“I love you”: a phrase so simple, yet so easy to forget. I believe it is irrevocably important to end each conversation with these three words, but many people never say them at all. 

The phrase is daunting, for sure. It’s often misconstrued as firmly a phrase implying romantic devotion, paired with a bouquet of flowers and handwritten love letters. However, love encompasses far more ideals than romance. Think of how your friends support you through a break up, or how your dog brings his favorite toy when you're sad. Is that romantic love? Obviously not… It’s pure, platonic companionship, carved out of one’s affection towards another. 

For me, saying “I love you” is as simple as waving goodbye, or asking my friend for a piece of gum. Due to this, I’m often the first person out of my friendships/relationships to say “I love you”---not because I don’t mean it; it’s actually quite the opposite. Love is my second skin. Love forms everything I feel, breathe and think. Everytime I bond with someone new, I feel an explosion of bliss so grand, how could I not share? I’d feel wrong for not doing so. 

Personally, I believe it is selfish to not tell someone you love them. Love shouldn’t need to marinate in order to be expressed. Once you feel it, there is no timeline to refer to, nor a book to research. The pulsing in your heart doesn’t care about expectations, it’s here with the goal of intention. If you don’t allow yourself to display your love in center stage, is it truly a deep passion? Or rather a coping mechanism your body develops, yet never shares? 

The most beautiful aspect of love is that it is temporary. The joy of loving will run through your veins like a carefree stallion; galloping just because, with each passing trot marking fond moments. However, no matter what, each hoofprint in the ground will fade, becoming combed over by the wind. Don’t you think your loved one would want a snapshot of your memories, even if they aren’t here to stay? It only comes down to three simple words. 

Dad

This is still weird

It’s been 8 years—I know

I’m still not used to it

But I’m fine

Dad.

Don’t slip on the hardwood floor

Wear your slippers

They’re in the left corner of your room

Next to your nightstand

Dad..

We don’t have to go out

I know you’re tired

Let’s just stay home for tonight

We can watch a movie

Dad…

You hit your head on the dresser pretty hard

Does it hurt?

I can go get some ice

Dad….

You’re shaking

You shouldn’t be gambling like this

It causes you stress

Dad…..

Are you okay?

I want to help

I’m trying

I just wish I knew how.

i’ll cut my own skin

slice with the withered knife you keep safe

frayed handles allow an honest grip

rust and blood fuses

swiftly

forming a savory flavor

its edge pierces my marrow

poisons my dignity

yet i’ve never felt more clean

my hand twists

slowly

allowing each tissue to lay on the knife with ease

excavating inch by inch

look away!

i need to focus

the slab of meat falls to the floor

chaotically

splattering my remnants

sorry

i got on your shoe

drink my soul from my shoulder

placidly

save it for later

if you’d like

have i begged enough?

i have more to offer

i swear i do

…

here.

the knife—it’s all yours

keep the blood

it adds character

does the carving bring you pleasure?

my arm,

my leg,

my throat,

all untouched—like you wanted!

once you are done,

with me,

maybe we could visit the park?

remember?

that special place where we first met

…

but please bury me

that’s all i ask

i don’t want to scare the kids

Recently, my 10 year anniversary of having HMO (Hereditary Multiple Osteochondromas) has come up, and it has caused me to reflect on my struggles.

Hereditary Multiple Osteochondromas is a disease that causes non-cancerous tumors to grow all over the body.

This disease isn’t very well known; it’s pretty uncommon actually. Around 4,000 people in the US are living with my disease. However, some don’t even know it. Some of the time, the tumors are so small that a person would live their whole life without knowing. Sadly, I wasn’t gifted with that pleasure.

When I was younger, I remember walking down the stairs to my basement. I could feel intense pain in my knees and ankles. Eventually, the pain became so strong that I could no longer ignore it—I had to get help.

I went to the doctor shaking. What was happening to me? And why?

When my surgeon revealed the diagnosis, I was clueless. None of my parents have ever talked about a family member with this disease. I wasn’t prepared to deal with these consequences of my ancestry.

X-ray after X-Ray after X-Ray, the doctors finally figured out the cause of my pain.

I had a tumor (around the size of a ping pong ball) growing in between my ankle bones. If not removed, the tumor would eventually keep growing until my ankle broke in half.

I wish I could tell you I was fearless, courageous and strong, but I was so incredibly scared. This fear disabled me in its own right— I was afraid of living in this body forever; always wondering what would go wrong next.

Here is a quick summary of all of my surgeries (so far):

•I got several tumors from my ankle removed

•I have two screws in my ankle so I can walk properly

•I have a rubber band keeping my ankle together

•I’ve had plates in my knees on 2 separate occasions

•I’ve gotten multiple tumors removed from my knees

•I think I’ve gotten 6 tumors removed from my wrist?

