hushed door

a door that has been silent for thousands of years creaks at your dawn. she refuses to worship the Gods of moon and sun and stars. she watches your footsteps replace the dust and it brings a smile to her face. welcome, daughter. you have been long awaitedfor. would you care for a sip of wine and some courage? your task ahead is grave. she bows, bites down her tongue until blood reddens her teeth and streams down her chin and until she can speak no more. the dusk is approaching. cries of the deceased will mantle your thoughts until you can no longer think. where is the pride in that? how are you daring to waste a breath? it is far too fragile. it must seek your approval before it lets itself out. you are in control of your body, your mind, your soul. you are her.

untitled, for reasons

there are so many words that i want to tuck under a blanket and keep them forever. it makes me sad that i will forget most. i think that’s what writers mean when they say there are too many words. this fear of forgetting the existence of words is palpable. you take a bite and then another and you hope that you can swallow the darkness and excrete it. that’s how human bodies are supposed to work. you forget that it can seep through your cells and flow with the blood to every single part of your body until you can no longer separate it from all that is necessary. you think of the carnival you went to at the age of seven. you remember how brutally he marked his words on her face behind the tent of the circus, there wasn’t enough makeup in the world to cover up those scars. too much resonates with you. so forgetting those words is the wisest thing to do.

i think writers are brave.

i think writers are brave. they draw the words out of you like the doctors squeeze your blood out. they take a sample of your soul to test it. they explore and invade the sample. something that is so incredibly personal is displayed in numbers and letters and you are left thinking, how the hell is it possible for another to know how i feel based on such a small part of me. you are outraged because someone dares to speak out, to say things, to use words that you had hoped would be buried in your mind-left inaccessible. writers consider their pens to be their swords. they take this sword and they make it dance as they wish. sometimes it’s a slow cut that runs deep but not quite enough, you feel the weight of each second. you watch your death crawl to you, and with a snarl it consumes you. other times, it’s a fast cut that barely touches your skin but leaves a scar for the rest of your life. writers make you think things you dare not think. they have the courage to make you feel things you deemed yourself incapable of feeling. it seems silly, how writers can play with your psyche, how they control you. they are known to play with the deadliest of weapons. they write things and you are incapable of un-reading them. words start breathing your oxygen. ideas begin to flow in your blood. writers are willing to face persecution and criticism, for the sake of truth. it is said that writers use lies to tell the truth. they are human after all.

plastic airports

you took your time saying goodbye. the man who keeps smoking a cigarette in a ‘no smoking’ area, the young mother who is exhausted trying to hush her little son, the old lady who is finally taking that vacation her deceased husband bought the tickets for, and the far too lucky celebrity drinking bourbon. they were all celebrating a mayhem. i saw the way your lips curled into a sad smile, as if procrastinating on the wretched word would prevent the inevitable. you went on to buy the overpriced coffee while i waited with your luggage. one last gesture. there is pain in every breath and if doctors had me examined, i would be rushed to an ICU. i think my entire life was a buildup to this point. i believe this is my mark between the before and the after. you remind me that you will be back soon enough. but you see, i have lost people on these plastic airports. people who promised they’d return but found death a bit too beautiful and life a bit too dry for their taste. you remind me that the waves have to leave the shore, farther, to increase their intensity when they come back to crash. you remind me of boomerang that always comes back. of the home that still stands. people come back, you remind me. they always do, just not the same people. sometimes, i want to burn the damned airports. there is too much plastic about them. 

things i will tell my daughter over and over again

i. your worth is not in the way you look, the way you dress, the scars you have, the ways your body bends and stretches, the way you can lower your gaze out of a falsely throttled respect or the way boys compliment you. your worth is in your mind, your heart, your soul. you are not a pretty toy to be played with, you are a human with emotions and thoughts and awfully annoying habits. you are made of mistakes, carved out of flaws that need healing. you are not God. do not try to play God. 

