It finally stops,

the constant chaos that was waiting for me at the shore

killed by the noise of the water moving the sand and glass,

rounding the edges, making treasures and gifts for kids to pick up

I swim the way dad taught me, one arm swings forward, the other swings back

Switch, switch and pull your head out for air

I could almost hear him telling me exactly what to do, timing every muscle, screaming from the sidelines

one more round, one more round !

I repeat the motion and turn back to see how far I was and to double check, he wasn’t on the shore, checking my performance

He’s not.

I swim as far as I can and as close as I can get to the boats at the port,

The noise in my head getting quiet

I breathe in and out and put my head underwater, almost mechanically, using his tempo, to get as far as I can from him

I see the boas telling me to stop and I can finally taste the freedom, away from him, in the salty water

When I put my head under water the sea tells me soft stories of places I could be and people I could meet

The sand moving away with the current of the water tells me how soft it would be to lay there, gently grazed by the touch of tumbled glass

A safe, quiet world, away from screams and tears.

Here, my tears don’t feel real, the sea wipes them away from my cheek, it feels like a gentle hug, an act of love,

as if she was telling me that everything was going to be okay

I knew to come back in time, as well as I knew that she was always going to be there for me

waiting to wrap me in her arms and let me taste what it would feel like to be close to her chest, even a little

She would let me know

when it was time

to feel

her heart beat

For now,

I float

I’m sweating with embarrassment

“what did I just say?”

The gun holder is masked and dressed in all black

I whimper in pain,

the cords wrapped around my wrists

I scream for help but nothing seems to come out

A scream around no one, no one to help, no one to listen

I’ve done it again

I’m on the ledge of this mountain I’ve built myself

one mistake and I’ll be dead

“don’t you dare fall off” the masked person tells me

“if you fall you’ll be dead before you get to feel the freedom of free falling

These ropes, keep me perfect,

These ropes don’t let me cry or hurt,

These ropes make me feel alive, more like keep me alive

I know the rules

• don’t scream, you don’t want to be like dad

• don’t tell people what to do, even though you know better, grandma taught you that

• don’t criticize them they’re just learning

• be forgiving and loving,

• be gentle and patient

• let people do what they’re going to do

• turn the other cheek

• stay until being told to leave

• always see where they’re coming from

• and so on

• why leave this perfect balance

The ledge is sexy, and demanding

So is the gun pointed at my head

If I turned my head I would experience the sweet sweet taste of the gun in my mouth

if I jumped I’d be free

no rules, just me

So, what fun is being here if I’d be better off dead.

You lured me in the garden of eden

and almost fooled me into thinking that you were my plato’s half

almost enough to fool me into thinking you were whole

Paradise lasted two months before I noticed the garden wasn’t real

just a mere reflection on the cave wall

the puppets of our relationship a bleak copy of picture perfect puppy love

Too weak to give me a rib, to make me your whole

still catching the last drops of breast milk

living in her home while crying in the twin bed next to your brother’s king

I, took a mirror and held it up to you to show you what to do, what to heal, to be stronger than me, to let me fall in your arms and feel like I can crash

You chained me to the garden of eden, a supposed paradise where work never stopped

I had to rebuild the same old flower bushes and trim the trees so that I had something to lean on that didn’t need rebuilding

God said man leaves his father and mother to be united to his wife,

but how could I force this union while you were still learning how to walk

You forced me into the chains of the cave, tempted me into the possibility of feeling no shame

and now I’ve drained every drop of blood to keep you here

I’m left without a rib, so that maybe you could build yourself strong like me and patient like me

Maybe, I cave and bite the apple of temptation and do the thing that would set me free

or maybe I cave and bite the apple of temptation and do the thing that would set me free

or follow Lilith out of the gates

I begged you to please unchain me from the cave let me see what the puppets mimic

let me feel what love is like

what real passionate

hair pulling love is

I shut the gates of heaven closed and brought an apple with me just in case I needed to feel the bitterness of our memories again

we are wearing matching tank tops and skirts

she latched on the skates the same way she did hers

We rode around our skates in the tennis court, parents garage, skate park

we played our favorite songs and she coached me through my falls and we braided each others hair when it got too hot

we got scared together and worked out our courage

We did the research, shared the motivation and rolled through the pain of sunny San Fernando valley

She read my cards and did limpias as I did with her

I miss the feeling of the carpet on the floor and the small cats that ate my hair

I now, blow a wish into an eyelash and hope she’s okay

hope she’s found stability

hope she deals with less

hope our streets don’t cross badly again

miles away, I miss a room to share with friendly calls and dreams, hair dye and jamaicas.