•I’ve gotten frayed veins removed from my wrist

Overall, I’m pretty sure I’m at 15 surgeries? I’m not sure; they kinda blend together.

One of the worst aspects of living with this disease is the judgement from others. As you probably know, kids are cruel. When you stand out, they will do anything in their power to make you the joke.

I used a walker often in school due to the amount of surgeries I’ve had, and the teasing was relentless. I heard the “grandma” comments ALL OF THE TIMEEE, and I really do think that influenced me to participate in grandma like activities: baking, crocheting, etc.

Thankfully, my teachers were extremely kind about school work. Their support with academics really helped me pass my classes, so thank you to all of my teachers!

Even though I was scared about what would come next—terrified even, I never gave up.

When I was 12, I wrote this poem called “Is There A Tomorrow?” You may read it here if you’d like:

I agree with myself on some things. I am super lucky to be here, but I truly believe that I will be fortunate enough to try to tackle this world again. I will use this life to its fullest, but for the next one, I hope I don’t have to deal with this. I wish for a healthy body; one that will support my dreams through thick and thin.

I hope these dreams come true,

I hope things are different next time.

Thank you so much for reading!! It’s lowkey midnight while I’m writing this so I’m gonna go to sleep, but I hope you learned something new! I’d kindly ask you to ignore any grammar mistakes if present bc I don’t feel like editing this rn haha. Please subscribe/interact with this post if you haven’t enjoyed my article :)))

Love you all!!

-Mya

Here are some sources I used/sources if you want to educate yourself about HMO!

https://posna.org/physician-education/study-guide/multiple-hereditary-exostosis

https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/books/NBK1235/

https://www.luriechildrens.org/en/specialties-conditions/hereditary-multiple-osteochondromas-hmo/

No one has ever known what I am—racially. And honestly, I’m still learning.

I’m a ¼ Asian, ¼ White, ¼ Puerto Rican and ¼ Black. My dad is half Korean & half Canadian, and my mom is Puerto Rican and Trinidadian.

I used to hate myself for being this way. Why couldn’t I be normal? Just one thing?

I’d cry and cry and write and write and write my feelings away.

Sometimes, I read my old poems, and I start to cry with her. I just wanted her to feel comfortable in her own body, but it’s hard.

I wrote this poem when I was 12 called “The Mutt I Am”, and it breaks my heart.

As you can probably tell, I was bullied. A lot. I didn’t have friends for multiple reasons (I dressed eccentrically, I was constantly getting surgeries—causing me to be in wheelchairs and walkers, I wasn’t attractive, I had a backpack with wheels, etc etc etc). But I wanted friends so so badly. I wanted to be normal.

When I was younger, I had straight hair, almond shaped eyes, and tan skin. I used to joke that I was a “burnt Asian”, so people could laugh and laugh and laugh, and then maybe, I could sit with them at the lunch table? Or text them after school? I’d love to be the laughing stock as long as I wasn’t alone.

But then puberty hit, and everything changed. My hair got really curly. My “burnt Asian” cover was gone. My identity got more confusing.

The inevitable questions started to arrive more often: “Hey Mya, what even are you?” “Um Mya, what’s your race?” “Why do you look like that?”

I would avoid these questions at all costs. I hate it so so so much. Because honestly, I don’t know what the fuck I am. I don’t want to be a spectacle, or a surprise when they see my “uniqueness” or “odd mix”. I would always dodge them whenever I was asked.

I’d like to say that I’ve gotten over these feelings of hatred towards my ethnicity, but I haven’t. I still hate it. I wish I could just embrace one culture. I’ve never felt truly connected with any parts of myself. I’m not “Asian enough” to put the Korean flag in my bio, or “Canadian enough” to root for them in the World Cup or “Puerto Rican enough” to like a video about the Latina experience. Maybe I’m just not enough in general…

I know I’m dramatic. I know my worth, I know I’m enough. But those are the thoughts that pop up in my head when I have rough days.

I’ve been doing better with it all. I’ve realized I don’t need to be any race at all. I don’t identify as anything really. I use the term “mixed” mostly, but that’s it. I’m kinda just done with debating what I am with myself and others.

I’m a girl who loves to read, write, cook, draw, and anything creative! I hope that’s enough :)

Thank you so much for reading!! I might delete this bc I’ve never written something like this before, but we will see haha

Please make sure to interact with this post/subscribe if you enjoyed! I love you!!

-Mya

This is my goodbye

To the friendship we had

To the love that we shared

To the gifts that you gave me

You used to give me butterflies

Not just the ones that fluttered in the pit of my stomach when you came near,

Or the ones that felt like confetti in a shaken party ballon when you made me laugh,

The physical ones

You gifted me a silver compact mirror with butterfly design

The butterfly was a succulent, deep purple, coated with love and a bond that I wished would never be broken

The outline of it’s wings, abdomen and antennas were bedazzled with plastic crystals that felt satisfying when I grazed them with my thumb,

Back and forth,

Back and forth,

We used to be back and forth,

Like the seesaw that I would play with in elementary.

