day 227

When you describe a tree without saying leave or Autumn, you are reminded of sweet Spring and the surface of brand new skin. You start to realize how love will begin to blossom after a long cold and you find yourself warming up to the idea of painting yourself onto the limbs of someone new. I am still stuck between a bitter December and the lust of June, July, and August heartbreaks, but I have found home in April and learning to make a home out of someone else's house. I talk with weary eyes often, but I hover my hands over your skin with fingertips imploding a short stop of shy. I will watch you blush, plant your roots into a homecoming parade made for the birth of Spring, and hear you talk about love. I don't know anything at all about it. I just know how Autumn makes me feel and how close to home you are becoming.

day 226

Maybe I just like the attention

manic pixie girl/ 8

I live like
i am running out of air and you are getting by with gills. we swim through fake conversation and temporary highs just to spend some time with each other. last night i could've sworn i saw you sprout wings and let them grow. you are trying to find ways to fly away from me. i touched them with the skin on my back and i wished they were mine to keep. sometimes i want to find a way to eat the clouds and lay on orange skies and just be so warm. i touch my stomach and it's hollow. i empty out my emotions before bed.


I don't even have anyone to call my own.
and no one has the right to call me theirs.
Loneliness has never felt so lonely.

day 225

Completely re-edited and ready for performance

***

In 1888, the streets of London became the heart of Jack The Ripper’s search for salvation.

These are the women he loved:

The first time I had ever felt so broken was after falling in love with a prostitute.

She was the first woman to ever tell me that I was unlovable

She said I was insane

I am just a little too brilliant

And fascinated by anatomy

I love women who are open to being open.

The second woman to tell me I was unlovable was Miss Mary Nichols

I let her go easily.

Just a hole in her throat and an open chest inviting me to take a look at her heart

And the third woman to tell me I was unlovable was Miss Annie Chapman.

She wouldn’t let me hold her

I placed my arms around her being and she just shrugged

So I made her wear her intestines like her hair

Curly, and slightly off the shoulders

Something to keep her warm until she found warmth in a coffin

Then there was Miss Elizabeth Stride, the fourth woman to call me unlovable

The grocer sold us grapes that day. She was nice. We walked together like man and wife

Until she started walking away

It became man and knife and a bag of grapes that would never become wine for two lovers

The fifth woman to call me unlovable was Miss Catherine Eddowes

Oh what a woman.

She wanted nothing to do with me

But I didn’t have time for a drunken housewife

She squealed a little, but I got the job done

Opened her body up like wings

Showed the streets of London how high she was capable of flying

This is not the kind of woman you play dress up with

She will hurt you in heels and a mouth of broken homes

I kept her ear as a souvenir.

A reminder

That someone out there will always listen to me

The last woman to ever call me unlovable was dear Miss Mary Jane Kelly

Sweetheart would never stand a chance as a housewife

Being six weeks behind payment is not what a real lady does

I drained her of her sins.

I painted her death bed with her own blood.

It was a masterpiece at best.

A chest as a pillow and the other by her foot

Her drunken liver before her step

Intestines by her right hip and her spleen by her left

Chopped off her eyebrows

Chopped off her nose

Chopped off her ears

And chopped off her prose

Oh what a wonderful exhibit

Miss Mary Jane was the definition of naked

They didn’t call me Saucy Jacky for fun.

I emptied out her entire abdominal cavity

I’ve learned that a good whore should never possess any amount of sweetness

The salvation I’ve needed all along was through

the broken wings

the bedroom blood baths

and the brush of a knife

day 224

the youth in me wants to dance

my mind shouts with the intensity of a million broken meteors
at times, I wish for my thoughts to spill onto the page like lit matches

I want the spark to mean something for once

day 223

(quick side note:
dear "justtocomment216",
thank you for being so sweet.
I truly appreciate it. :)

Today-

The girls who took my poetry workshop slammed tonight in front of their parents. They performed like they had a purpose, a passion, and they loved to tell their own stories. I was so proud.