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As a middle schooler I had possibly the worst experience in finding out what sex was. I was a very eccentric child, I loved bright pink and aqua marines and off the shoulder tops and tutu skirts. I remember the first week of middle school trying to make friends with the 9 other girls in my class. I got along with most of them right off the bat, made a group chat on my hello-kitty Samsung as soon as the first day. After that first week of excitement, everything went down pretty quickly. I found out that one of my classmates really hated my guts, I mean really. She hated everything about me: my off the shoulder aqua marine tops and oversized fuchsia sweatshirts with the bra strap peaking out were soon seen as a threat to her, as well as my hyper pigmented eyelids. One day, during gym class, she made it her mission to make me admit that I was wearing make up, and that there was no other way that I could look like that. “Just admit it, you’re wearing make up. I bet you wake up earlier to put it on. Who are you even trying to impress. Hey guys, look at Francesca, look at her.” I felt so humiliated. This was the first time that my self expression was seen as something bad, as if me wearing makeup was the worst crime I could have done. I had to do everything in my power to prove that I didn’t wear any and that I dressed like that because I liked it, not because of any particular need for attention. I felt suffocated in my own body. As if everything I liked was disgusting. This feeling wasn’t only derived from that though. I found out that I was the butt of very sexually charged comments from my male classmates. For months I had mistaken my friendship with a particular group of male classmates as an actual friendship, while their primary motive for friendship was the intention of sleeping with me.
Then it started. They screamed moans during class directed to me, texted me weirdly sexually charged texts, asked for pictures of my bed and made comments on my instagram pictures. I remember posting a picture of my favourite cookies covered in honey and the first comments were “What’s the thing on top” and the reply by another class mate was “must be cum.” I remember asking my father what that meant and his response was a shrug.

This also started my relationship with porn. If I was being seen in a sexual way, I wanted to know what the whole sex thing was all about. Now, this was the early 2010s and porn was incredibly unprotected. I found out very quickly what all the moaning was about. Unprotected internet access did incredibly unpredictable damage to my sexuality. I tried masturbating for the first time but I realized the acting of the heterosexual intercourse was really not that entertaining. I was so confused by what they found so interesting. Why would they express their interest in me like that? If it was positive attention why did it make me feel so disgusting? The more I watched the videos the more I found myself hiding in oversized clothes, trying my best to hide my appearance. At the same time I developed a binge eating disorder. I would have two ice creams in the afternoon and cookies with honey after dinner. I gained weight and lost interest in my bright clothes. The bright colours weren’t so interesting to me anymore. I primarily wore jeans and long sleeve sweatshirts. I still own most of the sweatshirts I bought during that time.

It all came to a point that my best friend at the time told me it was time to show a teacher what was going on. I don’t remember much of the process of telling my classmates what was going on, or my teachers. I do remember that when the topic came up in class, the math teacher (who also bullied me) looked at me dead in the eyes and asked me what had happened. I doubt the teacher herself saw how she played such a big part in this whole situation.

I loved math before I met her, but I was too weak for her style of teaching. She would scream at me for any mistake, any raised had was seen as an attack on her style of teaching. The louder she yelled at me the less confident I got in the class, and I only got passed so that she wouldn’t have to see me in summer school. I used to be much more emotional than how I am now. Any raised voice was a reason for me to cry. The bathrooms, normally cold and humid, became the warmest place to be. One day, after the results of the math games that happened every year came out, she decided to share with the class, the results of those who decided to participate. “It’s so stupid of you to even participate, you won’t even be able to pass the class this year. It’s insane, who would do that.” The entire class laughed.

The girl who bullied me for my femininity was the first one to speak over me. She wanted to tell my story. I remembered feeling even more suffocated. I did not want to speak about it. I wanted to wash my body in bleach and forget I was a person with reproductive parts. The boys ended up getting expelled and only one ended up staying in my class. He avoided me like the plague and brought the rest of the class with him. I had two friends, one of which hated me and the other one who cut herself. I felt like I had no place in the world to understand any of the changes that were happening in my body.

