To My Soulmate,

Okay, here goes, let’s not fall in love. Yes I know it was foretold by the heavens. That our love was supposed to be powerful enough to move mountains, end wars, whatever. To be truthful after the oracle told me how it all ends I gave it a lot of thought and seriously it’s not worth it. I’m pretty hot, supposedly so are you but getting together isn’t worth the destruction we are going to cause to ourselves and the people around us. In case you haven’t checked with your own oracles, we have a few years, like three, of turmoil, longing and angst, then we have about six months’ worth of passion before we perish in each other’s arms. I mean it’s a romantic story to hear but no way in hell do I want to live it. This letter is to tell you I’m going to devote myself to the church and don’t ever want to meet you in case that sets something in motion.

All my best, Your Soulmate

P.S Don’t reply, I’m moving and changing my name

On and off with a girl who wasn’t me

On and off with a girl who couldn’t see

Off with a girl when I let myself think about what could be

On with a girl when I realized what couldn’t be

Have to tell myself I’m just a friend

Have to tell myself that this isn’t the end

When he’s on and off with a girl who isn’t me

This year, I have a “friend”.

We share and do things some friends don’t do, but I am okay with not having relationship responsibilities.

Despite our lack of care for a label, I ordered him two sets of earrings. He has been wearing the same pair for MONTHS.

A pair of silver clasps with a dangling cross.

They suit him extremely well, but as a friend I felt he could use a bit of variety.

So in comes a shipment from USPS around noon. We’re sitting in my room when I receive the notification, and decide, out of excitement, I should run down to grab them.

On my way up I hear him on the phone, and take the chance to situate the gift outside of its packaging. I walk in and place them in his hands.

“These are cool, right? You like these?”

Hesitantly, and without opening to reveal the jewelry, he replies, “Yea, I like ’em. Those are really cool.”

I go, “Well, good, because I got them for you.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

Oh, thank you?

Listen, I am not in search of acceptance or gratitude. But, this gift was to show that during our short time as “friends” I have been paying mind. The little details mattered to me from the beginning.

It’s safe to say I am..

Bothered?

But! I am only remembering that tomorrow will be a day for me to love myself, and my family.

After all, he is just my “friend”, right?

Happy Valentines Day.

"Clowns. Bring in the Clowns. Hell. Where are the Clowns? Now that the Circus is gone. Where are the Clowns? Bring in the Clowns. "Damn. Shit. Fuck! There are no Clowns. Damn. Shit. Fuck! Are we the Clowns?" The way we act, talk, and walk. "OOOO! We are the Clowns." From discrimination, segregation, generations of miscommunications, and Representations of Nations and such. From the Birth of our Nations to up-hold the Laws and Regulations that Every man, woman, and child is Free. But were living in a World were Love is bittersweet and the main Color is trying to out due the many to make america Great again. At who's expense? Chocolate City American Dreams. Getto bombs bursting in air no proof but the truth. Still lies within the Fabic of our lives the American Flag. Send in the Clowns. Who are those Fucking Clowns. Haters of Haters those are the Clowns. Immgrants, different people, skin color, and faces. With all kinds of incredible people. Evolution Change. To Smile and laugh for Democracy. Republican Black History. You have to turn that frown upside down in order to be a Clown. "Where are the Clowns? Send in the Clowns. For goodness sake's. We're sick of those Clowns. Got Damn it, Fuck those Clowns. Send in The Clowns." You know those Clowns? It could be You or me. "Ha! ha! He! he! You Fuckin Clown. Send in those Clowns. Where are Those Clowns?"

The girl rolls a lighter in her pocket, running a fingertip across the rough letters etched on its side. "It was a pleasure to burn."

She finds the phrase haunting, though her father says it was a quote from an old book, a play on words of sorts...

No.

He said it was a quote. Before he left.

He was supposed to go on a two day "buisness trip".

It had been to two years and counting since she had last seen her father. Her traitor of a father

She felt her lip trembling tratariously, tears filling her eyes.

DAMMIT. Her father had left, and there was nothing she could have done to stop him. Hell, she couldn't even control her own tears. Pathetic.

Desperate for control, even if it is only over a flame, she fishes the lighter from her pocket. Then, an idea sparking at the back of her mind, she reaches a tentative finger under her matress. There. The tattered corner of an aging photograph.

Her father sat there, bouncing her as an infant on his knee. He looked so happy. Content, even. She used to pull this photo out and sob over it, wondering what she did that made him leave.

She chuckles sadly at her own naievity. She was a child then. Now she knows better.

With a sharp crack the lighter ignited, a fragile flame licking the night air. She watches the glossy photo paper buckle and heave, her fathers grin twisting, the center caving inwards, giving the man in the photo an expression of pure horror. What would he think if he could see her now, burning the last photo of him in the household? She found that she didn't particularly care.

The photo blazed brilliantly for a moment, but soon there was nothing left to burn but a pile of ashes. The flame died. The girl let out a breath she didn't know she had been holding, and wept. Not tears of grief this time, but those of release.

The man she once had called father? He was dead to her. And from the ashes of his corpse, she would rise again- a phonix in her own right.

