The bright of sun glows up my mind
The early fresh air wakes up my organ
This is the heaven where i like to hide
please god save my mother for rest of my life
(Love and save the Nature)
Rose of Thorns
“A rose of thorns,
So beautiful to behold,
You beckon me near,
Yet, draw blood with your hold.
A rose of thorns,
Your beauty is a guise,
I reach out to touch,
And meet with a surprise.
A rose of thorns,
Each petal a memory, each thorn a scar,
Your beauty, a magnet, drew me close,
Yet your touch left wounds, deep and raw.
In your presence, I found both solace and pain,
A paradox of love, I struggled to explain,
Each prick of your thorns, a reminder of us,
In a garden of memories, lost in the fuss.
I entrust you to another’s care,
Hoping you’ll flourish there,
Even if it’s not with me,
Your happiness is all I hope for thee.”
Washed-Up
Heavy on the floor of a river
Devoid of any movement
Impervious to the ebbs and flows
Of famine, fire, floods
Settled among the sediment
Content to let it all wash over
No tension, terror, or tremor
To cause tired toes to tremble
All around and above
Life continues to course
Each beleaguered breath blown
Sinks deeper into a riverbed home
All around and surrounding
Duties attempt a jostling
Old leaves, stones, twigs and branches
Useless to rouse these weary bones
Here to rest, as the world moves past
a loggy place for a washed-out body
Content to ignore what is
All around above and surrounding
Each bleary breath blown
Imagine
Imagine it.
Imagine my kitchen, the cabinet to the left of the stove.
Imagine the blue, white and yellow bottles pushing on the cabinet door, threatening to jump every time the hinges are pulled open.
Imagine the Pharmacy bags which litter the counter, the extra bottles hidden in the Mixer. The cookbooks peeking out from under the blue and red bags of medicine.
Imagine his bedroom. The camera wires sticking through the bookshelves, the white nightstand next to his desk, the constant scent of death lingering in the corners of his room.
Imagine my bedroom door. The hinges falling off, the small hole he created last winter, the faded white paint peeling off of his scratch marks.
Imagine my door knob. The screws falling loose worn from everytime he has tried to push his way through, the chains from the deadlocks clanking, and the silver piece of metal constantly turned left in cases of emergency.
Imagine my Mother’s room. Boxes littering the floor, medical records, emergency meds, and the bulky spare magnet attached to the dresser handle.
Imagine my sister’s car. The stuffing peeking out from her backseat, his hand print on the back of her headrest, the slight resistance in her car door from him.
Imagine the floor. Blood stains scattered about the carpet. His head hits the warm carpet, over and over as his seizing progresses. Ambulance lights flood the living room window, illuminating the saliva dripping from his mouth as his VNS continues to fail. Death lingers at my front door, I push him back and beg him to leave.
Imagine my version of nostalgia. The neon lights surrounding the parking garage, “VISITOR” plastered onto my pink, fluffy jacket. The jungle animals on the tile floor leading to the elevator, the tubes and wires hanging from his body, the dark and dreary hallways which echoed the Heart Rate monitors in perfect harmony.
Imagine my doctor. The bright fluorescent lights beaming onto my forehead as I sit on the paper wrapped bench. The doctor’s voice echoes through the hallway, as she pushes the brown wooden door open revealing the pink walls with jungle animals and marine life plastered throughout the room. I sit there patiently scrolling through my social media as my mother runs through her list of questions regarding my brother; only to be met with more questions.
Imagine my normal. His medicine, his magnet, his Doctor’s appointments, his papers, his bruises, his scratches, his emergency protocol, it’s all his.
Imagine his hard nights. Where I barricade my door, push the two deadlocks into place and sit cross cross on my blanket, avoiding his screaming, ignoring his pounding. No tears drip off my cheek, my breath does not quicken, my heart does not pulse, my mind does not race. I simply sit there, still as a rock. This is every Monday-Sunday. This is routine.
I lay awake at night, staring at the popcorn ceiling, and imagine a universe where my world did not contain him at every turn. I see my uneducated peers, asking me questions, I wish I didn’t know the answer to. I envy their ability to be so ill informed on seizure protocol, on the names of every medication, on the possibility of CBD curing Epilepsy.
I envy those with an annoying younger brother, who clings to them and runs to Mom at the slightest inconvenience.
I envy the minds that are so easily coerced into believing this isn’t hard to deal with.
I envy the sisters who don’t have his doctor on speed-dial,
I envy the brothers who don’t know what an Epileptologist studies
I envy the siblings who can call those exhausted siblings “selfish” for crying
Death constantly hunts him down, and I’m so scared that I can’t save him.
So Imagine, my life, without illness, without him.
Imagine my life without the guilt of wanting a life without him.
Just Imagine.
On The Next Go Around
In a whirlpool in the heavens, between earth and between sky
a bit of your stardust lingered with mine
before the beginning of time, of love, and of life.
On a starlit path from space to earth below,
from spirit to child to slightly-less-child,
I spotted you—stardust dancing in my soul.
But you’re on the verge of leaving now, no-longer-stardust-child,
and I don’t think you remember me.
That’s alright;
I’ll just catch you on the next go around.
I watch you leave, glitter in your eyes.
I dare not wish your elsewhere-hope dies—
it’s far too dear to you,
no longer stardust, never once mine.
It’s okay, I never did mind.
I’ll catch you next time,
on the next go around, the next earth, the next life.
And so I grew old without you and died
and my soul waited patiently life after life.
To the universe with two moons, no earth, a purple sun,
I’m convinced that I’d know you in each and every one.
