Photo from Fox Island County Park
Pending Rebirth
Is it painful
when flowers bloom?
How could they burst from buds
without pain?
When I blossomed,
I cried.
When I blossomed,
I bled.
When I blossomed,
a part of me died
to become the me
I am now.
But once again,
I’m evolving.
So, if flowers do bloom
without pain,
can they teach me how?
In Good Hands *Sneak Peek Poem*
You’re always in good hands
when those hands
belong to you.
Because nobody
can touch your body
the way you do.
Photo by Tweezyonthabeat, @tweezyonthebeat
Twenty-Something Auntie (Excerpt)
Over the years the most valuable lesson
I have learned is there is nothing stronger,
nothing more powerful,
than the unconditional love of a child
who calls me Auntie.
If Tears Could Talk, pg. 132
Prayers Unanswered
Like missed calls
my prayers have gone unanswered.
Wiping my tears
while whispering into a wine glass,
“One day,
I’ll be blessed by you.”
Until then,
I sit and wait
for an answer.
Photo by Srikanta H. U, @srikantaCenterpiece
Let me adorn your table.
Decorate it with my bare, brown skin
as my long legs lift like flowers
stemming from a flowerpot.
Drawing the attention of your eyes
to my blossoming body
beckoning your touch.
Move me, shape me, stretch me out
until I’m in the perfect placement.
Run your fingers along the outline of my body.
Trace every single curve.
Press me against the hardwood
center of this table.
In my dictionary
queer is defined as home.
It is a part of who I am.
For the first time in a long time,
I feel so comfortable in my skin.
I feel so free to be me.
pg 88, Out of the Deep
Comfortable In My Skin
She Calls at Midnight
When the moon hovers
above the silent, slumbering streets
of the midnight hour,
she calls.
And calls.
And calls.
There’s no ignoring her.
No way to mute the desperate whispers
she breathes into your ear.
No way to muffle her moans of frustration
aching through your body.
She just calls.
And calls.
And calls.
She knows you’re all alone
in that too-big bed of yours
craving to feel the slip of warm skin
sliding in cool silk sheets.
She calls.
And calls.
And calls.
Begging you to listen to her cries.
Pleading with you to indulge in your desires.
She won’t let you rest no matter how tired
you become from her incessant pleas.
She calls at midnight.
And calls.
And calls…
No Longer
You no longer control my thoughts.
I’ve broken free from your chains of trauma.
You no longer control my emotions.
I have the control.
You no longer have a hold on my life.
I have the power now.
I’ve finally taken my body back.
You no longer control me.
pg. 100
ShaQuay
My fierce feline companion
with a feral past.
Even though I rescued you
from the streets,
you have rescued me
from loneliness, hopelessness,
and suffering beyond belief.
God sent me a guardian angel
with a tail instead of wings.
Photo by Annie Spratt, @anniesprattAnxiety Web
I’m falling into a web
of anxiety.
Trapped in second guesses
and doubt.
Paralyzed by fear.
I can’t move,
I can’t breathe.
Page 84 of If Tears Could Talk
As I climb into my queen-sized bed
for another night of solitary slumber,
I listen to the quiet hum of my apartment.
My cat playing with her toys in the living room.
The low buzz of the air purifier.
A steady trickle of traffic outside my bedroom window.
I stare at the ceiling and ponder the feeling of loneliness.
A familiar feeling from nights spent alone,
no one to hold, no one to touch.
But tonight there is no undertone of sadness to my solitude.
Instead, I am grateful to be in my own space.
I am satisfied with my own company
in my quiet, lonesome apartment.
I am completely content in my bed, sleeping alone.
Sleeping Alone
Photo by Jp Valery, @jpvalery Bleeding Heart
Girl, aren’t you tired of hurting?
Consider yourself for once.
A bleeding heart deserves proper care.
A patchwork job simply won’t do.
Pick up the pieces of your broken body.
You need to start anew.
Fuck him, fuck the feelings, fuck the past.
Fuck it all.
Give your heart a break!
For God’s sake, give your heart a break.
Photo by Ewan Yap, @ewanyap
Jared. Jeremiah. Elijah.
Sixteen. Nine. Four.
It’s all a blur
how they’ve matured so fast.
How time has passed
from infancy to boyhood and teenage years.
How they’ve started to form
their own identities and independent thoughts.
It’s all a blur
with these tears in my eyes.
I’m just so proud and yet, so sad
to see them grow up.
I knew they wouldn’t stay babies forever
but I wish I could rewind the clock.
Time waits for no one.
All A Blur
Believe in You
When no one else does,
believe in you.
Your dreams will come true
if you believe in you.
You are the only one standing in your way.
Photo by Frankie Lopez, @frankielopezRunaway Train
Feelings roll full steam ahead
on a crazily winding crash course
toward an inescapable disaster.
All aboard this runaway train.
Photo by Egor Yakushkin, @autoroBad News Blues
I knew he was bad news.
I knew he would want his cake
and to eat it, too.
But I pretended this was different,
I was different.
Just to distract myself
from the pain looming on the horizon.
A lesson my hard head never fully absorbed.
