Category: Poetry & Poetic Prose

I look for you everywhere,
running around our streets as if
the concrete carousel was the Garden of Eden,
but I've tripped and painted my knees the colors of fallen leaves or rotted fruit:
dark reds, deep browns and dusty greens.

I have sought you since we were Adam and Eve.
So I’ll justify your judgments if you’ll love me Leviathan.
I will bend like a pliable prayer 
if you promise me that I will be more than altar or offering.

If it’s me versus sanity,
I’ll compose a hymn in tongues and 
beg God to make me your wishbone,
one quixotically carved from the rib I was born from.

I’ll gnaw to be close and 
bleed to be believed and 
burn to be seen as divine, and 
you may consider me crazy, but my book is about love 
despite writing it with a clenched fist.

Remember how men transcribed the bible in the blood of others and
women loved the good word so much they helped rewrite history to 
glorify goosebumps they received by men pretending to be God?
I’ll admit that I fit the mold of a woman who rewrites history 
just to make hell look a little bit more like heaven.

Featured art: A picture taken by Artist Holton Rower for The Wishbone Project.

My grandmothers daughter, the woman meant to be my mother, loves to compare us to Lorelai and Rory Gilmore.
Yet, we haven’t spoken since…well, I am simply not sure when. 

Perhaps, she is having imagined conversations with the idea of a daughter who is not me. 

My grandmothers daughter wears the face of someone who regrettably married her high school sweetheart out of obligation to a second pink line on a $10 stick. 
Her body weighs heavy with the weight of a cheating husband and disappointment of a distant daughter, and 
her face tells on her with frown lines that run as deep as our family’s generational trauma. 
My grandmothers daughter sounds a lot like, “Does this shirt make me look fat?” and cries behind closed dressing room doors. 
I can hear the burdensome rise and fall of her shoulders, 
of the salty tears running a marathon down her face, 
of the hard thud of a shirt being thrown onto the floor. 

And, hey, quick confession: My grandmothers daughters daughter sounds a lot like silence.

My grandmothers daughter loves to brag about her daughter on Facebook, but 
never seems to have anything nice to say face-to-face…or anything to say at all. 
I am still trying to decide what I prefer more: my grandmothers daughters failed attempts to connect through judgment or discordant silence.
Yet, as I age, I am beginning to see my hair gray where my grandmothers daughters did. 
Our frown lines twin, and I now understand that this is an inheritance neither of us asked for.
This is my mothers first time being alive, and I am trying to unlearn the shape of her sadness. 

So this year, I made myself a promise to not extinguish my birthday candles with tears brought on by the fear of aging into my mother. 
Instead, I will try to morph my frown lines into smile lines while there’s still time. 
I will turn the camera toward my friends because that is what I want to remember when I am on my deathbed.
I will let the candles be blown out by the burst of my laugh

I am five and use my father as a cubby on the couch.
He reads aloud about wars between good and evil,
sounding out onomatopoeia and
his inner child excitedly explains the lore behind men in capes and masks.

I am seven and trying to pedal a bike with training wheels.
My father pushes me so I gain momentum.
Even when I get the hang of gravity, I white-knuckle the bars—
afraid of the animalistic asphalt ready to bite, but
my father is the type to use his shirt to bandage bloody knees. 

I am ten and in the dark of a theater.
My father whispers in my ear what scenes are true to the comics and 
becomes a wannabe Rotten-Tomatoes-worthy movie critique when the scenes fail to replicate their written counterpart.
Afterwards, we rave about our favorite parts, but 
my mother does not speak.

I am thirteen and my mother jumps out of a moving car,
screaming at my father to shoot her already.
I beg them to stop and strike him before running to my grandmothers house.
She comes and gives us all a timeout. 

I am sixteen and back my fathers car into a tree.
A dent appears like a gaping wound.
He says nothing except, "Switch seats."
Silence suits us. 

I am eighteen and sneaking off to my boyfriends house.
When I arrive, I slide my car into his car, and profusely apologize, but my high eyes tell on me.
The chaos is interrupted by my father as he texts me.
He is leaving my mother.
I try to remember our last meal as a family, but
the memory left the door before he did. 

I am twenty-one and my father texts me on birthdays and holidays.
His name glowing on my screen makes my stomach twist as
he causes me a severe case of conflict. 
I do not agree with his actions, but 
I am my fathers shadow.

