All Library locations will be closed Monday, June 19th for the Juneteenth holiday.
I see the pieces on the ground,
So broken, scattered, torn.
The pieces long forgotten,
Continents and oceans overworn.
Nepal, Hawaii, St. Lucia
In a long, congested heap.
The passed families stay afloat,
Souls torn by the Reap.
And I gaze deep
To try to forget the secrets that I keep
I bind myself
And hide my chest
All day long until I rest
I stay at home
And lay in bed
Trying to drown out what you said
Sometimes I go through days where I will buy a whole bag of fortune cookies from the Panda Express drive-thru
and eat them all in one sitting, just so that someone can tell me something good.
If I were to pluck my feathers,
I wouldn’t be able to fly.
But I want to feel the grass underneath my feet
I hop like a robin on the sidewalk
(away from flight, towards dandelions
sprouting in cracked concrete)
“Laura, what are you doing?”
“You’ve gotta work.”
“Doesn’t matter, it’s almost over,” she said.
The moment I was conceived
And my egg was fertilized to have xx chromosomes
Instead of xy
My body was taken away from me
And placed in the hands of men
The hands of men that control dress codes
The fingers that will slap my ass as I walk down the street
there’s the set of highlighters
funny how a set of highlighters have burrowed their way
into the section of her brain
yet here are the highlighters
pink orange green
and everything in between
I remember the guilt I had as
A nine year old girl
When I kissed another girl
Just for fun.
I wouldn’t have
If she didn’t lead me on
After the first time she kissed me
My heart hurt
Barricading our creativity and emotion
As tall as our dreams
And as vague as our goals
Amplifying the feeble ground
Constructing our world
Limiting our thought
Cubing our flexibility
Opposing our expansion
She’s not sure what to make of herself
stranger at home
unfamiliar face in a sea of faces that
should be everything she’s looking for
I fell in love with the first taste of that awakening flavor. The clouds of egg drops melted on my tongue and were followed by the dark earthiness of wood ear mushrooms. I thought I was drinking liquid amber, bright with acidity and warm with the red kiss of chilies.
Our love was born out of infinity,
Full of promises and late-night murmurings.
We chased each other around and around the loops of our symbol,
Never ceasing to catch our breath,
Never stopping to let our minds catch up with our words.
This is the story of why I became a pilot. I wasn’t ever really fascinated with planes or their mechanics, nor did I ever buy one of those build-your-own model airplanes when I was little. I was fascinated with the flying part, flying out in the big open sky for miles on end.
This wouldn’t work. We both knew it, but it was still so easy to get attached. Even though we hardly had any time at all. We used every second we had, milked it for all it was worth.
Therapy. What an odd word. A word that entails problems that you can’t solve yourself. A word that only applies to people with enough money to get other people to solve their problems for them. Therapy is such a bitch.
There is absent space in my chest where pain used to be
And the muscle memory has not yet learned to let go
I weakly smile as she makes a joke. I forgot her name, but she doesn’t need to know that. Instead, I take a fake sip of whatever is in my cup; I don’t trust it. My dad taught me that trick. “See you,” she drawls, her hair brushing my face as she turns around.
Love is only lasting
When you put yourself last
Kinder a love within lantern light flames and
Let the wax drip to seal the cracks of your previously broken heart
Redeem your wrinkled hands and
The summers of my childhood meant dirty feet from playing ball without shoes, calloused hands from one too many rounds of the monkey bars, and racing to eat popsicles before the humidity melted their contents away. I was a good kid, but also a curious one.
On November 8th, 2016
(“a date which will live in infamy”)
I sat like a child on my bed
I had always thought myself an artist,
So I took a pen and drew a map —
Of every state
I drew my home
And my family’s home.
Oh, how I loved “the talk” in eighth grade. The smell of Axe filled the room and I heard my peers giggling. A boy dressed in bright yellow Nike said, “I heard they tell us about popping cherries”
“Yeah I heard there’s blood everywhere!”
snap the barrel of a boy fully loaded with good intentions
and shoot yourself.
break your own heart,
into jigsaw puzzle pieces
so you can practice the art of putting yourself back together.
A word so keen and so sharp,
Thrown at me but never to me
To be muttered under the breaths of the boys who I’ve denied
And whispered from the girls with whom I have never exchanged a word.
It drips from the lips of people who do not know me,
the changes we swore to in
resplendent troths, without vision because
I burst forth from childhood
flat chested frail wristed pinions
not yet grown: all down
and yielding. So told do not fly