Ok? Ok

Older men.

Yes, let’s talk about it. Unfortunately, outside of high school I’ve never been kissed by anyone within a 10 years radius of my age. Is that gross? I don’t know. This all changed last year at a biker bar where I finally let someone within my age range plant  a sloppy kiss on my lips amongst other things.. It was fun, actually it was a lot of fun!  I met him the day he got out of prison. ( He stabbed a guy in a fight. he was protecting himself, allegedly)and he offered me cocaine which I respectfully declined. I did tell him I carry narcan on me just in case. I have loved plenty that were crippled by the weight of addiction. Sec runs in my lineage. I also decided that if I’m around these sort of place, it’s kinda my duty as an active participant as someone that lives on society’s fringes to protect my community. Besides, in my early 20 if a guy had a needle to his arm, I fell in love. No, I won’t discuss.

Anyway, he told me if he were to overdose, I am NOT to save him because that means he wasn’t meant to survive. Typical biker tough guy bullshit. Whatever. He was cool and I felt alive. I never spent time with anyone in my age group in this way. I felt like a high school kid again. It was nice to shoot the shit and speak about things that we both understood. With older men, I have to act as a google translate for them. They don’t understand the impact “type shit,” “mood” and “SLAY!” has on me.  Those phrases are a part of my daily vernacular. I refuse to lose them for anyone.  I enjoyed our time together even though the flame burned out within the same 24 hours it was ignited. I’m trashy, but also refined and at times. Some may even say bougie. I like my expensive handbags and Erewhon lattes.  After all, I am a suburban black girl and I simply refuse to apologize for that. Realistically, it would’ve never work with who a man that was  living in a pickup truck that doesn’t start to later.He did later transition to a twin size bed in sober living. Wish him the best though. I still run into him to this day and I always think about what could’ve been.. had he just had his life just a little bit ~more together~ shit could’ve worked. Maybe, I finally at my big age finally would have an actual boyfriend. Not some person I occasionally see after a night out and shoot the shit or someone that just leaves me hanging in a room of constant confusion, but someone that liked me so much they wanted the world to know it. However, that’s besides the point. I’m not the spokesperson for high class, but even I have my limits with what I would truly allow into my life.

Besides that all the men I’ve encountered has been my mom’s age or close to it. Some have exceeded her in age. (She’s in her 60s btw ) I know, I know please don’t remind me.

This isn’t  because I ever was  trying to live a Lana Del Rey fantasy. In fact, it’s one of the many things I’ve related to about her. The truth is I’ve always attracted an older crowd and simply enjoyed older men. Or so at least I thought I did.  I liked that I was younger and they were older. We could teach each other things as a way to time travel, fast forward or rewind. We both contained a gift for a time the other hasn’t lived to experience in their prime. There’s something darling about that to me.  Disgustingly, I admit I have enjoyed being a prize. I knew what it meant for them to have me around. They got to have access to a young woman’s beauty, mind, body and most importantly her spirit. They got to live a pseudo Hefner fantasy and got to brag about it to their golf club buddies the next day. Scratching my numbers and hitting a jackpot surely exceeded any lottery ticket. I knew that and so did they. That was one of the exciting parts of it.

As for me, I got out of it a false sense of experience. I’ve told myself that I rather “practice” with them so when I meet my husband I would know what to do. ( Please don’t ask me what I was trying to prepare for. I don’t know! Yet, I felt I needed more experience with the opposite sex dude to my extremely late bloomer nature. ) I could be a good woman to the right man after I’ve experienced their dad and grandfathers. This is an extremely faulted way to think. My husband never came.

I’m still waiting.