I am twenty-two and my father tells me that
everything bad that has happened to me is my fault. 
I respond that he is dead to me, and
I begin the process of befriending grief by
mourning the fact that my father will not walk me down the aisle. 
I wonder how long it will take for my father to
remove the ink stain of me in his arm.

I am twenty-five and often forget 
I have three half-siblings that I do not know.
In photos my grandmother posts on Facebook,
I cannot help but notice how there are no photos of me in their home. 
When my father dies, 
I will be forced to find solace that 
his silence is no longer voluntary.

Featured art: Unknown

1. Chase a controversial topic, capture it as a metaphor and feed it to modern consumers.
2. Contemplate what makes my voice shake and eyes water and dedicate my life to it.
3. Buy a house by the sea of the northeast and turn it into a library.
4. Learn the language of my own laughter.
5. Throw my past a funeral party, mourn and move on.
6. When waking up, feel the weight of my eyelids or, in other words, slow down.

Featured art: Unknown

When you depart every spring,
I wander among liminal wastelands— 
upsetting myself with the sight of an empty hand.

When you return every winter,
you wonder why I linger.
Devotion is the most romantic thing a human can offer.

You protest my prayers, but
I plead to be more than altar and offering.
Restore me back into your ribcage.

You promised pathways to paradise, but 
trap me in a cycle of proving my worth.
I am your long-term curse.

They gift me a thorn-less rose and
ask me if I have ever known loss.
Like Lilith, I relate to loss more than anything else.

Because all eyes condemned Eve, 
men are allowed to forget their vows.
Despite this, I stay.

I stay until no longer allowed.

Featured art: Unknown

My mind broke asunder
tasting the bitter comfort.
Now, I wander Limbo,
wandering in blissful wonder.

I spoke to Abel, then Cain;
examined both of their brains. 
I asked tangible violence,
"What resides in your conscience?"

Can a mirror be honest when broken?
The truth cannot be distorted.
Often, I look at myself and cannot process
the image that is so contorted. 

Like Lilith,
I relate to loss more than anything else;
stolen from paradise and
held hostage in Hell.

Featured art: Unknown

My body is not strictly bound to me.

It is bound to my parents, or the people who unintentionally created me, but did not physically abandon me.

It is bound to a small closet within my grandmothers house, or my first home. Is this why I find comfort in suffocation? Because my first home was within four enclosing walls?

It is bound to God as my mother baptized me "just in case."

It is bound to the five-year-old boy who pushed me down and kissed me without my consent in kindergarten. 

It is bound to the dirty asphalt concrete of the hood I rode my bike in. When I moved away, I forgot how to ride a bike and fall asleep to the sound of sirens.

It is bound to a boy with big, brown eyes who harassed me until I starved myself thin. He inspired me to learn the difference between horizontally and vertically cutting my wrists. 

It is bound to my mirror, the one cracked down the center. I wonder if someone or something can be honest when broken. The truth cannot be distorted.

It is bound to the exercise machine that I abused during restless hours.

It is bound to my primary depression. I struggle to forgive myself for raiding my family's medicine cabinets, but who am I without my sadness? 

It is bound to Satan as I sold my soul in exchange for my depression to dissipate.

It is bound to the therapist who told me that talking to me is like "pulling out teeth." Since then, I have mastered the art of biting my tongue.

It is bound to my first humanistic love. I donated my body to him as his personal canvas only to rub my skin raw. Near him, I held my breath. He would tell me to breathe. Then, we would breathe in synchrony; a symphony of ins and outs. Now, I cannot properly hold my breath unless I am deeply asleep. 

It is bound to my quixotic dreams.

It is bound to the bottom of my bathtub. Time and time again, I tried to wash my sins from my skin.

It is bound to my mothers judgments. My body is a visual diary.

It is bound to a pen that bleeds. I love seeing words smudge on paper.

It is bound to the girl who showed me how to fall in love with life. She taught me how still a surgeons hands need to be. We practiced, spending lazy afternoons with flat palms that did not move. Over time, she mended my heart through treasured moments spent learning how to love being alive.

It is bound to the boy who told me that I am an observer. "Observation is the revelation of magic tricks." I almost asked him to consider not wanting kids, but decided that I cannot be selfish.

