The Last Letter

only cry for special occasions.

here’s a clarification of my tears.

if i am not diplomatic, I am over

emotional. we can’t have that.

the thorough breakdown of the

scenario. let me explain.

just the highlighted sentences

in the book of an undeveloped

opportunity.

scurry away.

come back, blatantly detached.

i’m an essayist, not a orator.

lacking in courage when it counted.

miles away.

too close for a soul’s comfort.

said all that i could say as to not

be a bother. i’m the youngest.

what are boundaries?

the last sent letter for awhile.

be brave for new phases.

manifest for better.

i am and will be greater.

Catholic Guilt

6.27.18

A former busybody,

persistently

too involved with Others.

My selflessness, just a facade:

am I appearing kind enough?

Sincerity melting away

in the pool I am floating in.

The sun heats the top of head.

It doesn’t gleam. It taunts.

On a quest for

wisdom

from the moon.

(It hides from me.)

Whisperings among the trees,

cackling among the flowers.

A small box

in my hands

filled with all of my

gruesome guilt.

Leaking from the box,

it drips at my feet.

I smile,

throw the box, and

run from my own entrapment.

Red Hoodie

I’m nineteen,

walking a dog

at 2 AM. I spot

Red Hoodie. He

pauses. I walk

faster. I make the

block 3 times after.

1st time: ignores his

conversation partner.

2nd time: is gone.

3rd time: follows me in

his car. I look at the

sidewalk

to guide me back home.

I’m twenty-four with

a complex about being

twenty-four. I don’t walk

dogs for hours at a time at

2 or 3 in the morning anymore.

I’m at the gym like a normal person,

but

doing cardio and sweating

embarrassingly unlike the regulars.

I spot a Red Hoodie. A hiding figure.

Always perplexed by enigmas, wishing

to emulate their desperate and blinding

need to be Seen and Unseen. A ghost.

Or my delusions fading into my reality.

The entertainment has me uncaring.

Fire can’t be kept hidden. No eye contact, but admire me regardless. Let’s not engage.

I just want to be seen.

Walking contradictions.

We’re surrounded by mirrors. If we pass up the sign, we have to make the block again.

Again.

And again.

Burden

stay quiet in fear

you may actually be seen.

shout harsh words, spitting

into the air like punches may

be thrown.

still a scared, scarred little girl

controlling her commanding

attention now. thinking before

speaking: aren’t I wise?

an analytical rant, followed by

an ignorant and privileged aside.

canibesmallercanibesmallercani

anywhere that will seize me up

and smile proudly, that’s where I

Belong. a confused mix, pushing

ill-fitting puzzle pieces until they break.

existing yet as all that I am.

not a burden.

Shadow

11.21.18

I’m in a mood, I say.

But this underlying chaos rises

too close every time I speak.

I’m just tired, I think.

Clouds of puffy smoke dance

inside of me, leaning against the Exit.

I spot my shadow. She is impatient.

She is a warrior, ready for this stagnancy

to pass. Slow and steady, I tell her.

The wind slides my hair from my shoulders. She is still and eager.

The smoke feels heavier. I look to her for guidance. She points at me.

The fire, she reminds me, was burnt out; so now you can breathe.

I place a few fingers on my throat. She leaves.

I consider counting. I consider cussing. I do that instead.

I forget the smoke. I remember the fire. Breathe, she whispers, wherever she is now.

When there is fire, there is also air. Darkness holds hands with the light. All of these things coexist, so I am told.

I felt like running, but now I am at peace with the sight of this water rolling along.

Thank you, I say.

I jump in the water. Its waves carry me far.

I am my shadow, I yell as the water flings me on the grass.

Life goes on as I spin in circles.

Life goes on as I learn to sing.

I become my shadow. She is me.

Life goes on.

masculinity (the ego)

i was not created to fuel the male ego.

nor my own.

entitlement leads to a toxic karmic path.

i am nobody, and neither are you.

we do not float along to slut shame, or

to sneer at our peers for things we

misconstrue.

do you know me? i don’t know you.

i am an angel, an angel, an angel.

i do the things i should not do.

the Universe does not follow social

constructs. divine femininity taught

me i am my own father.

i am papí.

sharing our energy

7.14.18

we pass on catty words —

that’s how we make friends,

see?

my hate is similar to your hate.

we sigh and breathe insults

at those we love or even better:

leave a gust of silence so still

it leaves puckered red marks

circling

our throats.

we have mouths that speak these

heavy words, and we become these

gory beasts instead of the gods

we think we are.

Here’s my useless energy. I’m passing it onto you.

live your truth

7.12.18

How many white lies have you told? I’ve told more.

How many omissions have you kept, nestled away? Bet I can beat you.

I’m the best of the best.

Do I do this out of compassion for others? (30%)

Reality just disappoints the imagination.

So many delusions, the world says.

Keep the dream alive, I say.

And the dream? Is the truth that reality deserves.

Let it boom, lady.

Time for truth.

M.A. (A Stray)

My anxiety softly touches my hair

in an attempt to soothe my worries. My

anxiety says dark things, half-seriously,

in an attempt to make things light.

I see a stray,

Daisy, and she yells upon sight.

She comes close, and sees I am a flower, too.

We walk on, led by the sunlight.

My anxiety says the rain will come soon,

don’t hold on to hope.

Daisy barks.

She looks at me and knows I needed to feel

like a hero today. Her escape was planned,

her quick glances say. You needed me,

her slowed pace whispers as I cluck my tongue

when she treads too far. I needed you, too.

She goes back home to an owner who yanks her

by her collar. I pull at my ponytail, feeling sick.

I take note of the street, and stare at the house,

forcing myself to remember. Please remember this.

My anxiety tells me to leave. My

anxiety tells me to mind my own business.

I close my eyes. I promise to return often.

She is not a flower wilting. I am not a flower wilting.

We are flowers who have grown a little sideways in our

respective pots. We stretch towards the sunlight,

eyes wide open, away from the dark sneaking closer.

My anxiety smiles and hums.

I walk away, quickening each step.

I don’t feel like a hero. I feel like me as exactly

as I’m supposed to be. I feel weary of being a catalyst,

but my own metamorphosis is pending, I know.

My anxiety halts its persistent humming.

It laughs. And I laugh.

(Because what else is there ever to do?)