I’m starting to think he’s another character I wrote in my head. There’s a plethora of individuals who exist only in my daydreams. I’ve dreamed of the life I could have with random men I see on my fyp as I doomscroll and decompress before bed. They don’t know it, but we are in fact married and they’re my 13th husband.  I refuse to blame my father for why I’m attracted to men who are older. Sure, he is a part of it to some psychological degree. Maybe I’m seeking safety and reassurance in a n ocean of salt and pepper hair.. I’m currently at the crossroads of realizing this has been extremely one sided. These men are gaining so much more than I am getting back. I’m left with guilt, disappointment and shame. The thought of some creepy old man even have the access to touch my body let alone my lips makes me gag. I can’t imagine dating a 21 year old unless it was truly a deep life connection. I know it can and has happened, but it would never be something I seek. Older men have always sought after younger women. Tale as old as time. It’s very vicious when I sit with the idea of someone who was probably 15 when I was born making their way anywhere near me intimately. I’ve rode the back of a chopper that belonged to a man that served in the army in 1991!! Let’s repeat that 1991! He graduated high school before I was born. Why are you kissing me and asking me if I want kids. Mind you, he has two failed marriages! TWO!!!! The more I think about it the more I’m starting to see older men as a threat.  How quickly a man can turn from daddy to demon…

That was two weeks ago and again without fail, I let another older man allow me to let my guards down and I repeat the cycle of regret. It’s disgusting actually and I. Take rThis man is a stranger to me. But he wore a cowboy hat? Is that all it takes to get to know me? Now, before you get your head thinking about which sticky scenario I got myself into, it was nothing super salacious. But it was too much for me and my boundaries! When I woke up the next morning, it felt like I got hit by a Peterbilt. I stupidly let this man drive me back to LA from Orange County. Another thing that I’ve told myself to stop doing - letting myself into the cars of random men! I rather ride the back of a Harley if I’m gonna so feverishly. I can risk it and jump off, but in a car you’re fucked.

I’ve been couped up at home since May because I had a procedure done. One that changed me forever and as I heal I’m ready to get back to the road. Live as fast as I used to, but that’s not the reality. Things are different now. My body is sacred in a way it hasn’t been prior May.  I guess my frontal lobe has finally developed and in classic Penny Angela fashion, it’s a delayed experience. Always committed to the design of being a late bloomer.

I do long to meet a man who is my age. I wonder why no one in their late 20s or 30s approach me? Only super horny old men that girls on TikTok would call me a fool to be disgusted by. I’m over the daddy thing. It’s all fun and games until a man who the same age as your mom is yelling at you over the phone for something as stupid as wanting them to call you. I remember this “daddy” who rode a Harley schooled me over the phone like I was his daughter. Said I need to call him when he wants to and not when I want to. Sorry, dude I was curling my hair?!!  I want to share experiences with someone around my age. Not a man in his 60s who has been to Sturgis and all the iconic runs. I want to go to Sturgis so bad and I want to go with someone who hasn’t experienced it yet. I long to be their first as they are mine.. I dream of making memories with someone who hasn’t seen it all yet not someone who is telling me he’s been there done that.  I don’t want to hear about your ex wife or the one after the first one. Where am I supposed to fit ? Please reassure me. You’re over marriage? So am I to hide the fact I dreamed of eloping in Vegas. Reciting our vows in front of a trailer park Elvis.  The idea of a “just married” banner waving in the wind  on the back of a Harley as we ride into the desert. When I picture heaven on earth that is what I see. A smarter woman would be too even if she never married, but I’m naive in that way. I do think my wedding will be special and it will be my first and last time I’ll walk down the aisle. I’m unfortunately human and I want to experience the illusion of love even if it leads me to me to utter devastation and my demise. 

When the world turns off at night and it’s only me, I must admit, I even as much welcome the idea of it.I have become disturbed of myself when the moon comes to the sky and she’s not alone. She hold hands with the stars and there as I gaze at her. My hands reach for someone to hold and no one is there.

The conclusion is simple. I have outgrow the men who are stunted in their own evolution. Their faults don’t lie on me. Their eagerness to infiltrate the closest fountain of youth that pays them the slightest amount of attention is partially my fault, but also theirs. I’ve washed my skin and I am clean now. No longer a prize, but a human. I know I can love so well and for now I will keep it to myself. Pour it back to me.

A new cycle of life starts tomorrow.

The older I become, the more I understand the verbal text of Linda. She foreshadowed the cruelty that resides in the hidden places of each and every person I would consider a friend, partner, lover and persons you place in between.