It is bound to my first, true love: the art of escaping. I have been sober for years, yet still covet benzodiazepines. Sometimes, I think that an Ativan is the only way to prevent myself from ripping open my rotten insides and allowing them to spill out for all to see.

It is bound to my array of diagnosed mental disorders. I know that I can reach remission, but I often wonder if I truly want to. My sadness is a creation too complex to destroy.

It is bound to my overdoses. Most days, I try to convince myself that I am real; that I did not die during my last overdose.

It is bound to my sobriety. My body began to reject any drug I put into it. I kept trying to get high even when the consequences sent me to the emergency room multiple times. Eventually, I met acceptance with open arms.

It is bound to the girls who participated in his infidelity. I took his phone, locked myself in the bathroom, and called her at two in the morning. "What? He's not allowed to have friends?" Not friends who answer his call that early in the AM. 

It is bound to my paranoia. I called my mother and told her that I thought that the Chinese restaurant drugged me. I thought that there was a demon hiding in my bathrooms exhaust fan. I see a feminine name appear on your phones screen and my heart shatters.

It is bound to hospitals. The bed of an emergency room possesses more easement than the bed within my bedroom. Some doctors remember my face. Some remember my name. Some share tips and tricks of navigating a hospital, such as, "Remember to check the mirrors to see if people are rushing around corners."

It is bound to the boy I thought that I would marry. Thank you for reminding me that it was not my fault. Sometimes, I forgive you. Sometimes, I cannot.

It is bound to society; its perspective and judgement. Lilith, the first woman created and abandoned, was martyred for her "sins." Ever since, the purpose of a woman is to perform and get scorned for it. Sometimes, I like to close my eyes and think, "If I cannot see you, than you cannot see me." 

It is bound to the universe. According to the big bang theory and quantum theory, everyone and everything is interconnected. All particles exist in superposition, meaning they exist in multiple states at the same time. Particles are observed as alive and decayed at the same time. We are all living and dying; alive and dead. We are all connected as one large consciousness. However, we are limited to locality, or the concept that we can only affect our immediate surroundings. How is it possible that I am significantly affected by those so far from me? From those no longer alive? From those who do not know of my existence? How is it possible that I can feel so detached from those so close? Upon further research, pilot wave theory suggests that particles can affect each other from far away because all particles are connected via one wave. I suppose we will never know anything for certain.

Lastly, it is bound to myself. Is that a gift or punishment? I cannot tell.

I am a contradiction; living life with both caution and no hesitation. 

Featured art: "Between Worlds" by Chiharu Shiota.

Sunday

My favorite tale is a Christian one about Lilith, the first woman created and abandoned.

Like Lilith, I relate to loss more than anything else.

When I am alone, I theorize scavenger hunts leading to my location within the Loss.

“Find me in the Loss.”

Lately, my only lust for life comes from looking out of my foggy window at yellowing streetlight.

I imagine the buzzing of moths and mosquitos and think about attraction.

Quantum physics taught me that vibrations can communicate on a subatomic level through frequencies.

When you read this, you will know that this sentence is about you.

“Subatomic pillow-talk.”

I wrote your name on a bay leaf and put it under my pillow, but I did not have pleasant dreams.

I dreamt of apocalyptic times.

I should not be thinking about you, but

what a Sunday thing to do.

(Meaningless) Monday(s)

Today is “meaningless Monday” and not just “Monday” because I came to the conclusion that my love for you is meaningless as you do not want it.

I focused all of my energy on you and lost pieces of myself in the process.

It has been a whirlwind trying to find all of the pieces that scattered when you left.

Recently, I learned that cats slowly blinking equates to humans kissing.

I have begun to slowly blink at my cat periodically throughout our days.

I have also learned that Sanderia Malayensis, or Amakusa, are my favorite type of jellyfish.

Aquariums are interesting contraptions; beautiful cages for its inhabitants.

Past past life is smeared behind frosted glass; I can see it, but not clearly nor can I touch it.

The dates of my favorite days of existence are becoming jumbled, but

I have been busy agreeing to make plans, or potentially new favorite days.

It feels good to expand.

Tuesday

‘Tuesdays with Morrie” by Mitch Albom is my favorite novel.

It taught me that I must acknowledge and release my emotions.

I am trying to comfortably live in the present.

