comparing you to everyone one I meet. No one made me as happy as you did. God. I can’t believe it’s come back to this again. Today. On a night that should be a cause for celebration. Yet. I saw you on the highway today and I passed your remains, sitting on that squeaky clean seat of yours.

This time, you can engulf me in your stare. That stare that I was so timid to accept. I was scared. No - undecided. Selfish. Oh god. It’s like I’m that “crazy girl” you’ll tell your friends about one day. That psycho that wrote you some long, weird email.  I can’t bring myself to open it again, to ever read it. I can’t bring myself to delete it. I cannot delete some of the emails. Even if they seem insignificant, they mean so much to me in my insignificant time on this earth. It’s insignificant really this pit in my eyes.

 All those ignored messages. Why? Why did you just ignore me? Was that the answer ? I cannot accept it, I never will. Yet. I’ve come to accept the silence. A resounding, I’m sorry it’s too late, please leave me alone, would have sufficed. I didn’t know that’s how nice it was to be with a person that made you stronger, and accepted your many flaws. See, you didn’t dissect me. I know you didn’t. I did. And it was my mistake, of many. After you left,

you made me stronger, and maybe more secure in myself. It was like a marathon, it felt like it would never end. I had many aches and pains, but I finished the run without you by my side. I was waiting for you, to hold the poster at the end saying  (screaming) “I love you too! I always did! And I miss you too!” Yet the only thing that met at the end was empty satisfaction that I finished alone. No. But listen. I know that I don’t want to be a damsel in distress. To many times, in the past, I dreamed of that possibility. Of having my dreams just out of my reach when the knight will swing down from some invisible precipice, and sweep me in his arms. Too many times, my mind scratches on that scene now. I try to rewind it, but I can’t visualize it anymore. It’s more like a kaleidoscope where all the imagery merges and becomes an indistinguishable part from the other. I want to rewrite my dreams. Dreams where I can save myself. My mind won’t remember all those memories, yet they refuse to leave. And where there was tenderness once, there will always remain.

Except if I see you I can’t promise to be okay. Don’t worry. No hysterics. Just a nod and half a smile. A bit to sentimental perhaps. I’ll return to my usual self.  Now, I can finally leave you alone. Thanks scotch tape for the many sweet little memories. It’s time I finally let you live in peace.  Foremost, it’s time I give my heart a break, it’s been too long.

Best.

Vanessa