I was only yay-high when she spoke these words into me, “those are not your friends, those are only your associates. There’s no such thing.”  She would tell me this as I carefully watched her perform the necessary devotions to femininty.

But what about Deborah? Andrea? Erin and Lauren?

The friends I held hands with at recess because I was a shame of a kickball player. So we hugged trees and read books instead. Erin kept me safe from a racist white boy named Ryan who would tell me his skin is better than mines everyday on the bus ride to school. He resented being on the “Black bus” because that meant he was white trash.

No, Linda you’re wrong. These are my friends and lifeline. It has been this way and it shall remain. I found safety within the walls of Lauren’s townhome. A gated community was a life I never known.  So I held tightly to the idea of my friends as statues. Unwavering  and everlasting. A  display of their love and friendship to me that would last forever.

The wind later changed its whistle register into the sound of crunchy footsteps in the snow. Soon spring bloomed a generous bouquet. Summer gave way to sticky kisses of freedom. And there I was a new season alone. Linda, was in fact right as mother’s usually are.

Sickness and disability makes an uncomfortable sentence.

It enters the room before the you do.  It speaks for you even when you’re silent. Most people you love will fall flat and that’s what they don’t tell you. So be prepared for it. The longer the absence, the less of a chance there are for any of interactions.  The longer the distance the more awkward the acknowledgement becomes. Both parties aware of the distance between them.

People are selfish and I’m no stranger.  In many ways it’s natural. The main characters to our show undoubtedly should be ourselves.       That is a simple thing to understand.

My curiosity lies between the disappointment and disappearance of those that you once considered statues. How quickly your own disabilities  can make those you once loved change faces. Is it because my face looks grey and my bones are prominent? Or because I’m not as strong as I was two weeks ago ?

I know I’m  no longer fun for what my body cannot do, my mind is still free! I’m galloping in pastures on a horse named “Bucky.” I’m chainsmoking cigarettes with outlaws and shoving  their dirty fingers deep inside my throat for the fun of it.

Imprisonment only exists to the body. An animal is only caged in flesh, never spirit. As long as one keeps their imagination and remains curious, they will always be free.

No one knows how they will react until it happens. You think you have nothing until you lose your health and freedom then you realize you once had everything. You’ll ask, “why me?” I want to belong to the sun again.  You’ll see others live life the way you used to, before it happened. You are now a voyeur. Everyone sooner or later forgets about you. Even family. You watch as the rooster crows first thing in the morning. You’re up before anyone else because you never sleep. You sit there. Waiting for life to come by and it doesn’t. It doesn’t bother you much because you are now apathetic. This is new to you and it’s new for me too. Depression is family. Sadness, a stranger. Happiness is in the sunshine. But apathy? This is novel. For me. I have always been one to feel dark and vibrant. To feel suppressed of any emotion is a concern I’m trying to work out of. Unfortunately, energy is what I lack so I simply do not care.

I’ve grown to fear, I’ll never be beautiful the way I once was.  The woman I’ve grown into all my life I’ll never see again.  I am getting acquainted with someone new.  I know in this catotonic solitude, I am not so unique.  Pendulums do as they do. The current will shift, but I will never forget. I’ll remember. Coworkers will assume I have moved on and I’m better. For what’s reflected on the outside is presumably the same within.

such fools.

Family and friends alike, but I know the secrets the ocean told me when I was under. The wind carries the truth and she knows everything.

Sometimes things get lost when you move. Things you once cherished gets lost in the process.  It doesn’t mean you won’t miss it when it’s gone, but you can live without it. Somehow, it got lost in the way. You’ll remember it randomly when you’re baking a cake or entertaining friends looking for that  particular piece of silverware. You’ll only remember it when you remember that there was a time you once needed it. For it’ll be too late.

It’s gone. New tenants have moved where you once spilled love. You hope they cherish what you once you had that was left behind.

treasure.trash.treasure.

some are excited, but most are frightened noticing grass isn’t as green this afternoon

the roads are hauntingly quiet. desolate with little to no life. despair is in the air. will there be a chance of hope to be had again?

