A beautiful mess
She longs for the soul she once loved. She longs for the feeling of loving and be loved back equally. She’s a woman of strength and wisdom. She’s a woman of dreams and passion. She carries with her a heavy burden of all the eyes that look up on her. Of expectations. Of judgments. Of failures. She hid herself from the caving walls of her past. She loved and failed, then yet, she tried again. Tried to love but somehow holding back. Holding back what she thought she once had but didn’t. She relies on a truthful lie and a hopeful doubt. But amidst all that, she stood up. A mess of her own. A rebellious angel. But fine in her own way. Flaws make her whole. She believes in her capacity. She is a woman of flaws. Of imperfection. But she is also a woman of purity. Of courage and strength. A mess of fictional flaws she claims she has. She is a woman. A woman made of a mess. But a beautiful one.
Headspace
Your ghost walks these halls
Breathes ice onto my mirror
Comments on my choice of whole wheat toast
Cradles me like a casket
Haunts me like a song
Your ghost dances these floors
Leaves words written on my walls
Laughs when I can’t find the keys
Hums like a premonition
Hovers like a head-cold
Your ghost holds these dusty bones
With creaking steps
And silent echoes
I Still Don’t Talk At Holiday Parties
In a dream, I invite my father over for dinner. In a dream, I speak with my hands. I press index and middle finger on each hand together, then fling what they’re holding away
/they’re holding nothing/
and I’m saying, I’m lost
In a dream I flourish both hands out to my right and push myself away, and my father loads the word abandoned into the barrel of a gun
I hold up 3 fingers on each hand and the light blushes at my innocence
I am speaking with my hands, but I don’t know most words, so in a dream I clear the table by pressing my face down into the dirty plates. I pull the table cloth out from under the dishes, and it’s actually a quilt, and the food crashes to the floor, and I suffocate on things I didn’t want, and I leave my bed to stop the crying that started in the closet
The ceiling is yellowed and the walls are suicidal, when I put two fingers to temple and close the thumb down to shoot
I don’t know how to speak with my hands, so in a dream I stare into my father’s eyes. I hope that when I cry, he swallows the tears and teaches me a new way to deal with the things that I locked up in the attic
/the attic is empty shadows/
But even in the dream he agrees with the word gun, and I hold up an amber alert so that he knows that what I meant by the milk carton was that this is where I learned how to fix things
I press a bullet into his palm and a pill into my own
I paint the scene in red, I swallow the scene in blue
america spat on me last weekend
i.
my seventh-grade classmate slapped me with the back of her hand, inked in slurs
and i stood there and let the words become an iron brand on my cheek.
she spits into my food: “sorry to ruin your lunch—wouldn’t want to ruin the taste of dog.”
the words on my face burn hot. i don’t move to rub them away.
ii.
i bet your parents came to america to work in a california nail salon. i bet they probably cleaned my grandaddy’s toes.
actually, my mom arrived in ellis island, and she waved at lady liberty, and i bet she didn’t know that lady liberty’s a filthy snake and a liar
i bet your parents are proud that this great country even allowed them in
yeah, i bet they are. i bet it’s everything my dad imagined when he starved, drifting in the pacific and i bet he really liked being called a yellow gangster and i bet he felt real welcome when he wasn’t allowed in some restaurants and i bet it was way better than his family’s life being threatened by some men in red uniforms back home.
iii.
i wore a face mask in public last weekend and a man told me to bring the chinese disease back to where i came from. i wondered if i forgot to wash off “alien” from my forehead that morning
he spat on me, so i used his spit to rub his slurs off my cheek
he ended up breaking my nose, and i heard the noise of my bones snapping, and it sounded like: “chink, chink.”
iv.
well, i mean, america spits on people like me and
america spits on people who don’t really behave all that right
and america kinda spits on everything that makes it scared but
i think you know that. i hope you know that.
but it’s just, selfishly, all i can think about is me, and that
america spat on me last weekend. and i don’t really think i liked it all that much.
I’ll Take ‘No’ For 500
I don’t think this comes to a surprise to anyone here on Prose. I’ve said it before and I’ll proudly say it again. I don’t believe in god. I don’t believe in any deity. I don't believe in any afterlife. I don't believe in devils or demons. I don't believe any religion is correct.
I would explain my reasoning but I feel like beating a dead horse. If you want my reasons click on any of the hashtags below. To basically sum it up: I don't believe in god nor do I believe that any god exists. And even if a god did exist, going off what the Christian Right described, frankly I don't feel comfortable believing or praying to a self-righteous, hypocritical, homophobic, genocidal deity who ignores starving and cancer-sickened children.
#atheist #atheism #religion
This is a Recording
I get it.
I would contemplate doing the same.
Living in that bubble of protection; the original brick in the wall that had been torn down and rebuilt- a memoir stuck in a library that the romans threatened to burn down if you stepped outside.
What we had, how we loved, it is an ode to the past. How dare anyone suggest the future when we can live comfortably in the past. So pass up this moment and relive the recording.
This is a recording.
Remember You
Forget him
Remember you
The hardest thing of all
To do.
Remember how
You laughed at babies
Bubble smiles
And loving Maybees.
Remember how
You shook your hair
And laughed because
You didn’t care.
Your mini dress
And golden boots
And getting drunk
Not giving hoots.
Remember how your
Smiling eyes
Would burst volcanoes
Cause surprise.
Your gentle voice
And soothing words
Would bring you love
Because you cared.
Remember dancing
Just for fun
And skipping when
You didn’t run.
Your happy voice
And gentle touch
Was just enough
And not too much.
And then you gave
Yourself to him
But now he’s gone
Left on a whim.
But you’re still here
That much is true
So now it’s time -
Remember you.