Pretty Dolls

Pretty doll girl with pink dresses and paten leather white shoes, she is never allowed to speak out of term. Her hair long lush black luster braided down her the sides of her head, like a traditional American-Guatemalan girl she sits all pretty. Red cheeks like ripe peaches begging to be bitten, fake smile like pretty doll girl. She never could sit still. Shoes never stayed white and dresses…what dresses. Tomboy is what they called her.

Its funny how tomboy only references females, and young ones because once you turn a certain age your suppose to like boys and suppose to like getting your nails done and get excited for prom.  But she, wanted to wear a tux and she always cut her nails short and still liked boys but only the feminine ones.

Pretty doll girl with one braid down her back wears her brother’s shirts and pants two sizes too big; they said they never saw it coming. She tries to hide her large Cuban breasts but once she went into high school it was time for real bras, the kind girls wear to get boys attention. By junior year she is already brain washed thinking she is just a tomboy, but this sadness always floated next to her. Like a noose, the kind of sadness you get as kid when your told you can’t play those games because you are a girl. Like that one year when all you wanted for Christmas was snowboard and all you got were Barbie dolls, that kind of sadness. The kind that lingers in the air but no one says anything.  Even though its almost 20 years old and smells of rotting garbage.

Pretty doll girl with should length hair has someone else hands down her pants. But she feels nothing, hands too rough, fingers too wide stained with nicotine and freshblood. She lies there and pretends everything is fine, pretty doll girl knows the rules, knows at this age she should be enjoying these sensations. But every stroke just hurts, and his shadow overcast the tear that manages to escape.

Pretty doll girl chops off all her hair, years’ worth of resentment falls lazily on the bathroom floor. Pretty doll girl is no longer pretty or a girl, so he goes unwanted.  He doesn’t know he’s a he until the noose is finally tied around his neck. But the rope is too long. He dances on the tips of his toes as if he were a ballerina dancer. He can’t breath he reaches for the knife to cut himself free.  The noose is too tight around his neck that he can’t get it off so instead he shift its forward and manages a tie.

Hello pretty Doll Boy.

Monster- 1st draft

Love letters, malcontent and suicide notes lined the floor around him all things past and present, some probably from the future.

 

Newspaper clippings of murders and eulogies from the living that really didn’t know the dead lined leather-bound journals and filled recorder tapes.

 

He was liked, sure, by others, maybe

But to him, he was a monster that lived of the neediness of others.

 

Yet he was handsome not arrogant but love was never his story

His story was a tragedy, which no one is willing to tell.

 

He is a walking horror folklore too gruesome to fathom.

 

But you can here the squawks of crows picking at his leftovers

Bodies sprawled, like an autopsy gone wrong,

You can hear his smile in the hallow cold winds of winter

Small intestine wrapped around its neck,

A symbol of the monster that he became.

 

Because that is what he liked best.

Leaving a bit of himself, everywhere he went.

 

A roamer, who kept to himself,

Not really a predator, more like

love at first sight, he knew right away who they where.

 

But what really enjoyed about his victims where after they are dead.

“That”, he thought

“Is where you can find true beauty, in the eyes of a corpse.”

 

 

two bodied 1st draft

We thought it died

With her

That she would, eventually, wither

Away into the lull of the mind

 

But his skin bore

Her scars and the stink

Of menstruation

His perfume

 

As if she was dripping out

To live again

Clawing her way out

Tossing her replacement’s cadaver out

For the stray straggly dogs whom trolled in packs,

Some festering with rabies others friendly simply, in search for a free meal

Teeth shredding the pale body of a boy who never

Existed

 

As she slowly materializes,

Skin smooth and new

A waft of rotting meat follows her

And stains her rough clothing,

 

Her form new, awkward

As if God himself

Put the remains of the boy and girl into one body

Creating a new type of human

broken and fresh

To suffer both the internalized sadness,

The core of their being,

And the confusion of their own mortality

 

Sullen and alone

They walk the world

With the stench of irony blood

With the sour taste of bad milk in their mouths

Longing for a chance, to split their minds again.