They came up to me afterwards and told me they learned a new kind of strength, power, and confidence from me. This is the biggest of rewards. Educating has become a new interest.

***
I came out of the poetry closet to my mother tonight. After 2 years of silence. I told her about mars speaks 365, How to Fold Paper Planes, nineteen, my international support system, my hard work, my community work, Brave New Voices, Louder Than A Bomb, teaching youth, being published, being on all 3 Lowell slam teams at once, being the only American on The Messengers Slam Poetry Collective, my graphic design career...everything. Mother replies with a huge smile, a sparkle in her eyes, and a "I'm so proud of you."

day 222

This is for the lovers I will never learn to love. This is for the transparent smiling and the see through hand holding. This is for the I'm looking at you with my peripherals but I will never willingly give you my point of view. This is for the slight sense of jealousy. This is for every perfect being around you and it scares me. This is for the past lovers you will never get over. This is for the nights you spend with a past lover thinking about someone else. This is for the nights you wish you were in love again. With the same person. Whichever person made your heart stop the longest or skip the farthest. Whichever one you think of when you see two lovers dancing on the middle of a dance floor, and everyone is looking at them, wishing they were in love. This is for the thoughts and the righteousness of knowing they don't love each other like everyone thinks they do. This is for the perfect couples because they don't exist. This is for my firm belief in broken promises, broken hearts, and broken lovers. This is for the confessions in the middle of the night but not being able to tell someone you still love them. This is for still wanting to believe you are in love, but you force yourself away from it. This is for still wanting two summers ago.

day 221

A woman came up to me and told me that I am a very powerful young woman.

She said,
"I can just feel your strength radiating off of you. You are so beautiful."

This was the first time I've felt like I've been doing right for so long.

day 220

3 minutes

Before class ended, a classmate asked me where I see myself after community college. She read my paper and told me I have so much going for myself. I told her, Toronto, I'm moving to Toronto next year. She giggled and kinda looked at me like I was insane, wow, well good luck to you! That's crazy.

2 minutes

Do people ever really dream anymore? Do they wake up and start their day off with a purpose? Every morning I wake up, I feel blessed for being so alive and having something, and many things, to live for.

1 minute

I live for the voices too afraid to speak. I live to set them free. I live for my hurt, and your hurt, and our hurt I live and I live like I am immortal.

day 219

She said to me, "I'm not the kind of girl that guys like. I'm not like you. Guys like you."

I live on a boat and I float on guilt. It is the difference between oil and water. I just float by and tell you I miss you, or I love you, or I act like I care how you're doing. I don't. I haven't cared in awhile, but when I do, it's only when I'm lonely. I haven't shared my thoughts or my body with another being in awhile. It terrifies me. I have always been the girl with a boyfriend. The, what? Already? Another? that kind of girl. I am finding myself not interested. I am not sure if this is because I have exposed myself to so many, if this is because I know too much about others, or if this is because I just don't want to get so heavy anymore. It is so difficult to live with yourself when your heart is heavy and your soul is hollow.

day 218

The last time we held each other, we were in my car. You cried because you knew I've felt this cold for so long. I was never ready to let love grow right in front of me and I had tried for years to grow a garden out of myself. I stopped crying in front of you after our fight in December. It was a cry that took the soul out of me, held me upside down, and watched myself as I wondered how I let myself get so broken. It's been months since then. Winter still makes herself known and I catch myself letting her touch my face on my commute to school. It is a cold I find myself missing. Often. Without reason and without any question.
My life has started to rebuild. I see you from time to time and I don't hate you anymore. I wonder how my body had even let myself hate you. For so long. We had a love that burnt hard and branded bad manners. I find myself still intentionally speaking to God on my commutes to school. I don't ask him anything or expect signs anymore. I just tell him I still think about you. It's been a long road to recovery, but my heart is healing. My soul burns with good intentions. I wonder if I will forget about you in the summer. Then again, we were always just a long summer vacation. You begin to find the flaw in paradise after awhile. You learn to love feeling empty, but you also learn where home is.

day 217

my mother is a landmine beaut

pt. 1

during the khmer rouge,
my mother was assigned to work with a group of children her age. they harvested apples and were starved. one day I gathered the courage to ask her about the killing fields.

she said:

one time, I had to pick bad apples from the good apples. they starved us for days on end. if they fed us, they gave us a little ball of rice. i was alone and i had picked an apple off the ground. it was bruised and it was almost rotten. i was starving. i was a baby. i took a bite of it, and a guard caught me.
he grabbed me by my arm and dragged me on the ground. all throughout the village. to humiliate me. just because i was SO hungry.

