I Hate the “Pre-teen Section”

[[I will edit this better tomorrow- I wanted to write but was too tired to make corrections.]]

 

If I pinch there, will it ever go away?
Can I bruise myself a reminder of whats ugly?
If you told me 12 years ago, I’d still fight with the mirror,
Would I have made all the same choices?
Because when I was 13, it was a year until I was thin enough;
Thin enough to be happy, beautiful and wear trendy clothes.
But by 14, the scale showed progress but the mirror showed none.
So began a vicious cycle of what to eat, when
When to eat and how,
How much water makes bread soft enough?
Soft enough to taste twice?
How do you get rid of stomach acid on your teeth,
and at what age does that cause decay?
Do I take this risk, do I play roulette, close my eyes and jump?

And down the rabbit hole she went,
A lonely journey to the red queen who already had my head.
I drank when I saw “drink me” because though it made me bigger,
it helped me out when I saw stars because
The pill saying “eat me” made me too small to stand

Now at 15, a newly found womens body made me cringe
Don’t you dare stare at my hips, I already know they are too much space
And you need not remind me how my ass looks,
ten men four times my age already told me
as I walked one single block downtown.
Don’t tell me Lolita was such a beautifully dark story,
when you haven’t heard the story from Lolita herself

And people wonder why women have an obsession with being small?
I can’t count the times I’ve heard “oh my god, I fit in the kids section!”
Not as a horrific gasp or a black comedy laugh- but glowing with glee.
Congratulations, you still look barely 18 from the neck down.

What the ads don’t tell you is how much more quickly wrinkles will come,
How many missed opportunities due to being bruised by just breathing,
How you still dream of your mothers wavering voice, with a small knock,
reminding you that your bathroom skeleton was apparent to all.

How it wasn’t until I was half past my twenties
When I finally was able to look into a body-length mirror,
And congratulate myself on cooking dinner today,
Walk without feeling dizzy and weak,
Smile because I woke up to see the sunrise,
Laugh because I was finally able to,
Tell my hips and thighs:

“I love you, and I’m sorry. You grew for me while I tried to shrink away from you.
I won’t punish you for becoming a woman any longer;
Instead, I will embrace you for the goddess you have made me.”

It’s like I offered myself on a silver platter, holding all golden thoughts
It wasn’t until I was close that you saw the tarnish and scratches
You immediately wanted to send it in for cleaning and touch-ups
Was it so dull that you couldn’t see your own reflection in the silver shine?
Or was that your method of dissociating your own harsh blemishes
But some things can’t be touched up and some things remain bent,
even if they were never broken to begin with

Do you remember what you look like in the mirror?
Perhaps you don’t, because you love to call the kettle black
I embraced that darkness a long time ago,
But you are still at the edge of the encroaching shadow-
a flashlight shaking in your hand for fear of self-awareness
I pray for that day you shine that light on your own red hands
and see the word “duplicity” scrawled across your palm
I think you forget you ever wrote the reminder,
or it was your second personality who got the memo

The persona you choose to put on seems to overlook their own shortcomings
as you love to rewrite rules for lives that aren’t yours to live
I swear when you see me, your skin itches with unrelenting anxieties
I feel like you look at me as you would look at an unsolved jigsaw puzzle
You so frantically want to find all the missing pieces to see the perfect picture
I am so sorry but all of those tiny puzzle pieces were lost so long ago
but don’t you dare try to jam in new ones that don’t fit because mine is vintage

There are real tears in the cardboard and memories in each warped corner
What you can now buy in bulk to make your scenery look historical,
is nothing but a plastic collectors replica of those who know that reality
The reality of being held in various hands, in different places at different ages
each individual seeing who can play this puzzle through the fastest
Although no one has taken the time to decipher the full enigma of this heart
And my heart is not a mirror, nor a puzzle, and you can’t find yourself in me
You can’t expect to just trace the lines on a map and claim you’ve traveled those roads
Because roads less traveled are hard to find and they happen to detail my skin
It’s unfortunate that you’d rather focus on how unpaved trails have thorns and nettles
Rather than how bewildering and humbling it can be to get lost in the woods

when it’s barely sunrise

Does the crack in your heart ache?
Did you let it safely heal,
or did you pick at the scab?
I couldn’t offer you a tissue,
or a band-aid,
without cutting my own hands.

