I hate identifying with Medusa
I love identifying with Medusa
I hate what connects us
I love the power it gives us
I hate that I could discover power this way
I love that I have it
.
I’m stitching her face now,
and even before I make her eyes
we stare at each other,
a reflection of anguish and anger and spitting and screaming and love for one another
Sometimes I wish I was Barbie
With a light dimple between my legs
So I would never have to feel the center of my anger building
With a fire where my dimple should be
As my face shines brightly with a melting plastic smile
I would never be able to imagine
A violation
Never be able to sympathize with others so profoundly
As they describe their own
Instead we could sit on a shelf together
Boxes neatly in a row
With finger fused
Wondering what else life can hold
Besides a room’s view
It was Death who lay beside me
while I contemplated
holding Her hand and saying
Let’s go
She turned to me gently
squeezing my fingers
until I could feel that my bones
would never touch
with my skin
and muscles
and tendons
and hair
growing in between
and not caring how I felt about it
Where She told me
Not yet
Library search
5/9/16
7:40pm
procrastinating studying Physics
.
I want the books to be old
And new
I want a range so that I am not gasping for the air
Trapped in between the pages
That don’t see daylight
Because they do not want us to know
Of our power
Of our own gente’s words
So I am eternally searching for Latinx last names
Mostly Latinas
Who understand my brown skin struggles
And still just want to write
About themselves
About beauty
About ugliness
About whatever they want because they will not deny that they are good writers
But being brown penetrates the epidermis of the pages
As we transfer our color into our words
Because we cannot ignore ourselves
The white world ignores us as they find our color distasteful
So we scream
And write in Spanish
English
Spanglish
Translated
Fill our own libraries until the bookshelves are heavy and sag
Like Coatlicue’s breasts
Because she and the bookshelves are ready to feed us knowledge of ourselves
To make sure we are alive with our own fierceness
That we recognize our own blood in the pages
So we can say “ese es mi gente!” with pride
Y nos sentamos at the bookshelf
Our backs bending over the book
That will make us stand tall again
Prompt by Rhiannon McGavin, from Not A Cult Editorial: Pick a feeling a describe where it exists in your body in 3-line stanzas
.
For a person I barely knew
Whose death was unnecessary
Grief. does not. exist.
.
When my brain protects me from myself
When it fogs up to block the intangible
As if fog can support my knees any better
.
Grief is in my shoulders
(everything is in my shoulders)
I don’t carry the world
.
But I know I push it away
I try not to get crushed
I try not to think of how thick newspapers could be
If they only printed names of those who died
.
I try not to think of those selfish enough to not care
About pages and pages and
Hospitals and hospitals and hospitals
Of preventable deaths
.
Death is necessary
It is necessary for the way that we love and value time
It is necessary for heritage
It is necessary for generations to carry us
— if we cared for them correctly
It is not necessary for you to decide
— When a death is excusable
— So you can continue to enjoy a carefree life
.
Life is not about being an individual
We are made to be with others
We are made to value each other
Our own humanity loses value
— When we lose sight of others’ mortality
.
As much as I want to fight, and scream, and punch, and violently enact my will
on those who do not care enough to wear their mask correctly
— if they wear one at all
To socially distance correctly
— If they stay inside at all
.
I’m tired
— Exhausted
— –Of living through so many unnecessary historical events
.
They make it necessary to see
How people I care about
View others’ morality
Carefree
Careless
of who is in the hospital bed
.
You know what
.
Fuck this
.
Fuck your fakeness
Fuck your fake sorrow for a COVID death of someone you knew
Because fuck your outdoor seating
Fuck your “no one can tell me what to do” attitude
.
I want to call you
To spit and scream
And curse your name
But it’s your goddamn carefree and carelessness that keeps us apart
Don’t you f u c k i n g blame it on us
Blame your goddamn outdoor seating
Blame your birthday parties
And one day
— You will find that the blame
— — Is on you
.
But I can’t convince you
I can’t, and I won’t
Because I’m trying to get this goddamn scream out of my chest
— Without giving it sound
Because I don’t want to hold grief anymore
— When it’s you who should be holding care
— — Maybe some guilt
— — — Obligation
— — — Pro-fucking-life
.
Grief
Is found in my chest caving in
Deep into a chasm
— That I didn’t want to see
For a death that was unnecessary
I want a goddamn break
I want to shave my head
I want to dye it purple
I want drag make-up
I want bold lips
I want screaming
I want cursing
I want high heels
and a low cut dress
I want a boob job
until tomorrow
I want purple walls
I want a witch and to be one
I want potions
I want the future in a magic ball
I want tarot cards
I want to be an art teacher
I want the universe to whisper in my ear that I am going the right way
I want three days of silence
and three days of concerts
I want hoops
I want a tongue piercing
I want a nose ring
I want nails two inches long
and shiny all over
I don’t want to do dishes
I want plants all over my house
I want kicking and screaming and getting listened to
I want to raise my voice
because I’m being disrespected
I want to flip them off
I want financial security
I want truffle chips that won’t make my hearing go away
I want love and touching
I want a baby
I want teenage children
I want to retire
I want to run away to Europe
for the socialism and universal healthcare
I want a book
I want to be the author of the book
I want a story out there that will not make me dead to people
I want to stop crying
I want to keep writing
I want to die
I want to stop living in this situation and move on the new one
I want to burn my house down so I don’t have to declutter
I want to move
if only to fulfill my theory of being able to move faster now
I want to be rocked to sleep
I want to lie down and feel the sun
I want the smell of rain
I want to love what I’m doing and feel satisfied at the end of the day
Colochos de Flores 