The day is Mother’s Day and she wept.

last cycle of lifetime, visitation is open today

an eviction notice on the front door painting I am not with child. Such a cruel joke the games nature can play!

an ironic reminder that I wasn’t fertilized last month and now forever. no one ever willing to see the potential in my acres. A home could’ve been built there.

I promise you, the land is good land! The soil is golden and abundant. Crops would be safe here. Cattle too!

the grief, immeasurable.

My mother cried from Long Island- a gutteral sound.

take notice of the words she spoke into me.

You would’ve made a great mother.

wishing to see her child with child in her lifetime.

I immediately had thoughts of Dylan and Priscilla. A bloodline met a stop sign all because of my incoming storm to wipe out an entire generation.

Is this an ethic cleanse of my lineage?

villagers begin their preparations.

water, canned goods, lightbulbs too.

what’s the point of light when graveyards are naturally so dark even on the sunniest of days?

A village, ridden of ghosts and the carcasses of dead children.

It’s no use

Oh, wheel of Fortune, the house knows I’ll keep on losing as I always have. My refusal to win made me slave to my own detriment.

happiness never lived here only tears of blues and chrome. A Porsche immediately filled the spot of where the Mercedes once parked. If you look down, you’ll never be able to see yourself going up.

demolition day won’t be so bad after all. Simply fast forwarding to the likely inevitable.

quite a shame! A fool these villagers must be, to think this vessel could healthily inhabit a source of beauty and vitality !

HA!

parasitic growths destroyed this land and potential congenital markers. the vitality of this very village, undoubtedly could’ve been the end of life for the courier. Ancient history and pathology may tell a story of a land, incapable of being hospitable even before its extinction.

obliterate it before its fatal potential marks everyone in sight. To the point of extermination not only of a particular species, but all life.

The same vessel that led me to the airport so I could move to LA. That was all her. One leg in front of the other. I can’t give my mind credit for that one. We all know had I acted purely on thoughts, I would’ve stayed right there. I overthink everything. My body did the heavy lifting figuratively and literally.

The same body that’s been followed home by shadows I didn’t send for. The body that held my cat for the first time and took her home.

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Since 18 I caught on that pills were initially needed to keep my feet planted to this earth

Wellbutrin saved me. Celexa and lexapro felt like electroshock. I imagine it’s a tamer form to what houswives in the 1960s had to go through. As for Ativan? My sweet Ativan. My favorite girl knocked me out each time my mind made a car crash out of itself. Benzodiazepineshave a way of taking the bad parts of life out of you.

Depression and anxiety are my family.

I am used to them. Depression is habit forming. Similar to an addict, one may even begin to romanticize the ritual of that state. You play “Venus in Furs” by the Velvet Underground. Prepare a shot for yourself.

spoon

water

lighter

bubbles

draw it in

tourniquet

slap. slap. slap

bang it

dogfood where blood should be

you’re safe inside your mother’s womb again. Its warmth.

when depression visits me,I know how she’ll behave. Similar to a family visiting you for Thanksgiving holiday. I know which room they’ll stay in. The temperature they like the heat to be. How they like their coffee in the morning.

I have developed the habit of depression quite well. Just like a family member visiting your home, you know eventually they’ll leave. They have their own life to get to. Nothing sweet can ever stay. Because of this, I know when I get to that sullen feeling of being it’s temporary. Some visits are longer than others. My awareness of this cycle keeps me horizontal when naturally my body feels comfortable vertical.

a stranger has been knocking at my door.

Their name is sadness. A familiar face they are not.

Sadness is despair without a place to call home.

It attaches to you like a weighed blanket that’s suffocating. When you ask for help to remove the heaviness, nothing is there. Your friends look at you in confusion. As you do to yourself. You can feel it, but it’s invisible to others and yourself. You begin to shadowbox this unknown creature.

It’s when I’m staring at my Nespresso machine after it pulls me a double shot of scuro. Watching the remaining drops fall slowly one by one.

It’s when I realize I failed Dylan and Priscilla miserably. I’ve been thinking about them often lately. I never realized how much I needed those two until I could no longer be with them. Had I worked better as a woman this would’ve been different.

