#poems and poetry

i am a fighter even if my fight looks like 

cowering in a black room because bleak thoughts 

make the world spin, when i yearn to be motionless, anchored to ceramic tile—anchored to something.

i am a fighter even if my fight looks like 

cradling my quivering body when the world says 

i should wield it like machinery, 

as if these soft hands could ever tear down anything besides myself.

i am a fighter even if my fight looks like 

seeping blood, sweat and tears as i mourn the wounds instead of stitching them up.

i am a fighter even if my fight looks like

longing to surrender, but lingering for hope to trickle in like light through a cracked door. 

- “another kind of fighter”

i buried the map to my body, my being, like it was something to grieve, 

but you discovered it like treasure; you unearthed places only i knew of 

with such tenderness i would swear we’ve swapped bodies through kisses 

because how could anyone else find flowers in a wasteland? 

how else could i be loved, as i have always ached to be loved, 

if not through my own hands? 

- “buried treasure”

you cannot tell me that time is an arrow, as i stand taller than my mother, 

yet shrink in her shadow like it’s my first day of school and i am 6 years old. 

and often i still am, as i transport worms out of gutters and mourn snails squashed on pavements. 

but sometimes it’s 12 am and i’m 7, dissecting dark corners in my room like it’s a crime scene

and i’m now the investigator searching for ghosts

in place of monsters that once made me the victim. 

other times it’s 6 am and i’m 10, but i’m not stirring from nightmares, 

i’m slipping out of bed and into them, like shackles instead of slippers. 

then i’m 14 with secrets that mark me in scratches, in bruises and insecurities,

but i mask them with lies and schoolwork and sweaters and smiles

that split my face in half to distract from the pit that is my chest. 

suddenly—perhaps finally—i’m 16 in August and every hour is 3 in the afternoon;

the hospital bed feels like the precipice and everything that comes after is the descent

because time is not linear, it is not the arrow or the bullet. 

sometimes it feels like the plunge before the collapse,

like forever pointing the gun, but never pulling the trigger,

or standing with the bow drawn, but never letting go because you’re always pulling back. 

- “time is no arrow”

if turning water into wine

could make a man divine,

you must surely be sublime

the way you turn a February moon

into a waxing gibbous,

and a city sky’s dull stars

into clusters of wishes,

and the way you make

poetry from prosaic sentences,

and backseats and bedrooms

into replicas of heaven.

you change music of any genre

into gospel, of which i sing

in love and in reverence,

“you are divine,

you are divine!”

of this, i’m certain.

should you ever question your sanctity

or—god forbid—my worship,

may these poems be the proof,

the evidence,

the testament.

- “you are divine”

you were dollhouses and cartoons on Saturday afternoons, sleepovers and shenanigans and secrets our parents never knew, you were my first home away from home, the kind of sister you choose through love, not blood. you were swimming pools and root beer floats and amateur duets in the back seat of your mother’s car. 

you were letters from California and loneliness in classrooms and school buses in Florida. you were open arms and ease and faith that friends can stay friends despite how they leave. 

now you’re a birthday party i won’t attend, but you’re still a birthday i won’t ever forget. you’re a single picture posted on a screen, as i wonder what you sound like or if you still think of me. 

you’re Sunday brunches with people i don’t recognize, but sometimes envy, because i wish they were me; they get to know who you are now and i’ll only know who you used to be.

- “you were dollhouses”

⚠️TW: domestic violence, intimate partner violence⚠️

they left you breathless,

and you swear it’s the kiss 

before the punch,

or the kiss on the bruise

that was left after one

that proves it’s love.

the butterflies have left,

exhaled in every breath 

you cannot catch,

but should chase after

with urgency.

i weep for the ones

still out of breath 

and unable to move;

they mourn for butterflies

as they choke for monsters 

that look like lovers 

they once knew. 

