I miss this thing. The quick wit of the tip.
Signs drawn by sighs. Angry because of the way it lay lifeless. The only flicker came from my eyes but my mind too weak to see. What made of it? The image I wouldn’t let be. Not that I couldn’t.
I’ve conquered sleepless nights. Joyously.
I was a slave. But freedom never was this bitter, no betrayal ever this foul. Though, here I am watching my own hands feed me nothing. Until I starve.
I think there is a misunderstanding between first impressions and irrelevance.
That I should be judged for the skin I chose to be in which unfaithfully denies me an entry to the norm, where billions of people strive to be a part of (sadly). That I am missed of opportunities because, all this time, who I struggled to become is now being used against me: to be different, to be smart, to be me/creative/weird/lost/and so forth.
When people mix first impressions with premature assumptions, damn am I going to lose.
So don’t tell me I need to dye my hair back to its “natural roots.” Don’t tell me I can’t have ink on my skin, all over my body, any part of my body. Don’t tell me I can’t have my nose ring. Don’t tell me I can’t talk the way I talk. Don’t tell me to strap on a pair of heels when all I want to do is chill in my dope Raptors 7s.
And don’t tell me I can’t get a job unless I fit this pretty little Asian girl mold, spewing sweet words with a big grin on my face, eyes sparkling. I have a degree from a top communications program, and I sure as hell know my stacking experiences and developing skills will get me somewhere far. But before I go on ranting more, let me get back to being me.
Rumor has it
Accidental vengeance decided to hurt more than it’d heal
Shatter more than it’d break
And the perpetual fear instilled
Now in many souls
The many nights you lay wide awake
Wake the broken hearts
Of those who hope for a new day
Have you ever picked at pieces you loved of people you knew and hope that all of those pieces are in someone somewhere out there? The perfect person for you.
I woke up half an hour past my alarm this morning, as usual.
Next to me was my dog Bebe snuggled in the crevice of my armpit. I dragged my ass, literally, up from bed and failed to wake my little sister up for school. She turned off her third alarm eventually and murmured, with eyes half closed, “I hate you, you never remember to wake me up.” Then she proceeds to urinate in the bathroom as I brush my teeth, as if it was some kind of punishment for my, albeit unintentional, forgetfulness.
I wore the outfit I contrived in last night’s pre-sleep ritual. I was deciding between my Hunter rain boots or beat-up suede ankle booties (for the sake of fashion) and asked my little sister for a second opinion; she asks me what she should wear today in return. I walked out of my room in my shiny burgundy Hunter boots; she’s still in her racerback tank and jeans.
In the kitchen, I see my mom wrapped up the Cajun-marinated chicken breasts she grilled this morning in aluminum foil; next to it was a ziplock bag of steamed broccoli and cherry tomatoes, both laying on the island. I grabbed my lunch for the day. My mom also made a breakfast sandwich for me and my little sister. It was layered as so: toasted Italian bread, two slices of muenster cheese, a fried egg, and…15 slices of ham. I was running late for work so I quickly grabbed my breakfast for the day. “Bye Haw Ga Yun!” I yelled as I jotted out the house. It’s pouring out, but warm. And I just received a flood warning on my iPhone. Hunter boots were a good choice.
I made my bus today, not my usual luck since I almost always miss it by one minute. I sat down toward the back and texted my two sisters: “Why does mom always stack like 15 slices of ham in sandwiches…” The thought made me nauseous. And my older sister, who no longer lives with us, texted us back: “Lol I miss mom’s sandwiches.” To which I promptly put down my phone, smiled immensely, and ate my mom’s meaty sandwich.
Because one day, I will miss how she stacks 15 slices of ham in her warm sandwiches.
I love you mom.
WORDS ARE EMPTY.
Everyone is the same.
Until you meet someone different.
And he’ll be a keeper.
For the sake of patience.
Still dead inside.
Hoping to wake up,
I’ve been studying the past,
though the present is a test in itself.
You were right to believe words became somewhat empty,
and so there wasn’t much left to say.
You pulled away,
and I willingly pushed.
You were quick to retrieve all senses,
and mine still intertwined.
one by one.
I am fine.
Too many people fear that simply being themselves isn’t good enough. Fools. They have no idea what they’re missing out on. Words withheld, actions dismissed. What’s lost is what could have been and not what has to be. But their minds are too busy filled with and filling with disappointments and doubts, without substantial grounds. Why do they imagine the worst and not the best? Why fear.
If this is you, just stop it. Be yourself. Admirers will flock to you, and all you will have to offer is you in the purest form.
Now, watch them fall in love with you.
What I’ve come to realize is that everyone is using someone for something. Whether it’s comfort, companionship, spite, danger, or misery, there’s a take and, sometimes, a give. At the end of it all, all we are really concerned about is how much time was — and still is — wasted. And whether it was worth it.