Yet, I was left alone in the garden waiting for pollination that would never come. Men are greedy and think poorly with theirs heads, this I am sure. Only the wasted breath took time to know me. A smarter man has always known better. He knows my design is faulty without getting my acquaintance. Smart enough to know his heritage wouldn’t be safe with me. The likelihood I would pass my melancholy to Dylan and Priscilla is very high. Wise men can sense this.

I ruin everything

they leave me alone

I’ll never be a mother to anything besides my kitty and my creations,

that’s sad

I’m sad that my life has come to this here moment

an organ to an orphanage

no white wedding gown

raspberry filled vanilla cake that I’m too afraid to touch so I eat the entire thing

I’m sad that the calories will always matter

not depresssed

just sad of the way things are and the ways in which they go

I’ll never see the best parts of me within someone else

left to only wonder what my mini favorite color would’ve been

Priscilla, would she have written poetry just like me?

Dylan, I wonder about your hair and the shape of your eyes.

if you would’ve looked like me

sad when I think of what’s never happened even when I was operating at optimal capacity

wait,

I hear someone knocking at my door

a new visitor

after three unassuming knocks

they open the door

they have a key

it’s you again

I’m not worried if I no longer can walk into a Brandy Melville, but because who I become when the pounds stack on to me. I’m depressed in ways that would make Van Gogh blush. I become an avalanche of the opaque nature of the noonsday demon. When I’m at that point, all I want is for the world to turn black.

and it does.

I lost the weight for self preservation. It always has been a treacherous walk. No matter how often, I find myself walking back down a glutinous trail, it has never felt familiar or true for me. A reality I rejected similar to the way a 17 year old who resents their hometown all throughout high school. Filled with the eageriness to meet the future in a way that can only be achieved when you’re too young to know any better. The harshness of life hasn’t met you yet. You’re just excited to see the world and to never look back.

Except, I do.

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Today, I’ve come to the realization that I am tired of man.

They do not and likely will never understand me or my complexities. Partly, because of their own incompetence, the other is because they don’t desire to see what’s inside of me. Other than their gross curiosity of what is or isn’t “bubblegum pink.” Those not so intrusive thoughts are rotting t…

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my favorite word.

welcome me back

start.

pause.

resume.

panic

then I do it all over again

if you were to ask me of an action that best describes me I would tell you,

“cyclic”

merry go round, always

committed to everything and nothing

all at once

lose the weight to gain it back,

start the poetry book, never publish

art is an experiment

a mad scientist, I am. Yes, indeed.

I can be better if I committed to myself the way I can for jobs I’m too afraid to quit

it’s safer to bet on the routine than the idea of my own legacy

self fulfilling prophecies cannot materialize for the person indebted to the act of stagnancy

my mind, the executioner of a silent paralysis

moving forward, going backwards on the chess board

stalemate

honor the commitments, bring home the happiness

gaze into bodies of water, notice the current

water is never still, unlike the tree that cannot move

the wind marries me in ways the earth cannot

change is the weight you carry from the garden of curiosity

the hardest part is never over, if the act of completion in undone

merry go rounds lose their novelty very quickly

seeing the same scenery, noticing landscapes you haven’t the fifth go around

there’s more to see on other rides,

rollercoaster instead.

Engraved acrossed my forehead in invisible ink

my mind is a vast land that is yet to be discovered but longs to be inhabited and quite frankly conquered by love and peace

hell here

Engraved acrossed my forehead in invisible ink

because I think too much, too soon and eagerly

I can’t adapt to change, but I long for the each seasons

I miss the east coast because I got to see Mother Nature in all her shades

when she’s a frigid bitch, but adorned with crisp ice tear drops from the lord above

When I was a child I would make snow angels to show my appreciation to the angels and the goddess that watched over me

her humidity made my skin damp, sticky and sweet. My hair brittle and sometimes dry

She was kindest in spring and fall when she bloomed and transitioned to between states of both intense warmth and kindness and frigid air

but I welcomed her eagerness to adapt and change. These are lessons I wish I could’ve absorbed into myself so I could feel what it’s like for be human

evolving and recharging

the planet we live on is constantly rotating so why can’t I??