 

Mads-giving.

Airports are strange places. Thousands of people flying from place to place for something important. Holidays, birthdays, funerals, vacation: always important.

An airport were a  million things happen at once some random, most mundane. I sit here and think about my own death while the older women in front of me wonders what I’m scribbling down. Perhaps it the next great ‘American’ novel. Or just another sad journal entry of someone struggling with identity, mental illness and, really, being alive.

No one here is really attractive which kind of gives you a new perspective of what you attractiveness  really is. A few days ago my friend told me that everyone is inherently ‘hot’. But it is the emotional connection to make a person attractive. And since I have no… real experience with either sex, I’ll take his word for it. I think my therapist would say, in her slight southern accent that kind of reminds me of Paula Deen, that its an afect of the anti-depressants and the whole being depressed thing. But what do I know, it’s not like she has a degree or something.

Yet here I am, people watching in an airport on Thanksgiving.

I really hate every holiday, but for specif reasons.

• New Years- not really fun unless your 21 and drunk
• Valentine’s Day- is not an actual holiday that when in primary school you have to give everyone a valentine. Mine were obviously the best because I hand made them and the never were related to the day. “Hey, you talk funny” or  A picture of monsters kissing.
• Mother’s/Father’s day- is just really a guilt trip. Especially if you have a dead beat dad and a mother who works to hard at a dead end job. Here is this shitty tie dad, Mom here is some over cooked eggs.
• 4th of July- hurray we stole this land
• Columbus Day- Hurray Colonization!
• Thanksgiving- hurray we stole this land and colonized it, thanks for show us how to survive Native peoples, as a token of my appreciation I will force you to remember this day once a year and force you to eat dry turkey. Seriously, who the fuck likes turkey. No one that’s who. I really hate Thanksgiving because the “traditional” food sucks, and traditional mean so much more then fucking turkey. For me a traditional meal is yuka, beans and rice, pork shoulder and some kind of deep friend bread covered in syrup. But I do like cooking with my mom.
• Christmas- do I even need to explain this one.

Thanksgiving at my house was a mix of good and bad. On one hand there was no beer, which is ridiculous. How can you eat pork with out Crona and lime? My aunt was an hour late, and did not bring any soda. But on the other hand my family was under one roof, well my mom’s side at least. And the my mom made my favorite yuka, best thing ever.

No real sad thoughts today, a first in a long time, but I still thought about killing myself. I think I might just be morbid, or crazy. When my mom carved the turkey I kind of wanted to reach out and slit my wrists. But I didn’t want to ruin the dry turkey with my blood.

Oh well, now to take medication and read about vampires.

By Numbers.

1. Because I never could tell if you were looking at me, or looking through me.
2. I never really understood what you liked about me in the first place
3. I’m sorry I never told you I loved you, or
4. that when I did the feelings weren’t there, but I’m not going to lie and
5. That say I don’t miss you or that
6. I know I’m currently leading you on
7. I haven’t told you that I’m kind of seeing someone else, or
8. that I don’t know if I even like them that much
9. Now this isn’t to say that you were my first
10. Or my last
11. Or even a notch on my existential bed post
12. But you were the reason I knew I deserved better. And
13. the reason I know how painful it is to let someone go because of love, or maybe it was loyalty I always get those feelings confused.
14. You taught me a few things about myself.