My emotions are a light-switch controlled by a defective circuit.

Most days, when I go to flick the switch up, the light will not turn on no matter how many times I try.

I use this visual when describing my depression.

Romantic gestures make me quixotic and, when I am quixotic, I do things like ask a boy 1,569 miles away from me to move across the country with me.

I am a firm believer that life is too short to keep clean sneakers and that every crease comes with a story.

I once stared at your shoes and wrote about how they made me feel for about half an hour.

I have mixed emotions about how you did not notice.

I do not fear being alone; just lonely.

Wednesday

You looked at me with the eyes of an executioner.

Our last meal primarily consisted of bitter questions and salty tears.

I tried to sweeten the blow, but you no longer craved my explanations.

Arguing with you reminds me of times when I have had to brace for impact.

Not knowing what you will say is like driving with the headlights off.

Hearing what you said is like cutting my own wrists.

The situation is my fault.

I must deal with the consequences.

I once said, “Anger is a default for insecurity.”

I am very insecure because I never learned how feeling secure feels.

My insecurities are my drive to become a seer, but

I am not a seer.

I have the marks of a healer on my hands.

She taught me how still a surgeons hands need to be.

We practiced, spending lazy afternoons with flat palms that did not move.

Over time, she mended my heart through treasured moments spent relearning how to love being alive.

Back then, I was too selfish to say thank you.

Now, I waste wishes hoping to get the opportunity to say thank you someday.

Thursday

The definition of our intimacy was inspired by moments shared within the walls of our bathroom,

like when we brushed our teeth together,

taking turns using the sink to wash out our foam-filled mouths.

I have a secret talent.

I know when people fall out of love before they do.

My best friend and I met at a party. He told me I observe people. I thought,

“Observation is the revelation of magic tricks.”

I am an observer.

I am watching you fall out of love when you do not steal glances at me as I do my makeup.

You no longer smear my lipstick before I leave for work.

Half of the time, I think that I am to blame for not asking you to open up enough and,

half of the time, I think that you should feel comfortable with me by now.

I love Thursdays because they make me feel like going out to the Cheesecake Factory, saying that it is my birthday, and getting free dessert.

I used to do that with past friends.

I wonder if they still do it.

Friday

I was insomniatic as a child.

I spent many restless hours wide awake, talking to the man on the moon,

patiently waiting for Peter Pan to take me away.

Ever since I was a child, I longed to be stolen.

Now, my desire to be possessed makes perfect sense.

I fall in love with anything and everyone that inspires me in any way.

Whether you break or mend my heart, it does not matter.

Make no mistake.

Everything and everyone is temporary.

Everything and everyone goes away.

Me, you, him, her, it; nothing and no one stays.

I write about every possibility, dream, reality, so at least it is temporarily permanent.

For a split second, my words are present before they are past.

Even as I write now, I will both read and have read it.

I learned that the human body processes everything around three seconds behind “real time.”

I will never feel your touch as your are touching me nor hear you say, “I love you” at the same time that you are saying it.

Regardless, Fridays are for falling in love.

Saturday

Summertime skin is best felt by a bonfire on the beach under a midnight sky.

You would like the bonfires I host when I am down South.

They say that the moon’s gravitational pull affects the ebb and flow of water.

Humans primarily consist of water.

Possessing such knowledge, it is safe to infer that the moon guides me towards you.

I had a dream that I was a house with all of its lights on.

I left doors unlocked and windows ajar.

In the hours of your absence, I became a beggar pleading for personality traits.

I woke up alone on a mattress on the floor in

the same room that I am still not comfortable in after years of living in it.

I find comfort in odd places, like:

the beach at night when lit by a bonfire, the floor of my closet with the door shut, the floor of a bathroom with the bathroom’s shower running hot with the bathroom’s door locked, and the floor of a kitchen.

In retrospect, it appears that I long to feel grounded.

My favorite spot in the entire world is a hill in a park across from a diner lit when dark.

I knew that I fell in love when I showed you my most treasured place.

Featured art: Unknown

My depression is the graveyard where our love is buried.

It is my closet covered in cursive, or a place to relive my past mistakes.

It is eating nostalgia for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

It is flashbacks, or the ability to time-travel.

Like E.E. Scott wrote, “It is a museum of things I want to forget.”

It is letting my past live in my present.