surely, my performance changes every so often when the muse reaches me

my eyeshadow from pink to blue and lips nude to pink

the fabrics change and so does my hair

the fluctuations on the scale drive me insane, but are proof that in ways I’m constantly changing like the earth

that all isn’t lost. That perhaps I can be an adaptable image of the human experience

but my mind isn’t playing the same game as my body

my mind and change forms an allergic reaction

my brain breaks out into hives

histamine flourishes my mind until every thought becomes itchy

this is the reaction of immediate danger that doesn’t exist

allergies are when the body reacts in a way that it feels it’s protecting you from harm, though it’s attacking too much, too soon, too eager …

there isn’t harm when my routine changes

understanding my cranium is trying to protect me

but with strict supervision comes rebellious anxiety and stress which is what makes me feel so much

it makes me feel too much

I long to be conquered by daffodils and scenic roads that lead me to freedom

fruit sold on the side of the road, succulent berries and crisp lemonade

a kiss on the check from a kind old lady at a diner

a toothless bartender over pouring my whisky and coke

sharing a cigarette with a vagabond on the side of the road

Heaven here

I waved “see ya later” to my mother as she departed my quaint apartment on a dark street in Los Angeles via Uber Black. I couldn’t help, but to feel empty. Mom is my favorite word, Linda is my second favorite and she holds both of those spots.

My mother and I have an intricate relationship. As most teenagers, we didn’t get along when I lived with her. I wasn’t a rebellious teenager by any means. I remained on honor roll, never had any boys sneak in through my bedroom window or any boyfriends at all for that matter, she never had to worry about finding drugs or pregnancy tests hidden under my mattress or anything of the sorts. Despite my tumultuous upbringing, I was raised well because I’ve seen from first hand experience what happens when a child isn’t. While at the time, the only perfect example my parents gave me was on what NOT to do. I had to grow up fast. Elders told me I had an “old soul” or I was “mature for my age.” I grew resentful of that. I wish I could’ve just been a kid like my other classmates. I realized at an early age, childhood was something given only if a child’s parents could afford such an experience. Like trips to Disneyland or enrollment in after school activities like ballet or karate. The WIC vouchers in my mother’s wallet proved otherwise. I knew at an early age I was different.

I’ve learned hard work from my mother. Which she learned from my grandma. I won’t tell my mother’s story because it’s not mine to tell, but let’s just say in the regards of lineage my mother broke the cycle the best she could given the circumstances that she was given. She worked two jobs and wasn’t home a lot of the time. Either at work or catering to vices at the time that left me angry whenever I could smell the change in her presence. I knew when mommy was home and when mommy was home physically, but not entirely if you pick up what I’m putting down.

Her shape shifting nature left me resentful and rightfully so. It felt like she picked those things over me. I was too young at the time to understand the handcuffs of addictions or mental capacity at its brink. I too will later struggle with those issues.

I am my mother’s daughter.

Fast forward to present day and it’s the holidays. My favorite time of the year. My pink Christmas tree fills my tiny apartment with a warmth of “home” that I longed to feel as a child. But we were always moving around between motels and shelters. I lacked the stability of home. So now as an adult, I get to live in an answered prayer. It’s not a luxury building by any means, but I thank God everyday I have a little place of me in some random pocket in LA. My mom visits me every year for Thanksgiving and for that reason alone, it has now become my favorite holiday. Outshining both Halloween and Christmas. The older I get the more precious time with my mother becomes. As I blossom into a elegant grown woman, my mom enters seniority and with that comes a lot of self realizations for the both of us…

Without fail each year she visits we get into a catastrophic argument. Usually over small things that build up over the time she’s here and then BOOM! Things are being said that can be taken back, but not forgotten… Hurtful and cruel things are being spoken across the room that any normal person would likely have cried or temporarily cut off contact with the other party But we are used to this happening each year, that it has become a holiday of its own. Two things you can count on during Thanksgiving holiday: a plentiful array of food and an argument between with my mother.

