Who Am I? I'm not so sure. I know who I'm not. And that's enough for me.

I tend to behave like a Cat Girl child who was raised by Wild Wolves.

I know I like animals. And spanish. and sugar. I love babies and beaches. And Hair. And musicals. And Music.

I'm an afro-Latina. Proudly Puertorriqueña. Boldly Black. Simply beautiful. in my own lil way =]
I'm also a sister/daughter/friend. I'm an enemy to that which isn't for Life.

I am Feminine, not weak. Young, not immature. Ethnic, not exotic. Woman, not subservient.

I'm a lover. But i got some fight.

I love black. I love green. I bleed Red.

This spot should be as random as my life. And reflect some of the things I think/see/admire/whatever.

I read. I write. I'm Passionate. I'm humble. Lets Tumbl----
 
 
 

I never asked you for
giggles that bloomed and burst like bubbles in summer,
Laughter that felt like there was sun in my belly…
Or tingles to the tips of my toes that caused
shivers
like playing in cold creek water in the Spring.
I never asked you for
Smiles that shimmered like fresh snow in December…
Or cheeks flushed Autumn ochre 
From laughing too long.

I never asked you
for any of these things
And yet, you give them….

I wonder, also…
If you might
Take them away…

 
 

You speak loaded sentences to me.
When You say
"hello"
I hear your tongue laughing behind my lips.

When you touch me, gingerly—
Lightly lilting a friendly
"How are you?"
I feel the warmth of your whispers thrumming behind my ears

Your laugh
snap, crackles,claps
captivating me like 4th of July fireworks
I taste the winds of the Summer Atlantic in your smile.

"I’ll see you around" feels like your opening and closing embrace.
You smell like forgotten happiness rediscovered
A wild red daisy hidden in the bushes
Bare golden skin exposed in an Indian Summer

When you speak to me
I see
Imaginary and fantastic possibilities
Yet I can barely whisper
an astonished Hello

 
 

Twiggy

Dear Mother:

I am never going to be you.
No matter how we may fuss or fight or argue….
Or how you may gently prod
Then aggressively punch your words into me…
I will not become the lithe, sylphlike, featly girl you have wanted me to be…
for so long…

No, mother, I will never. ever. be skinny. I will never be as thin as you once were.

Nor do I think I want to be.
800 calories a day does not sound like discipline, it sounds like punishment.
Remember when I would refuse to eat because I thought I did something wrong?
You weren’t around for that…you wouldn’t know.
I was a size six.
And everyone told me how cute I had become.
Loved how I had finally lost my baby fat.
When I was afraid to go into the cafeteria at school, some days I would not eat at all.

I wouldn’t recognize what hunger felt like for six years.

When you scream my name as I bend over to pick up my sister for a piggyback ride…
When you have your friends berate me on my weight gain as you sit next to them….moments after I had just met them
When you remark to me “well from one fat ass to a future fat ass”
When you admonish that birth control is the cause for my “blow up”
When you ignore medical records that say otherwise…
When you tell me that my booty wobbles like a stripper

I realize that I will never be you.
Nor do I want to be.

We are not built the same.
Physically, I carry more than you with style.
Mentally, I carry more than you with grace.

I know the power of words and how when they strike well, it can crush a person more than two thousand pounds.
I know that an entire childhood of weight watchers
and Nutrasweet
And portion sizes
Eventually translates to a full days caloric intake being one Slimfast shake
Becomes Forced vomiting until blood vessels break all over your face
Morphs into Hunger headaches and frequent naps to remain stable…

I know that a mother’s constant heckling, tugging, pulling and pinching

Hurts more than going from a size eight to a twelve in two years.
It feels worse than gaining thirty pounds in that span of time.
It feels worse than seeing the utter confusion on your doctor’s face when you tell them
"I want to lose weight"
And they can only reply with “where”

It feels worse than your boyfriend telling you that if you were to tone up, maybe your sex would be better.
It feels like defeat.
Like hurt.
It looks like not staring at yourself in the mirror for years..
It looks like 5 minutes of hairstyling where you look only at your scalp.
It looks like a fourteen year old pulling the skin from her sides and hips—
wishing she could cut off the excess 
When she is a size four and 125 pounds.

It smells like nausea
It tastes like bile from dry heaves of stomach filled with nothing but your own feelings of inadequacy
It tastes like salted lips covered in tears and snot
It tastes like blood from stomach linings.

But mother the one thing that is worse than your expectations for me.
Are your expectations for my sister.
My 12 year old. Athletic baby girl.
Who panics when she can’t fit into skinny jeans
Who cries when she goes from a zero to a one in dress pants.
Who feels a nervous delight when I give her a can of sprite
Because it’s our little secret and she’s cheating on her diet.
My sister who grabs at bits of her skin and squeezes
"chunky chunky chunky" as a joke…now…

But I know what she will become.
And it hurts more than anything you could have ever done or said to me.


Mother. 

I am not you. I will never be as skinny or thin as you used to be.
Nor will I be as sick as I was before.
I have accepted this.
But you have not.
And Now. This shit’s got to stop.

 
 

I’ve never felt 
so completely enamored
with anyone’s description of me—
Until you looked me in my eyes…
And told me that
I am the complete personification
Of Love and vengeance
At any given moment in time.