These pale, shaky hands that strain when writing
Fingers crossed with a hopeful mind
Nails digging in my palms
Scarred flesh from all the countless times,
I have gathered up sharp, broken pieces of people
Supporting their collapsing structure as I bled
Fragments of glass hearts shattered in my eyes
Piles of broken bones creating a grave for not one,
but two.

I used to be a kind captain,
trusting the sea to guide me home
But now that I know the restlessness of waves,
and unpredictable change in the currents
I refuse to go down with the ship,
becoming a smashed seascape in the coral-
only to be remembered in National Geographic,
when they have underwater shipwreck features.

I apologize my timing was off,
and it was you who found yourself caught-
in the chaotic changing of guards around my heart
But I was exhausted and worn from being
stuck in the snowy winter with you;

I need to defrost
I need to save my own soul at sea
I need to stitch the cuts from your edges
And it’s impossible to heal the broken,
when you aren’t even whole yourself

AH. I have no inspiration to write lately, but I know I need to. So here’s a rant entry.

Reading the news depresses me. Even more so, our state of affairs with other countries depresses me even more. I don’t want to be associated with a country that is seen as racist, bigoted, unfair, unjust, sexist, agist, and just ugly in general.

I saw the headline to an article stating that “illegal immigration is surging due to the US’s demand for Mexico’s drugs”. Exactly, look at the latter part of that statement. WHY are we focusing on immigration when we aren’t even focusing on our drug issues? As an addict, I can say I was born an addict. I chose, in a way, to be an addict. A Hispanic drug lord didn’t force me to start using heroin; I ordered it online with no idea of the race, creed or origin of the dealer (thanks modern technology for making my vices more accessible).

So often I hear the blame shift to the Mexican border, immigrants and their home as the cause of Americas drug crisis. It’s sick, twisted and unfair. They are going by, if anything, supply and demand to make ends meet. Just like we all are, they are finding means to make money. To support their family, their house, their own drug habit- who knows. The point is: what our neighboring country brings into our states is not the issue. Because if we didn’t have drug addictions, we would stop needing to buy said drugs. We are creating our own issues and not taking the blame. EXTRA POINT: we are the ones making Big Pharma dish out pain medication like candy which then leads to street drugs usually, in those with addict genes.

Fuck.

03.16

My stomach feels somewhat unsettled. Similarly to the feeling on gets from seeing grey rain clouds from afar as you drive through the sun. You aren’t to the cold, dark place you are headed yet- but you know it’s there and you know it’s coming.

This is what anxiety feels like.

It feels like beads of sweat that sting your skin because every part of your being hurts. It hurts to breathe, hurts to move, hurts to think. And how can you begin to plan where to make the next move, or how to plan your safe route, if you can’t even untangle the map provided. Pages stick together, roads and rivers are smudged, and there are tears in the corner.

So you channel your inner “carpe diem” and use shortcuts the passenger is yelling over the ear-straining music. Life is really just a crazy road trip, with no sense of direction.

Being that way, I’m left at the infamous crossroads of life- enjoy the ride or stall the trip. I still don’t exactly know how to get past this stubborn fork in my path.

Red Thread Heart

I wonder about you sometimes. I worry even more. I hope you are drinking water and eating and sleeping okay. I hope you still enjoy walks outside and carry a compassion for small animals. I wish you the best while you carry on in this world without my hand in yours.

I don’t know why we were so drawn together, like two broken magnets that were so strong in their connection but so weak in the execution. I know each fortune told in both of your palms though I have never ran my hands over them.

But we still stare at the same moon and breathe the same air. Sometimes that has to be just…enough.

We have these red strings that are like crumb trails to those that matter most in our life. But I don’t imagine there to be only one. Like veins in our body, they reach far and many to our vital organs. Our vital players on this chessboard of life.

I am grateful for you, but I am grateful from this distance. I will tie a balloon to the end of your red thread, and set you free among the stars. You can choose to guide me when I’m lost, but never lose track of your own constellation that holds you close to the moon.