When I eventually got the guts to tell somebody, my father fought my war. He raised hell for everyone. Unfortunately, I got burned in the mean time. He asked me over and over and over again “Why didn’t you stop it, why didn’t you say something sooner…?” I felt defeated. The only male presence in my life was blaming me. To this day I wonder if I played a part in this, and if so maybe this was never an issue, this might’ve all been my fault and I should have known when to tell them to stop.

When Boylan expressed how her self view changed, it resonated with me. Sixteen years later, just like her in her transition, I saw myself through the male gaze. When she started buying clothes for herself she started to care about clothing sizes and how clothes fit on her body, something that she hadn’t thought about before transitioning. As a male, you don’t think about sizes, the numbers on jeans and shirts don’t have the same weight. We now know that the patriarchy forces us to care about clothing sizes and how clothes enhance our sexuality for their eyes. Short dresses and short skirts to make your legs more noticeable, padded bras so your tits sit up better than others. I remember the array of wiki how articles I read on how to make my a cup breasts look bigger. Fennell tea, chest workouts, you name it. I tried it all. I wanted to look sexy and fuck-able. This is all patriarchal bullshit that is fed to us as soon as we encounter the concept of sexuality. Looking back, I wish I could tell myself: you’re thirteen, let yourself grow.

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Grown up me, is a creative, confident woman who spent most of her 20s working through those notions that I absorbed as a thirteen year old. Reading Audre Lorde’s essay right after Boylan’s biography, it was a whole new world. A new definition of erotic. In her essay she expands the definition to not just a corporal experience. Erotic is not just sex, it’s beauty and passion and creativity. It is a whole new world, where self expression is erotic. “When I speak of the erotic, I speak of it’s assertion of the life force of women; of that creative energy empowered, the knowledge and use of which we are now reclaiming in out language, our history, our dancing, our loving, our work, our lives.” The very things I wanted to suppress as a kid are now things I embrace in a very different way. I find myself the most attractive when I am performing my poetry. I have a specific performance preparation that involves me wearing all my weird clothes: I paint my eyes with an intense eye look and wear the tallest platforms I can find. I am so myself when I do this. This practice is almost a hug to my younger self, I can perform my weird poetry and dress the way I like and people clap. Not because they think I am fuck-able (maybe a little), but because I am giving myself a voice. I pour all my soul and retrieve the most depressing and emotional moments of my life and I give it another voice. I give it a life, where it is appreciated and heard and it makes me feel so alive.

To conclude, I do recommend both readings as well as the Complete Works of Audre Lorde.

your eyes darting away

The shadow of what we were is now a haunting figure in the corner

you ordered for yourself and don’t ask to share

I asked if you’ve read the last poem I wrote

and you lied and tell me you did

I later found out you read it after the first time I left you

We walked away from the restaurant side by side

and my arm ached for what used to be your strong grip

I dreamt of you kissing me back the way you used to,

pulling in my face by my hair

Words not said, I can see the end.

I wish I could’ve said

Just tell me, just tell me now and i’ll leave you alone

Those words were never said.

You left and so did my strength to move

I now sit alone at the same table we used to

I stare at the seat next to me and in front of me and see the ashes of our promises

I let them rest at the restaurant

and I let the breeze from the door closing disperse them

goodbye.

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I stand outside the building, awaiting for the cold air to hit me with enough force to slap my confusion away. 

I light the cigarette and press it to my lips, the white dress stained in the wine I promised to never drink again. 

The same thing again and again and again. The bottle in the fridge screamed my name and I caved. 

I sat on the floor of what once was our kitchen and not a graveyard of anger and frustration. 
The window open, the same one that I would smoke out of. 

I poured myself a little to take the edge off of what was a very long hard day. 

The memories of our happiest days consoling me as an invisible hug. 
Wine colored tears come out of my eyes dripping on to the white dress you put me in. This time not a forced action but the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do. A second skin that felt so right. Now, on the kitchen floor I realized how tight the dress was. The bone of the corset pressed on my lungs choking me. 

A little more wine and the happy memories flush away. My eyes cry tainted tears. The memory of your love too much to handle. 
Your gaze got colder. Your touch got shorter. Your laughs became fainter and fainter. 

A little more and I see you stringing me along to fill in the void that you created between us. 

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A little more and I feel the way you grabbed my hand on the way to the altar and tried to pull me close. Impossible for me to get closer now.
I see your hand weak and unable to rebuild what once was. You hold it out of duty rather than love. A once involuntary action, is now an obligation placed by the future you had planned for us.

A little more and I see your once passionate grip loosen. 
A little more and you forget what you trained me to do. 

