in my sleep

i'd seen them multiple times before they were born, long before we knew that she could have children again. they'd be riding a horse down jasmine street, alongside my mother. it was always after dark, their bodies illuminated by the street lights. my mother would guide the horse down to the end of the street and stop in front of the stop sign. i couldn't call out to them loud enough for them to ever see me; even in my dreams my voice was silenced. i had to wait several years, but i always knew, even when my mother didn't.

making scents

and yes, we've had a few drinks, to remember all the things that we have selfishly done, so cautiously done.

and we regress and progress, to that nights we undressed all of our desires and regrets;
on top of all else you can detect, on our skin's drunken scent.
we arrive and we leave, done away with all grief of our newest and worst, actions never rehearsed. 
so yes, we've had plenty to drink, so to remember all the things that we have selfishly done, so lovingly done. to each other and more, and to those we claimed to adore.

they say

be careful, they say.

you don't want to make them uncomfortable. 

don't be vulgar or angry, or even too passionate.

differences scare people, so maybe blend in. 

maybe focus on only one cause. 

joining or blending everything confuses people. 

you can't give all of your attention to everything. 

what does intersectional even mean, anyway? 

you have it great, you should be more grateful. 

we all matter.

you should be angry about genital mutilation. 

protesting never helped anyone. 

stop offending people.

i can't fight for everyone that's down. 

i have a family to worry about and feed. 

yes, i heard you.

glass

i start making my way to bed, intending to lay under the moon's reflection. i notice her face on the broken glass that i have yet to pick up. it has been laying there against the hardwood floor as i strategically tip toe my way onto bed. there must be over a hundred tiny, broken pieces all spread out, all waiting to prick my skin sooner than later. i notice how they shine, as if the moon alone is making them brighter to catch my attention.

i see them, dammit.

still, i  leave them there for yet another sleepless night.

immersed

in the summer of my fifteenth birthday, i got home one day to find a long white dress hanging in the living room. my siblings were already dressed and my baby sister was going on and on about becoming children of god.

"today you will be baptized.", is all my mother said when she saw me gazing at the dress.

on the drive over to church, my father sped through the roads and speed bumps as he and my mother argued. i imagine this is something joyous and planned, for most families; all i managed to do was cry silently.

4am

i'm falling through this downward spinning hole that's determined to keep me up. thoughts and sounds and colors keep flashing inside of my head. the clock keeps ticking away as i keep tossing. this continues right before sunrise, right before i should be getting up anyway.  there are bags under my eyes, so dark that concealer is useless. the smoke in my head is finally so thick that there's little else i can focus on but the grey mass. it's now become too hard to differentiate between what's outside or what's actually inside of my head.

chancla

She'd tell me this story of how her mother often chased her around their home with a leather sandal. She'd run to the barn and climb to the top, knowing she couldn't go after her herself. She'd wait for hours until her father got home so he could talk her mother down. He'd climb up for her, and help bring her down. She would tell me how furious her mother would get and how she'd still mutter threats under her breath.

Just wait until your father leaves.

I never said it out loud, but I guess you become your parents.

behind the loner

we left during the night.
you told me to grab everything i could carry on my own, because we may not comeback. i couldn't grasp the severity of it, so i left behind all of my favorite books. in the hurriedness and black of the night, i also forgot a jacket; i spent most of that winter cold and shaking behind classroom doors.
the next few months were a whirlwind of going in and out of places. what i remember the most however, was my growing darkness. as we shifted from room to room, i only shifted deeper and deeper.

return

i heard he'd left a feline in the south and started making his way back west. by the end of the summer he arrived at my front door with his fur as radiant as ever. he says he's been roaming past the fields he used to viciously graze, looking for a patch to do his mending. 

but darling, there's no mending to be done. you've migrated thousands of miles and back with intentions to bandage wounds that do not exists outside of your own mind. you've come back expecting healing, and instead we've all lined up to wonder, "why now?" 

purple

i used to touch the bruises on my legs because the surge of pain would remind me over and over again. i would replay the moments in my head trying to remember what i did so i could avoid it ever repeating.

you always told me to wear jeans the next day so no one would see. you said it so lovingly, like you cared about not putting me in that awkward situation. i eventually convinced myself i didn't like shorts or skirts anyway.

do you think that in some weird twisted way, that's why purple is my favorite color?