Even though we had dust in our eyes from the wood chips the kids would throw and the seesaw’s mechanics were withered from old age, we would still push back and forth, with a shimmer in our eyes and crooked smiles

But now that seesaw is gone from the playground, and the compact mirror is broken; the mirror fell out.

I knew it was a sign, but I refused to believe it for a while.

I would keep our conversations going even though I could tell that the distance between us was too far for my words to save

I would grin and wave to you in the hallway, just to receive an empty stare, followed by ignorance and betrayal.

I have given up hope in repairing our relationship.

You have your world, I have mine

But in the back of my mind,

I prayed that we would intertwine on the seesaw for the last time.

Now that I’ve reflected, I’ll let you go without strife

Goodbye, old friend

See you on the playground in another life.

This poem is about losing my best friend. I hope he’s doing well.

If you enjoyed my poems, please make sure to subscribe and interact with this post! I’m always looking for kind people to be friends with so reach out! Love you guys!!

-Mya

I only took care of you for a day, maybe two

I was an amateur,

Still am, but I know my way around the facility now

It was my first day working alone

Call lights went off more than usual

The soda in the kitchen fizzled in my nose

Rancid smells started feeling like clear air

It was hour 10 of my shift

My eyelids sat like kettlebells on my face

I sloshed my styrofoam cup to rattle my brain a bit

I needed to get out of there

You were needy

But I never held that against a patient

I take pride in loving all of my residents

Your kindness came off as rude

Maybe it was the dementia… not sure

I took the juice away just as you recommended

Moved the pillow up to your lower back to mend the pain

You were quiet

For now…

Call light after call light

The polite mask I place during work began to dim

I just need to smile a bit longer

…

Finally the shift was over

I packed my bags with a different feeling that day

A mix of accomplishment and guilt

That feeling became permanent

…

The traffic lights felt like splotchy suggestions

Hyper pop music was blasting from the car speaker

I had to keep my energy high so I could be presentable at the party I was going to

It didn't matter anyways

I stayed at the party for only an hour

Then I fell asleep

The next time I showed up to work I heard the news

You were dying in the other room

Family surrounded you that afternoon

I was happy for you

Happy you got to let go

…

At my nursing home we lay a handmade quilt on to our deceased

It is decorated with a butterfly and covers their bodies as they are removed from the facility

It allowed you to let go;

To "fly" in a way

I always thought that was beautiful sentiment

But I didn't know how to deal with the fact that you are gone

…

"How do I cope with your loss when I don't know how to mourn?"

That's a question I ask myself sometimes

The thought of not caring enough or caring too much made me feel nauseous

But now,

I just let this concept coat my soul like a blanket,

So maybe…

One day..

I can fly too

This poem was sort of hard to write.. It’s a topic that I don’t see written about often so hopefully it’s a bit interesting!

If you enjoyed my poem, please subscribe/interact with this post! I love you so much!

-Mya

Imagine if you could touch the sky

What would the sky feel like?

Would it feel like the clouds, soft and squishy

Or would it feel like sharp rocks, hard and pointy?

You know the saying “Reach for the stars”?

How can you do that when you can’t even reach the sky?

Without a helicopter or rocket

Or jetpack or plane

You can’t reach the sky

Isn't that insane?

So the next time you go to another country 

Or continent or state 

Flying up so high

Just think

What if I could touch the sky...?

-Mya

I’ve always wanted to be in love

I dream of taking someone’s breath away in a maroon slip satin prom dress while I step down a twirling stair case

He smirks as he grips a bouquet of lilies with a strength that could be considered strangulation

The pants he is wearing are a little too long for him since they are his father’s

His hair, which is a sort of similar to a pixie cut, is already frizzy—shaped like a wish in the scraggly parts of my backyard

I miss him already and the moment has barely begun

“Lemme check your teeth for food” I whisper

“I don’t want you to have anything in your teeth for the pictures”

He grins widely so I can examine his smile

“It’s clean right?” He states proudly as if he is a toddler who just tied their shoes for the first time

“Yeah” I laugh, “nothing in there from what I tell”

I straightened his tie and I fix his bangs so they sculpt his face

I absorb his smell; hints of jasmine and a dream for something more than this

More than prom

More than I’m able to give

I hand my phone over to his mom, which is turned on to a digital camera app because  I can’t afford a real one

“Pose for the photo!!” she chuckles as she admires her son

He holds my waist from the back and I suck in my stomach

“You two are just so precious!” She admires and she passes back my phone “I hope you guys have a great time”

He drives me to the school because I hate driving

I pass him a caramel candy from my purse because they are his favorite

He opens the car door for me,

“You are such a gentleman”

He shakes his head in embarrassment,

“It’s nothing it’s nothing”

I reach for his shaking hand, which makes me feel better because I’m anxious as well

Then finally, the feeling that will be crystallized into this silly school event begins, filled with childlike joy lacking the limits of expectations

My mind allows a gust of wind to sweep the delicate dandelion seeds across the field

But no wish can make his love last forever

Thank you for reading!! I’m so grateful for all of the support I’ve gotten recently. I love you guys so much!