 
 

Maybe one day the sun wouldn’t set on her shoulders

Or the moon wouldn’t rise at her feet

Rain may never again cross the ocean in front of her

Grass may never appear as green as it did today

Anything could happen or what’s worse, she decided,

Nothing could change.

Leaves could remain forever golden

Early Spring may never melt winter’s frozen slumber

And she may 

Never. Ever. Feel summer’s heat again.

Never again run along the shore?….She concludes

"Everything has it’s season" and waits for one more…

 
 

Some days the void within me feels so vast that I almost wish someone would have just given me the entrance wound in my chest to match hollowness under the smooth, physically unbroken exterior.

Some days the pain is so great that I know there are things worse than death in this world.

But then Other days I understand that pain is a reaction that lets us know that we are still alive. Fighting, barely hanging on perhaps. But we are not dead yet.

And I remember all of the things I would have missed if I had died ages before when I begged for it.

And I hold on, having faith that maybe tomorrow or next week there will be something worth waiting to see too.

 
 

And it is in moments like these….
When my chest feels so tight
that it hurts
to the point where I feel as though it will break open
and spill the darkest sea…
That I give in to exhaustion…
And can finally fall asleep.

 
 

I am Fire.
Fire Burns.
I have seen grown men come inside of me
Searching
For a home inside of an Empty House
Simply Because I was warm and Inviting—
Ignoring the fact that you cannot make homes out of people.
No matter what their names may be.
I often wonder…
Why do people keep running into flames?
Why do people keep running into a burning house?
I ask myself constantly if there is anything left inside that is worth saving..
No matter the condemned status of my Self..
I’m pretty sure it still felt like foreclosure
When I walked away without looking back.

 
 

At Java monkey.

It’s been a long time

 
 

Fellowship Hour

I know a girl who
Skipped Sunday School every week
Preferring to listen to people’s prayers
On late Saturday nights.

She mused that their benedictions were much sweeter
On their knees in front of her
Than anything they had ever muttered in designated holy spaces
As we reclined in the back pews of our church.

Years later
I wonder
If my friend was on to something.

She often laughed as she told me
She heard more of God
In the bushes on Wednesday Nights
Than whatever they were trying to sell us in our bible study groups
That we attended just moments before.

She felt closer to sanctified
Rubbing in grass
Felt more of the spirit
As her eyes rolled back while looking at stars
And truly felt benevolence
When they shuddered
Vulnerable
Underneath her.
Questioning and seeking clarity.
Or finding true peace, fleetingly and unknowingly.

Years Later
As you make me a martyr in your bed.
I wonder
As I lie here feeling closer to sanctified
On my back and breathless
Than I ever have known in my lifetime
Of kneeled, hushed prayers and penitance.


If my friend

Was really

And truly

On to something.

 
 

OKAY. So….my friend http://thatsarcastictoneyouhate.tumblr.com

is this amazing Slam poet. really. she won the two qualifiers for this competition in Atlanta already. she took them both.  So she’s trying to go to the nationals to represent her slam team…buuuut she’s a recent college grad and broke. SO we have this great ass indiegogo set up for her and gosh if you can’t donate can you spread the word???

There is a youtube clip attached to this effort and if you want more video footage i’m sure we can find it. But really. she’s brilliant and I’m really hoping someone out there in the world can help her go.

she’s even selling chapbooks.

 
 

I don’t want to hear
About other women.
I don’t much relish
having to listen to your tongue
taste the curves and bends of their letters.
I don’t like having to watch your teeth
hold and nibble on the corners of their syllables.
Why do your lips trace and suck on
the outlines of their sounds?

I don’t want to hear it.
Your mouth becomes a haven for the past
Your lips a playground for the present
And allows your tongue to wag in anticipation of the unknown future.

When I am right here in front of you.

I can still taste them when we kiss—
It is bitter. It tastes like longing and wistful nights.

I can still feel them when you trail down my thighs—
It is numbing. It feels like lost mistakes and missed chances.

I can still smell them on your breath when you hold me close—
It is intoxicating. It smells like maybe’s, could have beens, and what ifs.

Don’t talk to me about other women.

I already know that what I am to your senses is not enough.

 
 

You’re so beautiful.
Your face is round and happy and complete.
Like a circle.
I can never seem to find the beginning as to when I started to truly notice you
Nor do I want to find the end in which I stop loving you.

You remind me of the moon.
Your hair is the night sky
And your eyes are the stars.

In your face…in your smile I see completion
The sunrise peeking away at dawn.
You look more like whole
Than I ever imagined I could be.

 
 

Alexithymia

what do you do when
there’s nothing left to say
when you’ve done all you can
to say how you feel
and all that is left
is
space
and frustration
and the ever present nagging
That your best is still not quite enough?

 
 

The bridge to close distance when in close proximity

Sometimes I sit back and Imagine that we
go running,
laughing and screaming,
To the creek
Just to pant out of breath
and lie on its shore.
We pretend to be beached whales
and merfolk
tapping our toes in the shallow parts of its bed.

Othertimes I see
Us
getting up at
Random times of the night
To just
drive to an offbeat path
lay out in a field
And try to count the stars.

I’ll even have day dreams
where we
go
cloudsearching.
Relaxing, drinking tea
As we pick shapes and animals out of the sky

It helps the time go by…
whenever I wish that they weren’t so
Imaginary