Archive

poetry

My backseat is lined with
Mcdonald’s bags because I can’t
remember the last time I cooked, and now
I have to throw away all the expired food in the fridge
again.
This is a waste, I am a waste.
One day I will cook, one day I will listen to myself,
one day I will stop skipping meals for naps.

I called into work and canceled on my friends
again.
I don’t know how to do anything else except for
look sick and busy.
I get tired.
I get t-ired of taking care of myself.
I get t-i-red of being someone.

Pretty girl, smart girl, skinny girl, happy girl,
if I can wear it on my mouth
I can cover what’s in the heart.
I am lies, and people are believers.
My mom’s voice rings in my head and she’s saying,
“Nothing else matters as long as
your face is pretty.”
I know this is a metaphor for how much I hide
even from myself.

I am either too avoidant or too indulgent
I am not good at loving people,
I am good at pretending.
This isn’t a pity story,
this is about how I don’t fight.
This is about the difference between who I was
last year and right now,
and how there is too much.

I take everything to heart
and I follow emotional conversations with “I don’t care.”
I am paradoxes,
I am defense mechanisms,
I can’t be broken if
you don’t hurt me.

Abandoned art
is still art.

Loneliness is living alone in a studio
miles away from all my friends,
and telling others it’s my castle
amidst the worn down neighborhood where I dream about
how everything comes alive.
But the only thing coming alive is the
death of me.
Loneliness is sleeping fifteen hours a day
and calling it the practice of lucid dreaming.

I wanted to write about how I am the sea
despite all of this,
despite how much of a coward I am,
(that is there something left of me)
but then I remembered that I always
turn into a tsunami.

you’ve made yourself into an orphan who
builds home in people
who have private property signs.

stop
doing that,
stop loving people
because you
can’t have them.

there are some people
that won’t answer the door
no matter how much you wait
for them to understand.

this
is not poetic.

people will not always
protect you,
you will learn this the hard way
because you think other people’s homes
are more beautiful
than yours.

it’s about this saturday morning,
the way his eyes kiss me good morning,
and i wonder
how it always feels like i am waking up next to him
for the first time.

it’s about how you look into some people’s eyes
and you see oceans, and you tell yourself,
“this is what
depth
looks like, this is what
rivers wish to be”

but i look into his,
and
i see outer space.

please be there even when i don’t ask you
to be, because i am always quick to notice
when people leave, and my boyfriend says that i have lived
a lifetime of temporary connections, and i don’t
understand the word “permanence”
i attach myself to people and i’m tired
of my sensitivity, and that’s how i learned the art
of detaching from myself. because that’s
what i’ve made of my freedom, even if it was created,
even if it was distorted. is it too much to ask that you
will listen (for a long time), that you will ask questions,
because i am not one to talk about myself,
even when asked three times.
and this is important because, because i ask no one of this
but i want it from you, because it’s crushing to watch
people always come back, because that means
they are always leaving. and i don’t want to be
recycled. i want you to be the friend
that stays.

the world needs more
compliments from strangers,
enjoyable mondays,
slow weekends,

the world needs more
good morning texts,
leftovers,
dollar bills found in jean pockets,

the world needs more
poetry (this includes the belief
in magic / and children’s art
and tears that are caught
in someone’s hand
or find a safe place in
a tissue)

the world needs more
love (like meeting people and becoming
long-time friends / like calls from
our closest ones just to say they
love us / like hope)

it’s always the
moments that sweep off our feet
that we remember,

that remind us of what it means
to be alive,

that restore us.

the world needs more
coincidences that feel like
miracles.