--
my mother still cries whenever she talks about her childhood. i've grown up knowing not to ask about the history of my culture. i speak to my mother in broken english and broken khmer. we communicate through story telling and the expressions we make through our eyes. i only see pain sometimes.

day 216

He doesn't try to talk to me anymore.

manic pixie girl/ 7
(I've lost count at this point)

I crave love. and being wanted. And I have a heart of gold, I swear, but I just don't like feeling suffocated. I like to love when I want to. When I finish what I need to have done and I just want to share an idea. I live a lonely life. This is half true because I only know how to love.

day 215

We only perceive color in the light. When we are entirely consumed of darkness, we lose what we think we have.

day 214

the feeling of accomplishing so much within a span of a year makes my heart tingle. this is how i want to live my life and this is all i've done to show it. i live off of naps and good energy. i smile to strangers on mondays, and continue to smile at them on wednesdays, and thursdays, and early saturday mornings. i'd like to call myself a good person because i am.

day 213

An open letter to the poets I will never learn to love

This is for our break up

This is for every time I dream of kissing the skin on your shoulders and leaving the scrapes on your knees without ice. This is for the longest Winters we've grown accustomed to and the frostbite fingertips I will never  get to leave.
This is for the business trips to no where and the vacations you tell me you want to take alone. This is for the unmade beds and unmade make ups. This is for every single time I've wanted to hang up the phone. This is for every single time I've kept your call going, but screaming at you with the mute option on.
This is for not being able to stay silent.
This is for not being able to enjoy the silence.
This is for every time I've insulted someone by telling them they don't know how to live with silence. This is for the idiot lovers who thought it was a compliment. This is for every douchebaggery of a boy who has ever thought they were the "nice guy." This is for all the genuine nice guys.
This is for falling too quick once Summer packs its bags. This is watching your friends leave for college. And this is also for the love of your life getting on a bus, watching and waiting for you to turn around while walking away. This is for all the background music they will play during our documentary. This is for our story. This is for a tale untold and a tale made out of ash.
This is for a love I will never be able to name.

day 212

So close to home, Boston-

When you almost lose home in a city you've learned to memorize, you question the sanity behind the unspoken lyrics of every occupied park bench. I sit alone in my favorite coffee shop and I listen to a few people panic. As I learn that I can only reach my best friends through social networking and texting, I think about the flaw in society. How am I supposed to scream in silence?

day 211

2.

The only boy that has ever made me feel completely broken, was a boy who never took the time to learn what breaks me. I write about him as often as I think about him, but I find myself holding back a lot. I tell myself, he is not worth the lack of self esteem, do not bother anymore. I've erased him from my call logs and text history, from friends lists but he still finds a way to itch under my skin. This reminds me of the transition from Autumn to Winter. The lack of spirit in between us. We hug occasionally whenever we see each other, but I never make time to share coffee with him anymore. He never made the time for me. I forget often.

day 210

After sharing my piece "A Response to Those Who Lack Compassion,"
a new friend asked me if it was true.

I realized that everything is true.
And it must be the reason why I am afraid of sharing my poetry with those who are extremely close to me. One day, I'll be able to share what I do with my mother, but for now I live in peace with myself.