A little more and I start to forget who I was before meeting you. 

A little more and I realize there is barely a shadow of who I was in this perfect white dress you put me in. 

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I’ve lost myself. I used to believe you could guide me back to who I was but now, your dismissal, your short and cold kisses, your subconsciously planned distance, obscures that image. 
I used to think of you as a guide to figure out who I was, and now I am just a shell of what I was. Filled with the lies you made me believe about myself. 

A little more and I realized. You were leading me to this. Planned confusion, blurry memories and promises that everything was going to be okay. All a scheme for you to hide what you felt. 
The white dress was a promise made of anger never expressed. 

A little more and I see the words bubbling up inside of me, spilling on to my dress. 

A little more and I realized my once white dress was now a deep shade of merlot. 

My pain manifested once again in the wrong way. 

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I built my own grave and let you throw the ground. 

You promised me to the land I once stood upon. I am nothing. 

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The reflection in my mirror holds a knife to my throat, disappointed in me, 

The mistakes from my past making me nauseous 

I rush to the toilet in hopes to throw up whatever is lingering in the back of my throat 

Bile comes out, in the shape of regret for what I didn’t talk about with others

Their discontent matches my reflection

Why did I only bring it up when their actions matched mine? 

I stand up, still nauseous 

My reflection getting less forgiving as time passes 

Just one cut, is all she says, repetitively

One cut and everything will go away 

Physical reminder of how awful I am 

This is all my fault 

I should’ve let it out, I should’ve done better, I should’ve put the bottle down, I should’ve stopped the car, I should’ve left them when I had to, I should’ve stayed with my parents… 

I should’ve, I could’ve, but I didn’t 

Now I am trapped in my own body, my skin itching to separate from my disgusting self, a container of memories, making every step heavy and unbearable 

If I only had the guts 

I’d let myself suffocate in a puddle of my own blood and bile, gone from the trap that is my body, from the haunting of my own imperfection 

If only I could, I would 

I shouldn’t.  

They don’t see what I’m hiding, they don’t see I begged you to be in the crowd.

Everyone sees you are always talking about me, everyone can see you are everywhere I am.

They don’t see I’ve told you to talk about me more often, they don’t see you sitting at tables I’m not invited to.

Everyone can see we’re hugging and holding each other, everyone can see you are cheering for me.

They don’t see that we’ve argued every night leading up to it, they don’t see you asking for reassurance after my microphone cut too close to home.

Everyone can see you being possessive and jealous.

They don’t know it’s because you are afraid that I might be cheered on without tears.

Everyone can see I’m tired of begging for what I do without question.

They should know that you ate more than you could swallow and that I’ve forced myself out of your throat almost chocking you.

Everyone can see how silly you look without me and how much better I can breathe without you.

My memory shoots away from here

closer to the San Fernando Valley heat.

I’m driving in my 2008 Toyota Scion, basically a hot box of dust and pine air freshener.

R is next to me, their small legs stretched out in the passenger seat.

The endless long days spent looking through old clothes and buying really great fast “comfort food” accompanied by celebrity drama youtube videos or Bluey.

Smells of incense and candles come swarming through my nose.

Witchcraft against anyone who hurt us, a bond so strong it felt like brotherhood.

A carpet floor against my back, R’s cats chewing on my hair, complaining and letting the spiral take over.

The smell of hibiscus tea getting brewed as their hands poured loc into a sweet cup of Jamaica.

As always she is accommodating, always there to fall back on.

“We only have 40 minutes” I say. Knowing she will be waiting for me to get off work.

This time the day is cloudy and cold. She listen to my quiet tears.

Tears, similar to the ones shed four years ago in Los Angeles, closed in the walls of the pandemic.

A culture determined to isolate anything dissimilar; her presence is uncalled for but persistent.

She sees the empty chairs I have all around me. It is hard to put them away, knowing they used to be occupied by someone.

When I left Los Angeles, I brought my chairs with me, in hopes they would get filled again.

I can’t understand why it’s so hard to have someone fill those seats.

Perhaps it’s the warmth left by the others that pushes new people away.

Maybe I have to be with solitude a little longer to have an inviting old chair.

I no longer have the bus driver to say hi to. I only have the same residents and the cagey hands of solitude.

Recently R came back to see if their chair was still available.

But the more I looked at it, the more I realized how broken it was:

the back post had cigarette holes and apple smirnoff ice poured over it.

It had been a year since it had been washed, repaired or occupied.