ii. there will be days when you will feel too fat or too skinny. days where your skin could be one tone darker or one tone lighter. those days, you will hate your freckles and your eye bags. you will hate how your hair doesn’t cooperate and how you can’t wear that one shirt without showing off your breasts. those are the days you need to work harder on shaping your mind. those are the days you need to get up and read that really difficult book you have been putting off. you are going to work yourself hard to become a more thoughtful, a more profound, a more well-read, a more educated person.

iii. there will be boys who flatter you and there will be boys who humiliate you. neither matter. you are not an object. you will not let them objectify you. you will stand up for yourself. you will fight your own battles. you don’t need a chivalrous man to fight them for you. you are on your own and you will thrive on your own.

iv. you will be kind. your kindness will be your biggest strength. you will learn to forgive. you will learn to empathize. and you will learn to give when the person you are giving to doesn’t deserve it.

v. you will love. fiercely, passionately, with your whole heart, and with your entire being. you will not let the cruel harden you.

vi. you will make mistakes and you will learn from them. you will cry, you will wipe your tears, and you will move on. it is okay to be who you are. it is okay to feel things. it is okay to be human, in your own way.

notes to self

i. the days it’s pouring and you are running late to your class and your jeans are wet and your shoes squeak, let that boy help you, accept his offer to share his umbrella. you won’t come across too many kind souls but every so often, you just do.

ii. smile at that stranger you are riding the elevator with, who seems tired and broken. it might help them breathe easier.

iii. the three hours you have in between your classes, spend them by the fountains or among the tons of books in the library. give up internet and cell phone and technology for a few moments. enjoy the smell of dusty wisdom and the way water droplets fall on your face. for a few minutes, just be.

Kaleidoscopic Moments

The cries of bruised egos mantle my thoughts tonight. I think of the time when I was six and swinging on this swing and the sun was setting and I just kept swinging because I truly believed that I could reach the sky. A cup of tea and your memories keep me warm on this cold bitter night in late-March. As winter and March refuse to line up, so do my thoughts. The universe is restless in its infinities and you are restless in your thoughts and perhaps the two aren’t different at all. You close your eyes for a few minutes as your favorite song plays. You already know all the words by heart. Heck, they’re probably a poster in your room. But you feel the impact of those words again. You notice a phrase that you loathed once that now fits in your life perfectly. It's a weird coming-home-after-months kinda sensation. The only difference is, you can finally smell what your home smells like.

It’s easy to fall in love with a writer, you know. They remember things, and isn’t that all you have ever wanted? For someone to notice how hard you try to be that perfect daughter. Your father, who always wanted a son, expects nothing from you. You try so hard your feet begin to crack and every time you move, your bones feel the momentum. So you fall in love with a writer in hopes that perhaps in a twisted way, your father would see you as the son he always wanted. Writers are weird creatures. They seem to be fighting the most vocal and brutal war with themselves and you find yourself pulled to them because their chaos is beautiful. You think that in their haunted decrepit souls lies the most beautiful raindrop you have ever seen and it absolutely must be saved. Oh, you fall in love with a writer in vain hopes that you will live forever. You hope that the tradition of storytelling which begun with orators and now exists in print, the ancient art of weaving quilts of fortitude will live through you. You are a selfish being, after all. 

The Haunted Man

I wake up in the iridescence honesty of yours as you swift through the morning chores and grapple threads of broken promises. As the mask of perfection disintegrates to  brutal honesty containing a pile of imperfections and almost-there's, the flakes of your concealer begin to fall.
That's when you get to know someone. A cup of coffee with two cubes of sugar and a few moments of peace. We laughed. You and I, we laughed and laughed and laughed. For where else is there peace.

I find my God in broken characters and tattered books. My prayer is the hour before sunrise when I am bleary-eyed and all I can do is read one more page of this really good book. I worship all those who have been able to pen what I have wanted to say. I bow down to the way people string words together because quite frankly, I don’t know how to use words. And this is my religion.