Thank You For Being You. Sending Lots Of Hugs And Good Vibes Your Way!

I have an issue with facing things head on

I have an issue with facing things head on, with sitting down and telling myself… okay this is what you do. I used to be good at it. I used to be the one people would go to when they needed a whole spreadsheet on what to do, on what classes to take, on what goals to set up for themselves. But something about UCLA drained me, even if it was just two years. It sucked what soul I had left. It stole my youthful energy, my aspirations of who I wanted to be, of my hope, my dreams, and most definitely my spirit. I thrived there, yes I did, but at the cost of my sanity. Everyday I walked those halls I could feel the pressure crippling me down to my core. My feet crumbling beneath me and my sense of self slowly being overshadowed by the ideals of an institution overthrown with wh!te supremacy. Unfortunately, it led me to the darkest pits I could feel in my bones. I wanted to fade away and never exist. Maybe it was my fault, a young girl moving to the big city in hopes of finally being free. Maybe it was all my fault that I never paced myself. Maybe it truly was all my fault, after the world shut down for a couple years I finally saw hope to escape, hope that masqueraded underneath a veil of thief. I won’t be ungrateful for being able to experience what I have, meet some amazing brilliant minds, but also I won’t be ever truly so blind to say this place didn’t leave me with the most of scars. Or maybe, this place exposed the scars that I thought I had already healed from. “I wish I did this differently, I wish I did that differently.” No. I did my best everyday, actually. I did what I never thought possible, actually. I’ve been working so hard to be where I am right now since I was a young teenage girl, so why… So why do I still feel— like a failure? Will this feeling ever go away? I’m so close to the finish line, yet my energy to keep running is gone, and I hate myself for it.

I remember

I remember how he looked, his hand on my bed and the other on my shoulder. His yellowed thick smile laced with the smell of beer and sweat.

I remember the words whispering out of his mouth, silent and slow— as the door remained locked. My anxiety creeping up above my shoulders and staying constant in my bones.

I was four, I was nine, I was ten, I was thirteen, I was twenty-one.

I was twenty-two,

I remember a cop ever so silently looking me up & down. My anxiety shaking my hands and reeling my stomach into itself.

I remember, everyday, I remember.

I write letters that never get written back.

I write letters that never get written back. I send love that is never received. I say thank you to those that don't appreciate it. I say things that don’t mean as much to the person they’re said to. I run when things get hard. I’m quiet when I feel out of place. I roll my eyes when I’m too scared to speak my truth. Maybe it’s time to burn those letters. Leave those rooms. Speak with my chest. Run into the fire and face everything head on. But here I stand. Quiet. Alone. In my own head as it’s always been.

Whenever I wait for you

whenever I wait for you, you never show. whenever you say you wanted to talk, you never ask.

whenever I asked for you to be there, you never came.

whenever I gave you a gift, I never got one. whenever I made time for you, you were too busy.

and maybe— i do this to myself because i hate myself. maybe i'm just meant to be unloved by people i want to love me. maybe i just overthink every little thing, and at the end of it all i'm just not meant to be with you.

I woke up today

I woke up today hoping it’d be much better, but the war in my head brought me back down. The rain poured down and my heart started to ache. I picked up a pen and wrote until I cried myself to sleep.

My eyes grow weary of the salt that burn them every night, of the thoughts that are branded into the depths of my brain, of how unworthy I am of just being.

I dreamt of drifting away until I could no longer feel my feet, until my thoughts were filled with raindrops that cleaned away the ash.

I had hoped again, today would be different. and maybe tomorrow my hopes will come true.

those were my friends first

I know I shouldn’t be jealous, or even think this way— but those were my friends first. I showed you my world, my closed rooms, and people that loved me for me.

and now, I’m walking alone behind you dragging my weight on the sidewalk as you hold their hand right in front of me.

I should probably blame myself though, for wanting you just for me. But I thought we would stick together, butter & glue. and I thought you wouldn’t leave me behind.

As I pull myself away— I linger for you, waiting for you to knock on my door. Hearing me cry against the wall, tears staining the carpet.

But this time I’m not fooling anyone, and there’s no one waiting. There’s no one on the other side of the door. You’ve left. Because you’re tired. And I don’t blame you.

So instead you’re with my friends— the last people I talked to before I buried myself into a cold cave. and as always, I’ll blame myself.

i keep crying

i keep crying at the littlest things, and i cry that i do that to myself. i let every little thing tear me down and break me until i feel like i'm worth nothing. but who do i have if i keep making these walls so my feelings don't get hurt. who do i have if i can't let myself experience anything?

i don't know. who DO i have? if i can't even believe in myself or anyone to not make me cry. and then again it's all me, always me and my feelings that i feel too heavily.

I wish I lit up the rooms I walked into,

I wish I lit up the rooms I walked into, but instead it feels as if I walk with a great cloud daunting over me. And every room instead fills with water, people feeling the weight of the cold on their ankles, feeling the crisp rain pouring on their skin, hair wet, & palms sweat with nerves. So they leave, because why stay near someone who makes a room so somber?

I have a soft voice, softer than petals falling in the wind. A voice that gets even dimmer when I feel like my last spark has been washed out by the rain, and silence reins in. I have a laugh that often gets called undesirable and unattractive. So I laugh quietly under my breath. I have big black eyes that stay puffy from the salty tears that hung them open the night prior. I have soft freckles under eye bags that are often forgotten, brown eyes and brown hair that are easily mistaken for any other softly green under-toned tanned girl. I have hair long enough to cover elbows that often get called terrifying by outsiders. I have bones that show through the seams of my dresses. I have wrists that often get measured by the fingertips of strangers.

I wish my voice was like thunder, striking a room like lightning. Unforgettable, strong, and beautiful. I wish my laugh was sweet like the summer, honest, acidic, tasteful, addicting and loud. I wish I had the courage to repeat myself when I haven’t been heard instead of shutting down. I wish I wouldn’t get mistaken for any other girl. I wish my eyes weren’t burnt from all the salt that they’ve cried. I wish my arms weren’t so tiny. I wish I stopped comparing myself to everyone.

But overall. I wish I was kinder to myself, and then maybe— just maybe, I’d be able to light up the room in which I’m the only one in it.

I skipped so that you could have it

I skipped lunch because this week we couldn't afford groceries, so i put back the butter on the conveyer belt so it wouldn't scan towards the $10 i had in my pocket. I skipped breakfast and lunch so they wouldn't worry about how many bowls they had left for dinner, as my stomach ached in pain and I could feel it in my throat. my stomach turned itself around until I had to lay back down to be able to feel the ground again. head reeling, face flushed, and eyes rolling over until the dizziness made me feel numb. i skipped the thought of wanting to eat so no one would worry if the food was about to go to waste, and be wasted on me particularly. how many bowls until i'm actually done with the thought of having to think about the next bowl and how many bowls we could have altogether.

i wait

i wait by the mailbox everyday, hoping, wishing, that maybe a letter will show up. a letter professing their love back to me, their appreciation of my existence. maybe, just maybe, it's all in my head. how i'm not meant to be here. how i'm not worthy enough of being loved. of how their blank stares are just words of judgement of how i'm so much better off without them. and yeah, maybe theyre right. i am better off without them. but somehow i just can't let go. maybe, i'm used to the thorns on the stem of the flowers they give me. the dead, burnt, crisp, flowers.