The chair was still quietly draining and it required so much maintenance over time.

A leg was always wobbly and sometime it felt like it was not meant to be there.

The chair was not available, I responded.

So, I threw the chair away, regardless of the mark it left.

Now, I lay in the grass alone, feeling the comfort of solitude covering me like a blanket.

I await for the clouds to pass and I hear the distant laugh of my person, their chairs fuller than mine, locked away from my reach.

I hope for their return and hope for their invitation.

I let the tears blend with the rain.

Even the coldest of fall days can’t seep though the cagey hands of solitude.

I day dream of a new person to free me of her.

That I’ve put myself in

I don’t want to leave him

With a broken heart

despite the pain he’s caused me

I don’t want to be the one to

hurt him worse than he has me

Please, make him the worst I’ve ever been with

I beg you Virgen, on my knees

show me a reason to leave

My body is tired of being

the person that fell for him

He should be met with love and patience

For I have lost that along the way

Let him feel wanted and lusted for

by someone else

I don’t want to be the one to break the act

So please let him find someone better

Give him the strength to do the unthinkable

Alleviate me of the pain of doing what I wish he would

Every fight felt like a needle pin on the floor

I couldn’t move or the big fight from my birthday could come back

One wrongly worded sentence and I was four drinks in at a bar in Hollywood trying to remember that

this is how love is supposed to be

A sigh too loud, a reminder of the feeling of vomit I kept waking up to

Opening my eyes felt like a scream, a reminder of all the things they took from me

Had to think twice about what I’m wearing, in fear of appearing too cool for them or too sexy to others or just enough for them to picture me next to someone else

Their insecurities building a brick wall, suffocating the person they fell for in the first place

I could hang out with somebody, maybe

But the list got increasingly short

“He looked at me the wrong way”

“They want to be with you”

“I don’t know them”

Anything, an excuse for their insecurity

Each commentary, an (un)intentional act to control me

The only safe space for me to scream, a mic, in front of an unknowing audience

Until

They learn what I scream about

They are the star of my one man show

The mic is now pulled away from me

The pen emptied out of my hand

The borders they created to constrict my personality now tattooed into my skin

They won’t stop until they can hold me into a cage besides them

Not too loud

Not too sexy

Not too friendly

Not too smart

Then, a realization that the person I used to be,

was something to immortalize

in a glass tower

away from anyone

My voice hidden in the walls

Wining and pleading

to be let out

When I moved out of los angeles, the city was cold and windy. It was rainy, as it usually does in january. I left the city officially after a month of living in SF. Things had already started changing but that weekend I still managed to see everyone I cared about. I managed to pack up my entire room into boxes and into a U-Haul. I had wing stop, went thrift shopping, had spicy salmon cakes, packed, got drunk. Took everything off the checklist. I was still driving and still talking to most of my friends. The accident I had back in November wasn’t controlling my presence on the streets as much.

When I landed back in Los Angeles this weekend, there was a whole 10 degrees farenheight(?) more than San Francisco. The city was hot and sweaty. I stood in traffic for 2 hours on the Fly-away to the Burbank Airport. The traffic alone made me regret my decision to come. I was stuck in the same streets I had been stuck in for 4 and a half years. After an hour of doom scrolling, my phone forced me to be present to the hollywood mountains by shutting down. The infinite snake of cars that surrounded the cold bus was a trance for the remaining hour. The same hills, dried out by the 80 degree weather of spring. In the snake, I could see my old self driving from the 818 valley to Beverly Hills. I used to listen to chicano oldies, what I considered old poems for the state that used to be California. I listened, in hopes that it would make me fall in love with the hellscape I had signed up for.

After I arrived to Van Nuys, I noticed the emptiness of the Northridge neighbourhood. Spring break had just passed, but, Coachella weekend started the next day. The city stayed on theme by being just as deserted as Palm Springs. The normally overflowing parking lots, empty. Me and my grandma went to the same Thai place we had gone to since I was a kid. Ordered the same Tom-Ka coconut soup. The strip mall where it was situated, was not new to me. Across from it was a Denny’s stop I had visited many times before. I’d seen that Denny’s go from open 24/7 to under construction to open again. Right next to that restaurant, was a boba spot that had also seen me many times. Both of those spots held versions of me that I wish to forget.

One, had seen me getting bread crumbed by a weird, Libra Man various times and had seen me attending the same booths in effort to understand what I did wrong. The other, had seen me with my ex way too many times, and then after, reading alone and trying to understand what when wrong.

