Friday, December 27

Leaving home

I get on the plane to Italy. Never mind our 2 year relationship. Never mind the promises of marriage and a future. This one year is all I want to myself. A year of exploration and experience detached from love and expectation. "Wait for me," I command.

And yet, the memory of his tears are seared in my brain. Around every corner I see the shadow of his physique. I cannot raise a glass without giving mind to him. Did I make a mistake? 

I am angry. Furious. Absolutely livid. I am a puppet of emotions 5,000 mile across land and sea. He did this to me. Not even our distance can make me free.

I make a phone call home. No answer. No answer. No answer. The what-ifs and the should-haves begin to eat my brain.

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Thursday, December 26


I made some soup with fennel and got carried away. It only called for a teaspoon and yet I poured in at least double the amount. My fennel was ancient and I feared some of the flavor had gone out of it, therefore I was loose with my hand. But that's alright. Antediluvian tales tell of us of fennel's amazing properties: relieving heartburn, curing colic, and ending unwanted flatulence.

Wild Flowers

whistling damsels
pick the yellow wild flowers
growing on the hill

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Wednesday, December 25

Tuesday, December 24

They told me I was gifted. They told me I was special. But if this was true then, why was I flunking my math class? Why was science so difficult? Why did I spend hours reading my history text-book? And why was I failing and understanding my peers?

One true friend. That's all I needed. And here I was, a full year into the programs and still grappling over whether my "friends" could be trusted or not. 

Maybe I wasn't really "gifted." Maybe I had gotten in on "the matrix." I heard the teachers talk about it before. The matrix was a separate scoring sheet for testing non-Caucasian children. It was supposed to make things fair for Latinos, Blacks, and Asians who perhaps had not been exposed to the fine nuances of American culture and would inevitably score low on a standard IQ test as the result of it. "Oh, yes!" said one teacher, "This child had the IQ of a rock and still made it in because of the matrix." I tried to hear the rest of it, but the swinging door to the lounge had shut and now the voices were mumbled. Was it me they were speaking of? For the rest of the day my hands wrote my notes in gibberish. I didn't belong. 

Monday, December 23

This is the end
I cannot write
I cannot fight this inspiration
This is the end
of my whines
of my tears.

I've told myself to let go
not to fear
of the inevitable
and so here it flows
my mind's words
out to print.

I break the curse
that constricts
that impales my imagination
I'll tear it up
like a mouse in a lion's mouth

This is the end.

Wednesday, December 11


This is fate
as sure as the smoke 
billowing in through my window
choking up my nostrils
causing me to blink

Fate as thick as molasses
clear, like glasses
polished to a sparkle
 before a wedding night

I can't fight this fate
with my two rolled fists
or my dirty stares
or elevated pitch

Its going to bulldoze me
until I'm paper-flat
ready to write out its demands.

Sunday, December 1

Fallen Angel

Oh Glory divine, of thee I'm now bereft. I listened intently to Lucifer's lies and now I am deprived. I wail each day and I cry each night, knowing well no mercy is nigh.  And yet, I cannot help but ponder what should happen if Ye should change your mind. Would I dance like the fireflies? Would I sing like a bird?
Or would I go about with not a thought of  your great mercy in mind?

Written for The Mag.