It is the hesitation before deciding not to talk.

Nothing I could say would matter.

It is taking her antipsychotics at the party because you were giving me mixed signals.

It is the blood in my handle and ignoring when to stop.

It is a wheelchair.

I use it to cope with overwhelming loss.

It is dissociating during intimacy or in the frozen section of the grocery store.

It is giving up before I truly start.

It is always my fault.

It is wasting 11:11 wishes on things I could control,

if only I had the courage to.

It is multiple trips to the emergency room, gasping for breath.

It is suffocating.

My anger is throwing you against the wall, begging you to talk to me.

“Who is she?”

It is punching the television set, envious of unrealistic lives.

“Why me?”

Anger is a default for insecurity.

It is screaming at cars, wishing that they would scream back.

It is raw vocal cords used to abuse.

It is a tangled net.

I cannot tell where it begins and ends.

It is the stab wounds in my walls and the bullet holes in my photographs.

It is easily provoked, but hard to rid of.

It is black and white thinking.

One Freudian slip and I hate you or myself.

It is a fierce bonfire, one where the flames grow hotter the more I think about it.

It is the boil of my blood when I realize I am out of control.

I cannot live with it.

My fear is irrational.

It is the anticipation before going on a precarious ride and

the moment before and after confessing how I feel to you.

It is a lie told so well that I believe it despite knowing that it is a lie.

It is not being a seer.

I do not know what the future holds.

It is driving to the interview, but driving away because thinking about walking inside the door increases my heartrate.

It is found in my collection of emergency room bracelets and

how IVs no longer scare me, but

the possibility of not waking up tomorrow morning does.

It is the constant anxiety that has become psychosomatic.

It is holding myself tight so my body stops shaking.

It is the notes on my wall reminding me that I exist and to breathe.

“Mom, I swear I am not high, but I think that the Chinese restaurant drugged me.”

It is experimenting with prescription drugs because therapy is not enough.

“Maybe Prozac will fix me.”

It is falling in love with benzodiazepines.

It is inescapable, like when he held me down and ruined my perception of intimacy.

It is relating to loss more than anything else.

“Am I stuck like this?”

It is constant and infinite.

My happiness is coming home to a tidy bed with the covers tucked in.

It is meeting new people and making new memories.

It is my favorite day, the one where I felt the most loved; running around the hood as alter egos.

It is the hill in the park, the one where you can watch planes, trains, and cars.

It is finding treasures like a piece of smooth driftwood in an interesting shape, feathers on the ground, or a maple leaf the size of your face.

It is 2 A.M. and I am sitting in my car, watching rain slide down my windshield while blasting music.

It is a breath of fresh air.

It is singing in the car, not caring if you hear.

It is childish curiosity and when life feels exciting.

Sometimes, I pretend that I am a secret spy on a mission to get a midnight snack.

It is sharing with everyone,

spreading it by contagious smiles and asking, “How are you doing?”

It is being alone without feeling lonely.

I am enough for myself.

It is when I finally have the words to express how I feel;

spending hours writing poetry or poetic prose.

It is taking steps forward,

whether that be performing a poem, taking a shower, or waking up.

It is being so grateful to be alive that you begin to fear death for the first time in your life.

It is filming how shadows dance on my skin in golden light.

There is so much beauty in this world when you are not blind to it.

It is, “Why not?”

I deserve it.

My love is doing the dishes in the kitchen.

I wash. You dry.

It is compromising.

I will not always get what I want, but I do not mind because I care about what you want.

It is telepathic conversations and subatomic pillow-talk.

It is daytime walks and nighttime drives.

We are going 100 mph and I am more scared for your life.

I only want what is best for you.

It is taking care of you when you are physically ill or emotionally depleted.

“For better or for worse; in sickness and in health.”

It is showing you how to fall in love with life by setting an example.

“I see you.”

“I am listening.”

It is lacking hesitation.

I am not scared to love you nor show anyone that I do.

It is the words that I write.

Everything I do is a dedication to you.

It is never going to bed upset.

It is kissing good morning and goodnight.

It is, “’cause I thought of you!”

It is strict loyalty.

I see and want you and only you.

It is knowing your mannerisms and

loving you with the lights on.

It is vibrant, transparent, and

too much for some.

Featured art: “Cooking” by Jeremy Miranda.