That parking lot used to stay busy all of the time, it was nearly impossible to find parking at the first try. Ironically, we found parking pretty soon. The restaurant was empty, only one other table. We devoured our soup and my grandma, who I was used to seeing eat all the time, barely touched the dumplings we split. She told me she was on a diet, and was feeling healthy after cutting off alcohol.

I entered my grandmother’s house. It looked lonely. My 80 year old grandma was living alone again. I saw the food she had nibbled at during lunch still sitting on the counter. Where I used to put my work aprons and my jackets, was empty. The stain on the table from a party I threw four years prior, was still badly covered by the wood tint I had gotten. I went up to where my room used to be. Nothing on the walls, nothing in the middle. Just a bag of stuff that an old friend had given to me that was supposed to be donated. I could almost see the old shadow them running to sit next to the window and getting comfy under my sheets as soon as they stepped into my room.

I stayed in the guest room. It was incredibly odd to feel the hot air in the room fall on me like it used to during the summers I spent visiting my grandma. It hit me- I was a visitor. No longer the place where I lived. The bathroom didn’t have the drawer I had painted anymore. Empty of my makeup, aspirational messages, sleeping pills, empty shampoo bottles and half finished books.

My friend I picked me up soon after that and we went to Mr. Furley’s. The bar where I had met my current partner, the same bar who saw me get drunk with my old restaurant friends, who saw me celebrate other’s single-ness. The earie sensation of coachella weekend dawned on us. The bar was full of old men with nothing left to do but to see if there was a young girl desperate enough to give them something. What I remembered as a bar full of young CSUN students, now a bar full of shadows of who I was. Shadows of a younger, fuller crowd. The bar across was possibly worse. My friend and I got trapped into a conversation with older guys who were chain-smoking cigarettes outside the bar. Thick accents and grey hair peaking through their roots. What started with a step into an uncomfortable conversation, ended with a a cigarette in our hands and a drive to another bar.

Zebulon, was just as empty. Some bad mid thirties band had just finished playing and the usually full patio was practically empty. None of it’s usual appeal - cigarettes, half empty wine glasses, random philosophical conversations with strangers- was present. Me and my friend spoke to the owner of the place, who blamed the situation on Coachella. We sat on a bench and talked about whatever mid 20’s situation we were both in, work or relationship problems.

She dropped me home, and we promised to try to re-do the night in a few days and see if the festival didn’t take all of Los Angeles clubbing power. We just wanted to dance, and talk shit about life.

The guest room, felt empty. Alone with my thoughts, an underlining energy of wanting to revive whatever was left of the feral me. Zebulon held a version of myself I held dear to my heart. I was trying to convince myself I liked men still, craved the attention of other people in order to feel validated but also wanted to sound smart at all costs. The group I had gone with in the first place, was made out of the people I would now consider my best friends. J, L, and others. I was still craving the attention of strangers other than my ex, but transmuted the energy into match making for my friend L. I was still a junior. I still had so many experiences ahead of me. I still fantasised of a love that didn’t exist just yet, one that would see me dancing in the room and be happy to be next to me rather than put me in a chair like arm candy. I still dreamt to be swept away from someone who didn’t just obsess over me because of how I looked or how I made them feel or their insecurities. Someone who analysed me the same way I did with others. Someone who not only listened to the playlist but listened to the title, the lyrics and the theme. Someone who saw me shining in the club and decided to shine with me rather than try to turn the light off so they were the only one who’d seen me.

I missed my friends. D, J and L were on the people to see next. The reason why I came to town in the first place, was for one of my best friends A.

The following day was atrociously long. I woke up at 7 am to make it to long beach by 11am. My grandmother stuffed my mouth with an arepa and a black coffee. She dropped me off at the burbank train station, then train to Union Station and train to Long Beach. 2 hours and 30 minutes, to see my best friend D. She had been living in Long Beach for 2 years at least, and I had to see her. We had just enough time for her to show me her driving skills, get some pho and hit the goodwill bins.

That hang out alone was nostalgic. The last time we were there together was the night before I moved. Her presence, a reminder of 20 year old me. We worked in beverly hills together and the year was 2022. We got our fake ID’s together, we got drunk together, we listened to Lana on the beach while crying for no clear reason. We’d seen each other loose braincells over men who didn’t like us, seen each other get together with our exes, seen each other grow out of our exes. We sat at the pho spot, catching up with the rest of our lives. We reminisced who we used to be, the pictures we would take, the clubs we would go to, the place we worked at. I couldn’t believe she was driving me to the train station. It felt surreal. I used to pick her up in my old car from her Hollywood apartment, and now, I was about to embark back on a two hour train ride home.