A new friend apologizes for my rape. I tell her, thank you, but it's fine. This is why I do what I do. There is a language between two people that may never be exchanged, but the gift of saving a life is one I've devoted myself to giving.

day 209

I woke up today feeling so alive. This month is beginning to have me burnt out, but I have never felt so in love with my own soul and my own ambition. The ability to be able to learn, teach, inspire, be inspired, and live completely through my art is such a blessing. I've learned that most people don't live their lives doing what they passionately want to do, but I'm blessed to be able to say that I do. And for that, happy Friday.

day 208

Reasons to live the life I live:

After my feature set tonight, a recovered meth addict approached me and said, "I didn't even know there was a poetry reading. I've never even known of this world until I walked in. Accidentally. I just came in for a coffee, but you pulled me in with your bravery. I've watched all of my friends die and I've already died five times. You taught me the meaning of living with a purpose.
Next week, I am going to finally share my story with strangers. I want to save someone's life, too. Thank you so much."

day 207

My mother never used to snore

I come home late at night and I hear the dreamer in me sound asleep
She is at peace
This is the first time I've ever seen her vulnerable
I learn how to be gentle and beautiful for the first time in years

day 206

I had dinner with my mom for once
I realized that she depends on me as much as I depend on her. She leaves the light on until I come home and she still washes my dishes even though I'm grown. Some things will never change. I want to grow up already, but I have so much growing to do.
My mother doesn't know something about me that makes me act the way I do. I know my mother gets upset because she doesn't understand me. This is a cycle I've learned to grow with for the past 8 years.

day 205

Reasons why my best friend is my best friend pt. 2:

Have you kissed Michael?

Yes I have.

She saw you guys and told her that you guys were dating. Or assumed he was your boyfriend.

Oh. *shrugs shoulders*
We are just a couple of artists who like to be in each other's company.
Is that so hard to understand nowadays?

This is your life and you should do whatever the hell you want! Within reason of course! Most people aren't going to understand, but don't let what people say and assume affect you. No matter what.

day 204

1.

I do a lot of fucked up things. And I admit them. I don't feel sorry and I don't lose sleep over it. I want to be happy, so let me be happy. I have reached a point in my career where little girls thank me for being the closest thing to real. They tell me I am an empowering artist. They want to tell the truth to the world without any consequences. They smile and read me their history and their heartbreaks. Say, one day I want someone to accept that I love poetry more than men.

I have a cursed love life. I feel sad for the ones who have tried to love me. I am just in no condition to surrender my art for them.
There is such a big difference between supporting me and completely understanding me. I refuse to fall in love with someone who will never flip themselves inside out to show an audience their rib cages. Perhaps this is not important to you, but I'm different.

day 203

manic pixie girl/6

When your heart is on the edge of its seat waiting for the next door to open:

keep yourself in bed.

You unconsciously realize that you still check the window upstairs to see who is knocking. You've learned to love experience and the thrill. Maybe you are just not ready. Maybe this is just fine. It is normal. You are still not used to sleeping alone at night, but you have learned to block out all of those boys who still make a mockery of your first engagement. I am still throwing away every bit of hopeless romantic there is to me, but I wear my hair down to let the wind remember what it's like to have someone's face to touch. I've become a body to wrap the arms of strangers around and a couple of palms to plan a future with. I don't know the difference between a heart line and a head line and I'm not so sure if I believe in the fate line.

My heart lays awake with me all the time. It talks to me through words and ink. Through freshly bound book binds and souvenir Van Gogh postcards. I've watched it come and go and we've argued so many times these past two years, that there is no one else I'd like to grow with. My career reminds me that unconditional love does exist. That happily ever afters are possible. That if something is meant to be, it will be. But I am not ready to give her up for just anybody. Maybe this is just fine. It is normal.

day 202

Two completely different thoughts:

1) If you are happy, who cares.

2) If you are happy, who cares?

day 201

Open letter to Van Gogh

You painted the sky as it sang
All the blues and liveliness
You watched it dance

Said,
"All the whites can be mistake for dim yellows and the blues for pinks"
You painted for your sister

That night,
you told her you loved her though blood and color.
He never said I love you to me
and I just want to know if he has sisters

I think of him every time I see the sky.
Every time I mistake the blues for golds, I remember not to wander. I walk and I wonder if you've ever prayed for your sister and her safety.