And if you don’t recognize me, don’t let it get you down.
Don’t pity me;
I’ll be sure to catch you on the next go around.
Hospital
As a nurse aide, echoes of life’s trials in noise would serenade.
On the fourth day’s whisper, a revelation starts to speed,
I found in silence, the rhythm of my beating heart.
Checking vital signs to hear the heart beep,
Life’s pattern in pulses, a depth full-blown.
Listening to the doctor, and seeing the family cry,
In the heart of crisis, where seconds weigh,
A struggle with life, where optimism dictates.
Through the corridors, a sprint and a prayer.
In the face of gloom, empathy set free.
Each beep and hum, a language untold.
In the emergency’s grasp, a narrative revealed.
With every measured step, a purpose defined,
In the tapestry of chaos, a healer’s design.
The doctor’s words weigh heavy, truth implies.
The oak of solace, witnessing broken hearts.
In life’s grand stage, where fates entwine,
The oak stands firm, a sentinel benign.
Requiem
It’s a trivial conviction
The zephyr steals
In contradiction, it takes with it the wind
Azure surroundings from sardonic truths—
I’m left alone
Her harsh blows, they burn my skin
I can start to peel, and shed my hope
I can start to walk, walk down that road
It’s bootstrapped again and will be for time—
Time to come
Moors in dreams
Resent the rooted
The evergreen jester jests, such impudence with the rustling
It was she who felled the stature and razed my all
Voice of Courage: Sophie Cruz
Voice of Courage
In a world where courage blooms, a story unfolds,
Of a little girl with dreams, brave and bold.
Sophie Cruz, at just the tender age of nine,
Lit a spark, a beacon, a flame divine.
Parents from Oaxaca, Mexico, her roots deep,
To the land of opportunity, her family did leap.
But in the shadows of uncertainty, they did dwell,
Undocumented, in a land they hoped would tell
A tale of acceptance, of compassion, of grace,
But oft met with barriers, a challenging race.
Yet Sophie, with innocence, saw a way,
To speak up, to stand tall, to have her say.
At five, she approached the Pope, serene,
With a letter in hand, her message keen.
To plead for her parents, for those unseen,
To seek justice, to mend the broken seam.
Her plea echoed far and wide,
As the world watched, tears in their eyes.
For in her innocence, she held a power,
To ignite change in this darkest hour.
From that moment on, Sophie’s voice soared,
A beacon of hope, a champion adored.
She marched with women, in solidarity,
For equality, justice, and dignity.
She sat in on hearings, with wisdom beyond her years,
Listening intently, dispelling fears.
Meeting leaders, from near and far,
A symbol of resilience, like a guiding star.
She stood tall,
A testament to the power of one small
Voice, echoing through the chambers of power,
A reminder that change blooms like a flower.
Though young in age, her spirit vast,
Sophie Cruz, a force unsurpassed.
In the immigrant rights movement, she stands strong,
A testament to courage, where she belongs.
So let her story inspire, let it ignite,
The flame of justice, burning bright.
For in Sophie’s journey, we all can see,
The power of one voice, the power to be free.
Thank you
A Tech Bro Overthinks
Monday I am a raccoon
clutching a coffee mug
digging through the trash
of my inbox. Wearing
sweatpants and hoodies
in the winter but
the rest of the year
I wear pajama shorts
and pretend they are pants.
But I always have a real
shirt. Sometimes it even
has buttons.
I work my real job
typing on a real computer
making fake images appear
on a real monitor for real
people who were once fake
personas corporate dreamt up.
Real people on a Monday
clutching a coffee mug
sifting through trashy ads
on a real screen searching
for a real job for themselves.
I am sure half of them are
not wearing pants.
I like to believe it’s to be
comfortable, but I know
they’re just sitting on a real toilet.
The Wrong Shade of Make-Up
(Warning; contains descriptions of violence)
No one knew.
I told the world that I fell over the baby gate at night. That it was dark and I heard crying and I was half asleep and forgot it was there. That I crashed over it and somehow fell on my face and somehow, somehow it looked exactly as if someone had punched me in the nose. I laughed as I told the story to my co-workers, silly, clumsy me.
You see, I couldn’t miss work. That would have meant being late on the electric bill; which would mean that the car payment would get pushed back and there would be a penalty; and then the rent would be due, and it would be $80 short; and then the whole precarious, carefully balanced house of cards would come crashing down on me. You see, that’s what poverty is. You play a card, just wrong, and the whole thing collapses. Your tire catches a nail and you weep, because there goes the water bill. You miss a day of work because you’re sick, and shit, no lunch that week.
So I couldn’t miss work, not just for a swollen nose.
You see, I hadn’t wanted to have sex with him. But that’s not something you can tell polite society.
That memory, I don’t want to touch it. It’s part of a dark mass in the back of my brain. That time, those 6 years living with the sometimes-monster, they feel untouchable, dirty. My chest feels tight and my tear ducts are heavy, but dry, when I peer back into that recent past.
He had come into the room that night, pushing and pushing at me, into me, snarling. I’m not sure if it was even that night, but at some point there was a kitchen knife at my throat. The same tool that I used in the safe light of day to lovingly cut our tiny son’s avocado and strawberries into “birdie bits”.
And then he exploded my nose with his fist and there was so much blood, and a thin, high sound that I realized was me screaming and begging him to stop, please stop.
The next morning he had driven to the store to buy me spot cover make-up so I could go to work. It was $18. I found it in my car a couple years later and thought, oh yeah, the “sorry I raped you and punched you in the nose make-up”.
He had bought it with my credit card.
I had only used it once.
It was the wrong shade.
