• Might

    I mourn
    Not the life we had together
    But the one we could have had.
    The one we saw in between coffee at the breakfast table and the museum trip we took once.
    That life that was glimmering and shiny and seemed too perfect to be true.
    The life that you and I both wanted so desperately.
    The life we deserved.
    The life that maybe if we had reached out a little further
    Pressed the tips of our fingers into that shining, shimmering, fantastic light,
    Maybe we could have grabbed it.
    Maybe there’s still time
    Maybe there’s not.


    I mourn the life that I wanted with you.
    I mourn the person that I could have been and the person that you could have been.
    God,

    you could have been great.


    I think that if I were to blow this candle out now, the last thing that you laid your hands on in this place,
    That I would extinguish the both of us.


    But I must put out the flame.
    Or it could burn this house down.

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  • The Woman From the Other Side

    I miss the one I was before I knew. One time I stepped into the smelly bathroom because it was the only one vacant and as I turned on the light a large black spider ran from the door frame to under the toilet. And I knew. It knew it was in there with me, under the toilet, waiting. But there was no other bathroom and I really had to go, bladder ready to burst. In that moment, I wished I hadn’t seen that spider. I wish when I walked into the bathroom I had kept my gaze up, instead of down, and had never seen it. That way, when I used the bathroom I would have sinply uses the bathroom. But instead I was a twitching, jumpy mess in there, waiting for the spider that I knew was sharing breathing space with me, to come and bite my flesh. Of course it would have been the same if I hadn’t known. The spider still would be there, but my anxiety wouldn’t.
    It is the same with him. I miss the one I was before I knew. Before. Before I knew how he slept and how he snored loud. Before I knew that he always cut his fingernails down to the nubs and before I knew that he smelled like cheap shampoo. Before I knew that he only liked to hold hands for about 5 minutes before he claimed his hands were going numb. I long for the one I was before I knew how his skin sizzled against mine. I miss the one I was before I had been seen by him. Before I was seen by him I had never been seen by anyone. Not even myself.
    If I could, I would go back now. Not forever, but for just a moment. And I would look at myself. Really look at myself. I would examine every remarkable piece of me. Where my thighs meet my hips. Where my ears meet my head. Where my knees bend and my stomach dips and the birthmark on my shoulder blade. And I would bow to her. My creator. The me who existed first. The woman from before. I deserve to know her.

  • Carpinteria, California, USA

    Four weeks ago I went to visit R in Carpinteria, the little beachside town he lives in that’s tacked on the edge of Southern California.

    I had never been to California before this trip but I’ve seen movies about it. And isn’t it interesting that even though I’ve seen movies about it and heard about the beach and the movie stars and the palm trees I thought that was all talk? California had become something of a crystallized shimmering dream to me instead of a real place. But, wow. It’s definitely real.

    The whole town seems to sit on two main roads right off the highway. One road leading to the beach, and the other leading to worldly desires such as a library, a church, a grocery store, and of course the only establishment that makes a town a “town” instead of “the middle of nowhere”: Starbucks.

    The first night that I arrived, R and I ate at a little restaurant outside where I proceeded to get tipsy off one hard kombucha and then we stuffed ourselves with biscoff ice cream cones as we walked back to his house. The whole time I could smell the salt of the sea. I could taste the ocean hanging in the air.

    When we finally got to the beach a few days later, I was so happy. There’s just something endlessly special about standing in the ocean feeling the waves lap at your feet and pull at your heels. I felt so human in that moment. Human and mortal in the presence of the almighty. The ocean herself. Neither human nor mortal. “Beautiful” is simply the greatest understatement of all time when describing the ocean but it’ll do for now.

    R and I got to explore the Santa Barbara area, Ventura, and a huge pier with a little aquarium built right on the end of it! We also ate our weight in ice cream, slathered on our weight in sunscreen, and cried about the state of housing in the United States. Or more accurately, I cried and R patted my back.

    I can honestly say I get it. Why you all love California so much. I see why there are movies about it and songs and hotels named after it. I suppose next the next place to visit is New York, who I believe rivals California in number of Americans in their fan club.