Turning 18 might be the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me. I can vote! And get married! And receive the maximum sentence for homicide! Maybe all on the same day if I’m feeling ambitious. You see, I am now an official, card carrying (according to the State of California DMV) woman, and that’s a bit terrifying because it begs the question, what kind of woman do I want to be? Now, I have a vague idea already, independent, can do 100 push-ups in a row, and finally able to own the fact that my ideal man looks like the lead for a Tim Burton movie (tall, skinny, has scissors for hands, the usual), but after that it’s all ???, ???, and ????

All of my role models (except Dan Savage and Salem from Sabrina the Teenage Witch) are women. “But what about Gandhi?”, you may cry. “What about Martin Luther King? What about JESUS??” To which I would reply, “Did Gandhi have the gall to dye his hair and eyebrows fuschia and take up jazz singing at the age of 76?” Please. That was my Grandma Vicky. “Did MLK fight off a mountain lion using only a NorthFace fleece?” As if, that was my Aunt Marge. “Jesus may have died for our sins, but did he join a sex cult to do research for his masters thesis?” If so they conveniently left it out of the Bible. My beloved sociology professor on the other hand? Well, I’m sure you know the drill by now.

These women that I look up to: my friends, aunties, and teachers all come from incredibly different walks of life. Yet they have a few essential things in common. They live their lives intentionally, fighting their fears. They know what they’re about, and are working hard to make it happen, all while putting together cute outfits, and having amazing personalities.

Me on the other hand? So far, what I’ve learned about being a woman is a) Acne doesn’t just magically go away the second you turn 18 (seems like that should be illegal but ok) b) The best part of a metal show is that there is absolutely no line for the women's restroom, and the worst part is everything else. (To all the ladies I see looking bored to tears next to their boyfriend thrashing about like a dying fish, why are we doing this to ourselves? We could be at home eating snacks from Trader Joes and watching My Strange Addiction!) and c) Life is absolutely terrifying and exhausting, and some days you just want to take Lyft home, but then you remember the whole being sold into sex slavery thing. Not that it even matters, because you don’t have enough money for Lyft anyway, so you just have to boss up, take the subway and pray you don’t get stabbed by a crackhead (#relatable). Yup, that’s pretty much the sum total of what I’ve learned in the 4 months I’ve been a woman. How will I ever become the woman I want to be when I still haven't figured out basic stuff, like how to rock a beret in a way that looks more French and less Che Guvarra, and how to open a pad without alerting everyone in a five block radius?

According to a couple fairly reputable sources (a woman I met on the bus, and Cosmo) the answer to becoming this woman would be mastering calculus because, “If a woman can do calculus she can do anything!”, and learning how to properly suck the D (“The day you learn that you mostly use your hand and create the illusion that you are putting an entire erect penis in your mouth is the day you really become a woman”) I did get a D in calculus, does that count? No? Ah well.

So how did these women do it? In my head their transformations from awkward adolescent to confident queen took place in a smoothly edited montage set to “Eye of the Tiger.” In reality, they did things like accidentally murder their bosses parakeets, elope to Mexico with men who didn’t speak a word of English (not a problem if only they had spoken Spanish), and get perms. In short, they messed up. A lot. They took risks, often foolish ones, made mistakes, and got knocked down. But they always, always, always got back up again. Learning from their mistakes, they continued to move forward. So there may be hope for me yet. You see, unlike calculus, and fellatio, I am amazing at messing up.

I thought I could write a poem, have it capture the emotional state I’m in and let it sit on a site for days on end while I pretend like what I wrote isn’t just the half of it.

I thought I could use metaphors and similes and hyperboles to explain away the shadows that creep along my subconscious if I sit in silence for too long.

I thought I could do challenges to distract me from the draft on my phone begging for attention because it’s not quite finished.

There are fears I stuffed down in the basement of my mind because handling my emotions makes me feel weak because too many people have taken them, broken them, and handed them back to me in pieces thinking they’ll work the same.

There are remnants of unbridled passion swirling around in my heart while my desires swing like a pendulum between going after what I want or waiting for it to happen on its own.

(There’s a special section for the woman I love where it vibrates at such a high frequency sometimes I can’t breathe and sometimes it’s silent like the calm before the storm where the mere mention of her name sends lighting through my veins as my body trembles from the thunder.)

There are knots, weights, and butterflies fighting for dominance in my stomach because not once has my gut been wrong when it mattered the most but the guilt of making decisions that are good in the long run always comes back around because in my efforts to be a better version of me I had to burn bridges and breaks hearts to get there.

There is smoke still wafting off my fingers after I pulled the trigger and shot the bullet that would embed itself deep within someone I once believed would be forever.

(But damn if forever doesn’t come with fine print attached to the contract and damn if a forgotten amendment doesn’t come back to bite you in the ass because all you saw was the bottom line and not everything above it.)

There’s blood on my hands from the nights I spent stripping away at the mask I’d been wearing for so long, hiding behind a persona that couldn’t speak without asking for permission; that apologized for demanding attention and respect; that agreed to live the life of a pretender instead of breaking free.

There’s the lies on my lips from the moments I held back, held on, or let go too soon that taste of acid each time I swallow my opinions, my beliefs, my expectations.

But most importantly, there’s the look in my eyes that reflects the emotional hurricane whipping through my heart and soul, sweeping all the fears, hesitations and past heartaches out to sea.

In the midst of my chaos, I found answers in the places I least expected and my peace walks on clouds with love in her heart.

I thought writing a single poem would get all of that out of my system but I was wrong.