Like:

1. I am actually really needed and
2. have a lot of self esteem issues, sometimes I like being
3. used
4. I am an amazing partner
5. Small things really get to me
6. I like making other people feel good
7. I enjoy the way the scent of the inside of other people’s mouths
8. Sometimes it’s okay to be the little spoon
9. Inside jokes are actually really stupid to everyone else, especially if it involves the term anal sex. And that the test of any relationship is
10.  In the silences where there is nothing else to say. Were you just sit/lay there in what to everyone else would be awkward, but extremely peacefully and revealing seconds of silence. But I think the most important thing that I learned about myself with you is

11.  I love the feeling of a new crush way more then actually being in a relationship. Its the butterflies you get when you don’t know if the person likes you back. Its the rush when small things happen between you. Like conversations for hours, or when they text you first, or when they finally tell you that they indeed like you back.  But maybe its because I will never not be a teenage school girl, who falls easily for anyone who shows her a little bit of attention. Or because I still beli

Lexical Love Letters

We kind of exist without being asked to

Just forced in this time period with out considering of

Who we are and the things we like

Living in a time where community is set aside

And the idea of the individual is dominate

I just curiously watch the world unfold.

I watch my friends fall in and out of love

I watch my family struggle to stay afloat

I watch my education get father and father away from me

And I have yet formulate a sentence that describes how exactly I am feeling

At any moment, forget about this moment because in a few breaths it will be gone, and I will still be in search of words.

These days the English language doesn’t have enough words so it compensates

by adding lol, ttly, and other acronyms to its dictionary. But what it doesn’t realize is none of these words are new, they are just poorly spelt words that used to mean something more. When communication used to mean something.

Where texting was not our main source of communication but just a way to get brief bits of information to another person.

I say bring back slips of papers taped on doors and windows. Notes with hearts. List of things to do. Little reminders of that doctor’s appointment tomorrow.

I remember when you’d have full conversation in words and no emoticons. Where I love you is followed by a soft smile, and a kiss on the nose. In stead of being spelt out I LUV U or I < 3 u.

Where calling someone just to hear how they are and ask about their day isn’t met with a strange apprehension but with a sigh of happiness.

A time when talking on the phone for hours does not mean tech support but like  first time you called your best friend in elementary school on the house phone. Both talked for hours about nothing and everything, really understanding the importance of giggles and boy bands.

When there were more letters being sent out then emails.

I still send out letters, to my loved ones. Even to those I talk to on a daily basis’s because there is a feeling you get in a letter that you don’t get with an email.

Like this warmness from imagining them sitting at a desk thinking about you, and the perfect words being scribbled onto paper. Their moist tongue sliding across the edge sealing the envelope. Printing you’re address so neatly. Them waiting to get a response back in hopes that you in fact enjoyed their letter.

You don’t get that with email, words typed with no character, no cross outs or miss-spellings. The lack of satisfying ripping sounds of paper as you open that letter.

There is a passion lacking in our generation. Community is falling apart, and no one cares about each other anymore.  Everything is now done electronically; weather its applying for a job or trying to figure out why your Internet isn’t working. Kids have cellphones glued to their hands, texting, tweeting, and tumblring. Instead of learning how to make friendship bracelets and having tickle fights. Where kids are no longer being kids but being adults concerned with networking.

Called me old fashion.  I will always be a lover of mix tapes, forehead kisses, and hysterical laughter from sleep deprivation.

Puncuation is Key

buzz. buzz.

I love you.

The last words.

We’d ever get.

We always want.

We always need.

Buzz. Buzz.

I miss you.

Please.

Please.

Two days

silence.

Waiting.

and.

more waiting.

Hopelessness.

builds.

on insecurity.

based in.

imaginary romances.

of the third kind.

Waiting.

More slince.

I lay here.

Naked.

I stand there.

Naked.

For you.

For me.

I am now futher away,

from truth.

Or what I think truth

is.

It isn’t.

But.

I make myself believe.

That this is more.

Than.

An encounter of love.

I wish.

I force.

This feeling.

To stay.

Sometimes it’s real.

Sometimes…

We fall.

Mute Stars

As if the world would suddenly go quiet

Our hearts race against the light.