  • Blank Spot

    I think,
    If you could choose
    I would be a piece of white paper. Your blank spot.
    That way you could draw all over me. Fill me in with every single thing you think I should be filled with. And when you’re done,
    You could close the cap and walk away.
    And I,
    Of course
    Would still be filled up. Waiting for a flood to clear the markings.

    There’s a vast white emptiness right in the center of my stomach.
    Then your hand hovers over it, I almost think the spot is filled.
    It is not.

  • My love for “Bien Pretty”

    I believe love is always eternal. Even if eternity is only five minutes.

    -Sandra Cisneros “Bien Pretty”

    This week, I wanted to talk about literature. Some of my favorite literature to be exact. Since graduating college, I’ve really missed having in-depth conversations about a good piece of literature and absolutely freaking out about how much a passage means to me. Of course working at a bookstore I get to dip my toe into a good book conversation with my coworkers from time to time but we’re always interrupted by customers half way through (no shade to customers though! I’ll chat their ears off too when given the chance). But since this is a blog focused on my writing I thought it would be fun to highlight some of my biggest writing inspirations.

    Sandra Cisneros is one of my favorite authors. The way she describes the experiences of women, especially women of color, is magical. Better than magical! She perfectly puts into words all of these little thoughts and aches that I’ve never even known could be described out loud. When I read something she’s written it’s like I’m reading about myself. In my own writing, I hope to channel her even a little bit.

    Her short story, “Bien Pretty”, is one of my favorite stories to read. I read it when I’m sad, when I’m yearning, when I’m feeling hopelessly poetic and wrapped up in my own mind. It’s about a young woman who falls in love with a man and as her affection for him grows she turns away from loving herself. She realizes that her love for him is what made him special in the first place. She essentially created the man she loved from scratch. What is more feminine than making your lover into what you’ve always wanted? Creating them from the very beginning. Forming your lover into a story.

    My writing often attempts to make my lovers into stories or poems or recipes or lessons or chapters. It’s therapeutic in a way. Literature is much easier to understand than a whole person. I believe that Sandra Cisneros would get that. I’d love to meet her one day. I bet she would have phenomenal things to say about loving and being loved.

  • Sick and Hungry

    I’ve been sick for the past week. Yes, the mighty Sinus Infection struck me down. After the events of the past 2 years, I was just happy to say that I didn’t have Covid, despite the fact that I still felt unspeakably shitty. And I don’t get sick very often so my immune system was working overtime. I mean, I was exhausted!
    But while I was sick I lost my sense of taste and smell. I’m regaining it slowly now as my congestion is passing, but that loss of taste and smell was by far the worst part of this whole thing.
    I bit into a slice of pizza and it might has well have been a chunk of soggy cardboard. A fluffy round of garlic bread was nothing more than a beautiful decoration on my plate. Nothing breaks your heart more than garlic bread sitting tasteless and unappetizing on a plate. Or perhaps only foodies can lament this way about garlic bread…
    Thankfully, food blogs were my saving grace. Everytime I saw someone cutting into blueberry cheesecake or opening a Nutella filled cronut or tearing into their foccacia bread or basting their honey chicken tenders (I watch hours worth of instagram reels of this stuff lol), I felt that I could taste it! Even with my senses being completely out of wack, I could taste every single spice, every drop of fresh squeezed juice, felt that texture of perfectly cooked chicken breaking apart in my mouth.
    Shoutout to my favorite food blog, Moribyan.com, for constantly making me crave things I’ve never actually tasted but taste in my dreams over and over again. I swear I can smell her kitchen if I sniff hard enough!
    As summer is on its tailend, I’m starting to get excited for autumn! With Autumn comes the hearty spirit of making baked goods and I plan to make as many as possible this year. Hopefully I can master a new baked treat every Friday starting in September. I attempted to do this last year but the Ghost of Autumn got my soul and I lost all steam midway through October (the Ghost of Autumn is simply another name for seasonal depression, as “Ghost of Autumn” sounds a lot more like a mysterious, endearing, storybook character rather than an intangible general feeling of the cold and dark weather making me cry on a random Tuesday).
    Colder seasons approach, as does the mug of hot cider to my lips! I plan on consuming as much pumpkin things and cinnamon things and apple things and walnut things as possible. And yes, I’m a pumpkin spice girl. Life is too short not to be.