Please like and comment if you enjoyed!

-Mya

My love from years ago lives in a jar under your bed

She’s used to being useless

The bed creaks when you fuck her

The jar sits in her own thoughts

Her blouse slouches on the hardwood floor

It’s sage musk protects the jar

She’s thankful

My love manipulates her ecosystem

Feral mold; festering with rage

My love from years ago lives in a jar under your bed

The bed creaks when you fuck her

The jar breaks as you fuck her

She drapes her blouse on her skin for good

She leaves you riddled with a rancid smell

She is finally free

This poem is about my experience with seeing him move on, but never fully letting me go. It’s about both of us (the girl and I), realizing that we deserve better than this. There is more to our world.

Thank you so much for reading!! It would mean so much to me if you interacted with this post/my page. Have an amazing day!

-Mya

I remember in 6th grade we were all outside

About to play kickball in the sunshine

When I saw her in the grass

Curled up, feeling lonely

And all I could do was ask

“Are you okay?”

Unknowingly

She showed me under her shirt

Revealed a sleeve of scars

She didn’t have to say anything

I knew what was wrong

But I asked her what happened

All she could do was cry

One tear after another

Some shed from my eyes

I hugged her tightly

I told her “it’s gonna be fine”

But if  I’m being honest

I didn’t know at the time

I was only 12

But I did my best

I just gave her support

Without thinking of the rest

Eventually I told her

“Let’s go to the baseball field”

You don’t have to play

But maybe you will change how you feel

She walked back with me

Her eyes still red with sorrow

But when she gave me a smile

I knew she’d make it to tomorrow

As we sat on the benches

And watched kick balls fly

The other kids run base to base

The grass swaying side to side

I said I’ll always be here

When you need to cry

We were silent after

And we let our scars soak up the sunshine

You smoke your cigarette in one hand and gesture your friends over to the new tavern with the other 

The cigarette butt flies to the ground and you squash the remnants with your heel 

The tavern—full of laughter and drunk divorced dads—is stuffy and clouded with cheap fluorescent signage 

Quality chatter is invisible in this environment—only dark humor and waiters forcefully chuckling looms over the restaurant 

Dust clutters your eyes as you shuffle through the menu

You aren’t decisive—that’s pretty obvious—but you aren’t here for the food anyways, as you are focused on friendly conversation and enjoying yourself after work 

You decide to order a double cheeseburger with fries and a glass of Diet Coke, but that’s not what this poem is about at all

The fact is that after you leave, you make sure to text me—updating me on your minute inconveniences

This simple action morphs into habit as the days pass, which gives me deep satisfaction 

But things always change. 

…

My attachment to you is more troublesome than my age 

(Why is that?)

Your attention is paired with claws 

(Can you explain?)

I just want to know.

I just need to know…

I remember scrolling on Instagram for hours a couple of days ago. I was looking at this guy’s profile. We are friendly with each other; nothing special or serious. He’s fairly average looking: glasses, polos, and bleached hair. But something pulled me towards him at 2am. Something I have never seen in a guy near me.

His bio was simple: it included his school, religion, and the phrase “from the river to the sea”, which included the Palestinian flag at the end. My first reaction was shocked, then quickly infatuated. “Finally!” I thought to myself, “a guy that speaks out for Gaza like me.”

After an hour of stalking his reposts and likes, I managed to tear my eyes from my screen and get some rest.

A night of sleep woke me up in several ways. I went back to his profile and I let the words settle. Why were these words so special? Why did I praise him for this action?

Women are brought up to believe that all men are horrible people, and oftentimes they play this role with ease. Most men don’t speak out on genocides. Most men eat an excessive amount of meat despite knowing its effect on our planet and morals. Most men aren’t kind to you without the reward of your figure.

Deep down, men love that they are viewed with such disdain. They love to hear their mother’s stories about how she was manipulated by a man previously. They love to watch the news and see male rapists and murderers roam our earth. This makes their Palestine repost look revolutionary, heroic, and beautifully empathetic, when objectively; this is the bare minimum.

No one would be shocked to see a woman with “free Palestine” in her bio. No one would be shocked to see a woman repost an Anti Ice Instagram reel. No one would be shocked to see a woman fight for equality for all.

Ultimately, men reposting against KILLING INNOCENT CHILDREN shouldn’t be celebrated; it should be expected. Any truly “good guy” would stand up for equality, regardless of female attention.