I am not innocent in this. I haven ways that are a bit obsessive and compulsive. For instance, I don’t allow anyone on my bed without showering when they enter my home. One should be more accommodating to guests, but I have my ways and some things are hard to let go. This year, in an attempt to be a better hostess to my mother, I allowed her to sit on my bed as long as she immediately changed into house clothes. This was a compromise from the immediate shower she would have to take seconds after stepping in my apartment. Living in a dirty city like Los Angeles doesn’t help with my disgust of filth and germs. I KNOW there’s no way to be germ free. To live a life rid of any germs wouldn’t actually beneficial to anyone’s immune system, but it’s all in MY mind and after all, the worlds we create in our heads are the only real ones that matters anyway. As long as I see it, why should I care if you don’t ?

One fight that stood out to me this holiday was when my mom accidentally put a no-bake Dolly Parton chocolate pie in the oven. I told her the night prior, I was leaving it in the refrigerator to thaw out for us. My mom has a habit of hearing what she wants to hear. That’s something she has passed down to me.

The next day, I come home from work to her in the kitchen. Making tilapia, carrots and rice for dinner. “I even put the pie in the oven for us!” she said excitedly.

“What?” I replied. “The pie doesn’t need to be baked! I told you last night I was thawing it out for us!”

She told me she thought I said that the pie needed to be thawed out before baking (which doesn’t even make sense) and that I wanted her to bake the pie. Those words were literally never spoken.

“I was just trying to do something nice for you! I can’t do anything right with you! she yelled back at me.

I told her, she has a bad habit of always touching my stuff and misplacing things of mine to areas where she feels they should be. I felt bad for yelling at her over a pie that was too sweet and didn’t taste much good anyway.

She wa tight. She was just trying to do something nice for me. The sentiment still stands. The gesture was sweet in it’s intended nature. I have my ways and I’m working on it.

As I waited outside with my mom to get her uber black to LAX, i felt an enormous wave of guilt. Yes, she can get on my nerves, but that’s what parents do. I love her more than anything. She’s my favorite word and place. We often critique out parents and their behaviors, but what about ours? Sure, I wasn’t the most difficult child to raise, but I can have dark ways too that may be hurtful to others. In particular, my mother.

The dynamic between a mother and daughter is a intricate one. Woven by the threads of love and complexities.

I walked back up to my apartment to the sound of silence. The love that filled my place was now gone. Only left behind was the dinner she cooked me before she left to go back home. She wanted to make sure I had dinner for the next few days, though I have a freezer filled with food from Trader Joe’s.

A mother’s love is continuous.

You can’t control how others perceive and experience you. I wish I could. I am a writer, but I’ve grown fearful that isn’t how anyone thinks of me. I’ve created facades on social media of a someone who is more exuberant, beautiful and charismatic than I actually am. Someone who is firm in their convictions and morals. In actuality, I’m always second guessing myself, calling my friends last minute asking them what I should eat for dinner because I can’t make decisions for myself without confirmation that I’m doing the right thing. The problem is I don’t trust myself. I only trust myself to do the wrong thing even if I am right. I simply can’t trust that whatever I am doing, is what I SHOULD be doing, thinking and becoming…

I’ve been on the edge of releasing a poetry book for years now. Imposter syndrome told me no one would care, but recently an acquaintance told me “the only difference between you and them, is that they decided to just do it!” She’s right. The only difference between me and published poets, authors and writers is they decided to just get up and fucking do it. Everyone is scared. I have now realized in this emotion, I am not so unique. No one truly knows what they’re doing, but what makes successful people, successful is their ability to just go with it. Take a risk and see where it lands. It doesn’t matter who has the most talent, but who shows up.

I’ve never shown up to anything besides my 9-5 and that has served me only in the sense of survival, but not fulfillment.

So I found myself here. Dipping my toes into taking myself seriously as others do. Putting a title on it. I AM a writer. I AM poet. I do have things to say even if they don’t ultimately matter. If even no one reads this, it doesn’t change the fact that I am an artist.

So I welcome you to my journey of self-discovery and accountability. Showing up even if no one in attendance. I’ve been talking to myself for so long, I forgot what a conversation felt like.

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