I want to know if he still thinks of me when the stars awaken.

For every sky you've painted for your sister,
have you ever wondered what the clouds think when women are kissed when they are lost?

day 200

Reasons Why My Best Friend is My Best Friend

1
You decide to walk home from work sometimes half an hour before midnight
This has sprouted half from the failed attempts at being "friends" with guys
and half from being lazy
You call her on the telephone after fifteen minutes of talking to yourself
She picks up on the first ring
Her voice is a safety net waiting to catch you

2
You refer to yourself as Meryl Streep while gossiping
She laughs because she understands the reference

3
She lives a two minute commute from your home.
One time I skipped class and laid in bed thinking of more reasons to kill myself.
She trotted her way to my room.
I made her lunch and gave her almond milk.
We laughed at all the stupid ways you could die.

4
On the days you don't want to continue dating the guy you're currently dating,
she will hold your hands with your secrets
and all the fears you've told her without opening your mouth.
She will encourage you to
"hang out" with your ex boyfriend if he asks.
She will cry as she sees you cry like you are a ghost and you are all the sadness in the world.

5
On the days you are not the center of the universe,
she will make you feel like all the solar systems exist because of your gravity.
There will always be a tug and pull motion between my soul and my body
and my feet and my dreams,
but she will always remain tugging and pulling
and never pushing away.
There is a reason why your bones feel most at home in her presence.

6
On the days I've spent in bed
contemplating ways to kill myself,
she has found a way to distract me. To tug and pull
and never push away.
She is the reason the solar system exists.
The reason why the tides dance smoothly during full moons in July.

7
She will watch you get your heart broken,
break other people's hearts,
and she will always reassure you that these things just "happen."

8
On the days I've kept myself in complete solitude for so long,
I lose count of all the reasons to continue to tug and pull
and watch the solar system exist.
It feels like a million seconds of not being able to breathe.
I call her and she picks up
on the first ring.
We gossip and I call myself Meryl Streep.
I ask, "Is it wrong that I don't feel bad for the things I do?
I feel like I should, but I just can't...
Do you think I'm just evil?"
She will laugh and tell you to calm down.
"No. These things just happen.
You're perfectly fine."

day 199

1
On Valentines day, I told my mother I loved her.
She gave me a hug.
That was the first time I've ever held someone's entire being.

2
I thought I heard the soft sobbing of your soul on my commute to school.

3
It's insane how I used to walk beside you and we would skip over sidewalk cracks together. We used to hate anything broken and shivered at every sight of an abandoned home.

4
My mother is a hoarder.
In the nineteen years I've loved her,
I've learned to find the beauty in this.
I'm not sure how the home I've grown up in has managed to make space for all her random treasures.

5
We all make room for damage.

6
We all make room for a chance to fall in love with concepts we'd never even think of taking in. I look at all the first date, second anniversary, dead bouquets of I Miss Yous I've kept in my room. They are not from the same lovers.

7
I realize I've never given anyone my entire being. I hold all the damage to myself. I kiss my mother in hopes of learning how to dodge the genes,

day 198

I write depressing ass shit when I'm half awake, still softly snoring like my mother on her days off. I whimper like I haven't been told secrets and I cry like a waiting ghost. I don't mean to come off as so sad, but sometimes I am. Sometimes. Most of the time I am so sure of myself and the road I've taken. I don't know who I am as a person, but I'm getting there. I am selfish by means of finding my love through other bodies. This is how I've learned to love myself. I wish I didn't, but it isn't that easy anymore. I can't just wish for things to change anymore. I've stopped thinking about the past and how much better I'd be without all the damage. But how whole would I be without it? Sometimes I get sick of disguising how I feel with metaphors and ramblings. I am always talking about my rape. About sleeping with a boy who wants absolutely nothing to do with me. About being held back by an ex boyfriend. I am just trying to find a peace of mind, but it's so fucking hard sometimes to forget.