We always lose; we know we will always lose

Everyday we pretend that will change

 

Smiles plastered and cracked

Mark the loneness we share

Fingers laced so tightly

Numbness almost seems fitting

Still we cannot deny the warmth of the sun tip-toeing on our backs

Teasing us of what could be had

 

I stumble on the words,

As you try to capture the moonlight

Your box is always empty;

“the moon just steals from the sun”

She takes his palms and whispers solace into the sky

As if the stars will tell of his wish

 

Wishes are for the innocence

That is held in the palms of children

I am sorry

 

Every night we express our wants

To Whom It May Concern;

They always go unheard

 

stop sending wishes over our heads

And send them into our ears.

Maybe then we will be happy instead of content.

 

Suspicions of being alone

Hatred towards sameness

Live within the small spaces between our joints

Sounds of escaping air are our only hope

Yet we fear clenched fists

And demand love, as if it were a rite

 

Forcing ourselves together under

Cheap bed sheets and miss guided emotions

In search for what’s missing

Creating creativity

Ask me

Ask me

Ask me

 

 

We inhale the same breath,

No one notices

No one cares

Tiny spiders

Your hands have out grown mine

My hands were always smaller

But now, compared to yours, they look like cat’s paws

I never notice that their size

I guess I was dumb

I guess I was blind

I guess I just never paid attention

Now when your finger tips graze across mine

It feels like spiders are crawling up my hands

Like millions of tiny spiders

With long hairy legs

Are clinging on to my wrists

Like furry handcuffs that are whispering

For me not to go

Are  yelling that I can’t go

They keep me there beside you

Your hands have become anchors

That hold me down when I have no plans of going anywhere

They are chained onto me by guilt for not loving enough

Like love could ever have a unit of measurement

But I guess for you it does

When you hold my hand it smothers mine

Binding my fingers

That once would be happy to

Play games with yours

Fingers that loved creating for you

Have now become prisoners in yours

But I smile and you smile

And we pretend that those spiders

Aren’t crawling in my skin

Aren’t all dying in my throat

Aren’t making it harder to breath

We just smile

And act like everything is okay

Your hands have gotten bigger

Now I can’t even find mine

Your hand will never stop growing

They grow from emptiness

From years of loneliness

They just want to fill a void

That just keeps getting larger

I once thought that I could fill your void

That our hands could change the world,

That our filangies were the key to both of our happinesses

that my hands fit perfectly in yours

But now your hands have eaten mine

And its too late because I can’t even feel my fingers anymore

I guess I’ve grown numb and

That  this smileis just a nervous reaction to this coldness

And that I mistake that prickliness as love

Your hands have out grown mine

Those small freckles on your knuckles that looked so dainty

The freckles I used to count when you were asleep

The ones I wanted to kiss

now look like planets to me

I wanna Be your

She was right off the boat

Speaking those smooth lines

Of a language forced into her mouth

He was your typical gringo

Claiming to understand

Those force lines that divided them

He never understood

Her Spanish phrases

She always found

His love of grits a little confusing

They claimed their lives together

Their souls swirled together like

A pint of dulce con leche ice cream

So different yet mixed so well

Conversations through electrical wires

That connected his odd nihilist tendencies

And her optimistic values

Sometimes those ideals clashed

And other times meshed

They traded mix tapes

With their cultures merged in between verses

And the silent pauses

But with those pauses came

An uneasy feeling

“Why does it matter” he shouts,

“Love shouldn’t judge on differences.”

He saw the world in black and white.

“You have that luxury,

that I wish I could afford.”

She viewed life in Technicolor.

Begrudgingly they pressed on

but 700 miles grew between them

Five hour phone calls

Became 20 minute ichat conversations

Slowly their garden of mix flowers

And oak trees

Began growing Spanish moss

As beautiful as it looks

It is gradually killing them

Those silent pauses become minutes

Those minutes into hours

He loves her.

She is afraid.

She is his Latina princess.

He is her white oppressor.

He wants to give her the world.

She wants to claim it for herself.

He talks about a small one bedroom

while she is speechless.

She wants his happiness,

He wants a wife.

She watches the moss,

He looks towards the sky.

The moss climbs up her legs

While he gets his ending.