  • One of Many Poems

    This poem is a crime of passion.
    This poem is on fire.
    This poem is a fresh baked potato with bacon and gouda and green chiles.
    This poem is an icy blue margarita that’s more sugar than tequila
    This poem is red hot.
    This poem is metal fork to mouth, juicy and savory and dripping down your chin, staining your white shirt!
    This poem is Indian food in your apartment on a Saturday night.
    It’s tikka masala and gluten free naan and mango lassi with a straw.
    This poem is edible.

    This poem is a crime of passion.
    This poem is on fire.
    This poem is a well moisturized afro and a bright colored shirt and roller skates.
    This poem is a summer night in the backseat of a pickup with the stars glittering down on us.
    This poem is red hot.
    This poem is corn rows and sweet potato pie and coconut oil skin.
    This poem is sitting on your porch with you in a fold up chair as you sip on iced tea, smoking menthols with your cousin who’s not your cousin and is really just your mom’s cousin’s best friend.
    This poem is tangible.

    This poem is a crime of passion.
    This poem is on fire.
    This poem is the feeling in the pit of your stomach
    The throbbing of your brain against your skull
    The pinch of the muscle in your arm
    The weight on your organs
    The burning in your eyes
    This poem is red hot.
    This poem is electricity striking across the night sky, casting a white vein between the clouds.
    This poem is the thunder and the snow and the crack in the road.
    This poem is weather.

    This poem is a crime of passion.
    This poem is on fire.
    This poem is nothing more than a poem.
    This poem is words on a page.
    This poem is whatever I say it is.
    This poem is my mind and now it’s yours.
    This poem is red hot.

  • Halved

    I’ve never half loved you.
    Everything with you is whole.
    Whole self
    Whole breath
    Whole gaze.
    To half love a person would be to give half the heart,
    I suppose.
    I never had that chance.
    Each half of my heart held you together.
    It created all of you from nothing.
    But I only half loved myself during this time.
    I half loved the summer in the same way.
    When the red sun
    Brightened your eyes
    My heart fumbled
    And gave itself over to you,
    Leaving only a fraction left for me.

  • The piece of you stuck in me

    On nights like this I think of him

    By nights like this, I mean every other night

    And by think of him I mean lament

    I mean mourn

    I mean smile while I’m doing something else

    Smile to myself while I’m showering

    and drinking chamomile tea

    and playing Animal Crossing

    and blinking slowly and cleaning my room

    His name is a hum

    It’s a song I can’t get out of my head

    The rhythm thrums against my brain, tapping on every nerve at all times

    I am the pollen of the echinacea

    and he is the wind or the bumblebee or the rain or whatever other handsome and lovely thing that shakes me from my core.

  • You. In Many Parts. 2

    My post this week is a continuation of “You. In Many Parts”. I had fun writing this one, though the subject matter seems bleak. This piece is unfinished (as every writer says), but I think it perfectly sums up my feelings towards this “you” and thus, must be published!

    2. When you look at me, you don’t really look at me. You look through me.

    You don’t look through me like I’m a mirror or a window or a ghost or something helplessly poetic like that, but you look through me like I’m eyeglasses. Like you’re happy that I’m there so you can use me to see things more clearly.

    And when I take my clothes off for you there’s surprise in your eyes. It’s like you’re seeing me for the first time, but really you’re not. You’ve seen me a million times before this, in a million different iterations before this, only just now you’re seeing my body.

    And is this how it is? Do you really have to see my body to know that I have one? Just like you think you’d have to see my brain to know that I have that too?

    I have existed before you for many years. Centuries, it seems, and in many universes. I am a constant for you. Always here and ready to make myself an extension to you. I’m your extra limb in this life. In another life perhaps I’m the chains on your tires. In the next, the spare blanket beneath your bed. And in your favorite life, maybe I’m your mother, loving you without conditions or expectations.

    Don’t I exist for you? Don’t I exist in real space? Don’t I prove to you everyday that I deserve you? That I deserve your gaze? Your soul? Don’t I give you my mind every night and my skin every morning? Don’t you beg for it? It feels that way, at least.