The train ride was atrociously hot, I had to call an uber from Union station to Burbank, where my grandmother was picking me up. I alternated sleeping and crying every 10 minutes.

A’s bday was next. J came over early and we played therapist for each other, as it was custom for us. The ride to the birthday location was nostalgic. We talked on top of Fleetwood Mac as he drove us through the valley all the way to Glendale. The birthday was warm and sweet: my friends laughs at each other and for each other felt like a warm hug of our friendship. Meeting A’s family was an incredible gift. L drove me home and we talked about our lives.

Being in my friends car was incredibly emotional. Their passenger seat still warm from my presence a couple months prior. They held memories of our time in school spent at the library laughing and making fun of each other instead of doing homework. The times we had gone to the beach and ate portos, got chased out of the beach by pelicans and had our food stolen. Memories of long drives to pasadena to see movies we had recommended each other during the school year. A house that was now burned down by the fires. Memories of cries, laughs, and long hugs. Memories of floating in my condo’s pool as the summer of 2023 was cooling down and our minds weren’t quite ready for summer to be over. Memories of playlists that were shared. I still can’t help but save every song they recommend me to a specific playlist I made three years ago. The heat of the Coachella weekend air, a reminder of those summer nights spent together. This, hurt just as much as leaving D. As much as I liked my new city, my life felt incredibly empty the moment L dropped me off. Their presence, a slide show in my brain, as I tried to fall asleep without air conditioning.

The next day was a lot less emotional. Dennys with my grandmother and her boyfriend, Ulta shopping and some light reading in the sun. Recharging. J picked me up to go see A in Pasadena. We had to hit the record stores. Without knowing, record store day was that day. We acted a familiar argument, Lauryn Hill, Dua Lipa and Kendrick Lamar as we debated if we should buy Aretha Franklin, Cindy Lauper or Wham!. We came back to A’s apartment and talked to her mom for a bit. I don’t know how but J managed to leave with a bottle of wine and two water bottles. He was a magnet for random experiences.

Me and J headed back to Los Angeles and ate pizza as we continued to talk over our current life events and the application of romcoms to our lives. I changed in the back of his car and with some other people, we finally made it to Zebulon.

The club scene was different, a lot more similar to the time me J and L went years ago. Me, I, her friend and J danced so much my legs felt heavy the next day. We played Uno on a table outside and were surrounded by people our age. It felt safe. Got home at 1. Hugged J goodbye. Struggled to fall asleep as the memories of the past few days crushed me.

Here is the thing about saying goodbye to a city that never wanted you in the first place. It is like an ex that never liked you. You leave it, you leave the people that knew that ex as they won’t leave just yet, and the food that you could only find around them. Your favourite grocery store, the jobs you had, the movies you watched, the concerts you went to stay next attached to that place.

As the new place demands your presence more and more, your will to go back creates an incredible distance between who you were and what once was that attracted you to that city in the first place.

When back in the city, you want things, people and stores to be exactly the same as how you remembered them and, a lot of the time they are. You have changed, though. You are no longer that version. Instead of feeling happiness, you are immersed in nostalgia of who you were. Nostalgia for how people used to be. You have to be okay with the new version of people. You have to be okay with knowing someone you know might be sleeping in their car and accept that the only thing you can really offer is a spot at your grandmother’s place and a phone call when needed.

The loud voice telling you it is your fault for not picking up the phone enough or not keeping up with everything they’ve been through, suffocates you, as much as the memories that tie you to those places.

The guilt for not liking the city but having an absolute fondness for who is still there is a wall that surrounds your bed right before you go to sleep, alone, in a new place.

You have to be okay with months of loneliness, until you find new friends to connect to.

Until then, you appreciate the daylight of exploring a new city, engaging in a new job, and hoping, that just for one moment, night doesn’t come. Then, you sleep hugging your pillow and hope that tomorrow someone will smile back. In hopes that tomorrow, someone from back home might check in with you as much as they hope you check in with them. In the mean time, you read enough books to forget about it, and you watch enough episodes of New Girl, in hopes that a new group comes along soon and well and the possibility of never watching the show again.

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