Now my body is used, chewed up
and spit back out.
A faint pulse so, I guess I’m still alive
despite feeling dead inside.
The blame falls on me
because I chose to deal with the blues
instead of protecting my heart.
Foolish, foolish me.
Loneliest Hour
Midnight
is the loneliest hour.
The heart of the night
yet, the start of a new day.
Maybe that’s why I’m always stuck
between yesterdays and todays.
Floating through time
focused on nonexistent permanence.
Up at midnight contemplating truths
with the tip of a wine glass.
One sip at a time,
trying to fill a void.
Image by Rowan Heuvel, @insolitus
Puddles
Pressing the soles of my feet
into freshly poured puddles.
Wishing I could slowly sink in
and wade for a while.
Photo by Xiaolong Wong (@runblue) from the Unsplash Database
Clarity (Sample Poem #3)
Sometimes wading through the murkiest of waters
leads you to the clarity you needed
to realize what matters most.
Stranger in My Own Home
(Sample Poem #2)
I avoid mirrors, windows, and glass.
I don’t want to see the girl staring back at me.
I won’t recognize the body standing there
in the reflection.
I won’t recognize the limbs
weighed down with shame.
I don’t want to catch sight of
my unfamiliar frame.
I don’t want to face the reality
of being a stranger in my own home.
April is Sexual Assault Awareness Month.
Click the button below to learn more about this month and to find resources for sexual assault survivors.
Photo by Mathilda Khoo (@mcthilda)
Fulfilled (Sample Poem)
I quit school,
for now.
I left my job
because of the stress.
I dropped my responsibilities
to focus on my passion,
poetry and prose.
And I must admit,
I have never felt more fulfilled.
I wish it would rain.
Sometimes I crave the overcast sky weeping its tears.
The smell is mesmerizing, it is growth, pain, and healing all in one.
I slip on a sweatshirt and sip coffee from my favorite coffee mug to watch the rain
c
r
a
w
l
its way down the windows of my home.
I hear the fears of the clouds rumbling through the sky, watch as they explode into flashes of light.
Stepping onto my balcony I immerse myself in Nature’s beauty. I feel the tranquil coolness of the puddles under my hands.
I breathe in the freshness of the air and close my eyes to sync my breath to the rhythm of the rainfall.
When it rains I feel jubilant.
When it rains I feel whole.
Depression
Depression has no form,
not physically anyway.
It is an abstract complication that looks different to everyone that shares this looming companion.
Companion, as in friend, the kind that visits at the least convenient times
and doesn’t leave after the “welcome” is overstayed.
Depression is never really welcome, though,
it just slowly nudges its way into you.
Its crushing weight on your chest and shoulders
incapacitates your strength
diminishes your patience,
hinders your self-growth
paralyzes your willpower by bleeding through every bit of hope you might have had
to have a good day
or to have a bright future
or anything other than choking on despair.
Photo taken by Ian Espinosa (Unsplash photo database)
Healing Is…Healing Isn’t
I learned the hard way that healing isn’t writing “FUCK YOU” letters at 3AM. Or pretending that my rapist didn’t exist. Although I wish she was only a myth, I know she is very real.
Healing isn’t putting on a good face to mask my true emotions. But to be honest, I’m afraid that once I start crying I won’t be able to stop.
Healing isn’t keeping busy, so you’ll have other things on your mind, or shutting people out because you “don’t have the time” to let them in.
Healing is the sigh of relief after a breakthrough in my counselor’s office. It’s the ink of the pages in my poetry book— raw emotions and patience. Patience is key.
Healing is baked sugar cookies fresh from the oven. Warm like the laughter shared between friends. Friends so dear to my heart because they unknowingly ease my pain.
Healing is hugging my sister’s baby boys and feeling protected by their unconditional love. And cuddling up on the couch as we watch Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. Being an auntie is such a blessing.
Healing is consensual sex with a trusted lover and their reassuring embrace after a night terror so vivid I swore I was back in February 2014…
Healing is knowing it’s okay to not be okay and that relapses happen so stop apologizing for the things you can’t control—focus on the things you can.
Healing is the courage to call myself a survivor because surviving takes strength and I am strong.
Healing for me is sharing my story so that other survivors know they are not alone.
Healing is the hopeful flower that sprouted from the concrete.
I am that flower.
Pouring from An Empty Cup
My body is a cup—
not half empty,
not half full—
just empty.
I pour out until the last drop,
leaving nothing for myself.
It’s a miracle my heart has not stopped beating
from running myself ragged
for others—
always for others,
always running from myself.
Too tired to heal,
too tired to care for me;
constantly dehydrated.
What will it take to quench my own thirst?
for self-love
for self-respect.
When will I become my top priority?
Blank Page
There is nothing more frustrating
than staring at a blank
piece of paper
and hoping the pen will work miracles
out of empty thoughts.
This poem always brings me back to the beginning of it all. The blank page before the words are put to paper. The creative process is a frustratingly beautiful thing. The longer you stare at a blank page, the more opportunity you have to formulate your words and to assess the impact you want them to have. A blank page is just that, a blank page. What you fill it with is up to you.