A short poem about being a plant mom.
Resources for white people to educate themselves on anti-racism.
I don’t have a good caption for this.
Everything deflated like a balloon. That’s what it felt like to be broken up with. It wasn’t devastating. My identity remained unaltered in her absence, but the air went out. … Continue reading In Defense of Your Ex
Lapping your lips from afar doesn’t do anything.
I don’t have use for an interpersonal bored game,
A contact-less tete-a-tete.
I want you to devour me like a starving man does cake,
Stare me down like a dessert walker does a body of water,
and then baptize yourself.
Feral and savage and clumsy.
I’m saying yes.
All I want
Is to breathe deeply, and let the universe have its way with me.
I can be a bull in a china shop. That can lead to power struggles.
Moments way before this one stung with my loneliness. My entire adolescence, the wake of disappointments in college, the year I moved to another city and it didn’t work out. … Continue reading Notes on Loneliness
“I love you,”
My dad’s mouth struggles to say it.
Not from ailment or illness.
He learned love as a parent loving you enough to withhold, insult, isolate.
“I love you, and so I make you better in informing you how useless you currently are.”
I wonder how many times he translated “selfish” to “potential” or “worthless” to “worthy”, only that I never want my loved ones to translate everything I tell them.
That’s the thing about being an adult with a living parent, we notice the ghosts that haunted them throughout our childhoods. Parent melt from horrible to human.
He is sixty-five now, and age has softened the harsh corners of his language. He calls he every Sunday, and if he doesn’t say it, I say it first.
“I love you.” my mouth, an operatic megaphone to those words. “I love you. I see you. I’m proud of you”. I say them to him, the words my dad longed to hear from his dad.
Every event is a numerator of 1. The summation of everything you’ve lived through is the denominator.