- “still out of breath”

we stood outside in the cold, 

away from the restaurant,

just to take a moment or two alone

to kiss and to sway and to hold hands,

like two people who know how to love,

but not how to dance.

and the thought crossed my mind

in between the kisses and hugs 

that made a crisp night cozy,

that this is love, backstage;

these are the moments others can’t see 

or resent or reduce to a play,

like devotion is only a thing 

that’s faked for accolades.

but the way i’d let myself 

ice over in March

just to melt in your arms 

on an empty sidewalk,

or a vacant parking lot,

must just be scenes they crop out

in films we use like soundtracks,

instead of movies to watch.

- “backstage love”

i sink in sadness

and often it is love

that pierces through

the fog, 

the dark, 

the dread,

like a lighthouse 

unveiling the shore,

like something to swim to,

like something to swim for. 

- “lighthouse”

may the ones i leave behind never lie in their journals, in their conversations, or to themselves and call me “too good for this world,” when the world and i have always been two of a kind. let it be known that not all unsuitable things are too perfect or too light to be ill-matched for the place you were born into; some of us are heavy, some of us are undoubtedly flawed. no, we were never ethereal, we were mere mortals straining to be. 

- “ethereal”

i couldn’t say their name if i tried,

when there once was a time

i spoke it like a body takes a breath;

i never forgot how to breathe

like i never forgot what a person can mean,

despite how i avoid them by crossing the street.

-“like a body takes a breath”

tw // sexual abuse

a kiss without consent 

is not a kiss you have to count 

when a friend asks if you recall your first 

and they ask how it felt. 

a kiss that left an aftertaste 

of shame and regret, like a scar, 

is not a kiss at all

if it feels like you’re marred.

i beg a God who i often resent

that you learn how to kiss clean lips 

without reproaching your own

for the time someone’s unwanted tongue 

slipped through your mouth,

like a thief slinks through a home,

despite how many times you said no, 

no, no, no.

-“a kiss without consent”

love has no fixed face, love has many. 

i taste love on the lips of my lover. 

i hear love amidst my family’s laughter. 

i rest my head on love, 

on the shoulders of my mother. 

i feel love in my arms and beneath my palms,

and sometimes it looks like a purring cat 

or a sleepy-eyed dog.

to truly appreciate the essence of love 

is to recognize that it can be as diverse 

as it is abundant—and then suddenly,

love is not merely somewhere.

it can be anywhere and everywhere.

-“Valentine’s Day”

you speak like a ballerina pirouettes

and the world listens like an audience 

perched at the edge of their seats.

you make me want to sing, 

but my tongue slides against my teeth

like a lush clings to a wall

once they forget how to use their feet.

the words tumble alongside my gums

and drop from my clumsy mouth

like an accident, like silverware

slipping through butter fingers.

and like a child gets bruised knees,

i get bruised cheeks,

but you’ll plant kisses where it’s blue 

until everything turns pink.

- “clumsy mouth”

i can’t find heaven on the map,

but i’m too scared to ask for directions

because everyone’s got horns or fangs 

or blood on their hands.

i saw wings on your back 

and i’m still not sure if they’re real

or just feathers and wax.

you could be Icarus

though i’m hardly the sun.

it’s always why he plummets

and never where he sinks;

i sobbed that i’m the ocean,

the aftermath, the burial pit

but you just laughed.

so even if your halo’s plastic,

i’d still wear it like a ring 

if you asked.

- “where Icarus sinks”

Everyday I wake up

I hope something will change

But all I see is more lines on my face

The demons are laughing at the angels

That are supposed to protect me

Time passes by

There is only decay

All of my prayers keep running away

The darkness has depression

And there is no escape

༄

If I stay one more day

Maybe it will all be ok

༄

Sunshine is such a good lover

I like the way she burns

She veils my body with her warmth

I am dressed only in her light

She opens me up like a flower

But she never spends the night

༄

Down

Down

Down she goes

Into that endless black hole

No ladder

No hand of a friend

Nothing can make the darkness end

༄

Love has softened me and molded me like clay

I have hit rock bottom so many times

But now when I fall

I don’t break

༄

Hurting and healing

Like the rise and fall of my breath

༄