Sit Back

     I've heard religious zealots claim that their prayers were answered with such preciseness and rapidity that there's no way one could deny it was the work of Jesus H. Christ himself. I was respectful but disregarded their illusions heavily. Mothafuckin' plot twist: I have experienced this exact phenomenon in the last couple days. Scramble a few variables around and substitute some names, but the recipe is the exact same.

     I was visiting my love yesterday morning, and he told me that he could feel that I wasn't just carrying my own baggage around with me—some stragglers saw an open zipper on my spiritual backpack and decided to come along for the ride. They wanted to rest and deemed me strong enough to support everyone's weight. They were convincing, what can I say? I was all, "Fer suresies. This is fine," as my legs trembled beneath it all. (We're going to call my shawty Solare, which is an Italian word that describes a person who brings brightness to a room.) Solare guided me through a meditation where I had to evict all the loafers who occupied the space between my cells. I could think of 7 people who truly needed a-talkin' to. The mind is more powerful than a high-voltage, cancerous, hazardous army.

     That night, 1 of 7 sent me a loooong text message about how my emotional state was impeding on our friendship, therefore, she wanted to move out of my house by the end of the weekend and go our separate ways. A day later, I found out 2 of 7 quit his job, relapsed with meth, and now wants to relocate to a different city to go to rehab. Look, I try to be cynical and secular and not believe in coincidences, but the exigent nature of my request took my breath away. Not even a full 24 hours after my de-cluttering exercise did two people I specifically envisioned skedaddling remove themselves from my domain. The Universe™ came in clutch, okay?

     And I feel...optimistic. I've been searching near and far for this feeling all year, probably longer. Solare only recently came back into my life. The fact that I needed a release and then volunteers stood up, shrugged, and said, "I'll go", is amazing. Just last week I was so consumed by my dreariness that I fully intended to end my life, and now that plan is being cracked wide open, forcing me to acknowledge how cozy warmth and light and freedom can be.

If The Universe™ brings you to it, it can bring you through it. (Isn't that the saying?)

L♡ving

     I'm sitting at work watching Investigative Discovery to reassure myself I am, in fact, not the most malfunctioning adult on this planet, and my phone lights up to tell me my friend is sending me a message. I use my thumb print to unlock it (what a time to be alive) and find myself reading: "What ever happened with K—?"

Me: gurl

He had to take his car to the shop this morning so I picked him up from there at 9am. We went to Sprouts & he got some food, and then we went to his house & talked and cuddled until I had to leave for work at 3:30.

Friendo: "Cuddled"

Me: He wouldn’t sleep w me bc he says working on myself is more important and taught me some techniques to deal w my depression & pain.

He said he REALLY wanted to, but the time wasn’t right. That he could see I’m not in a good mental place and that I need to love myself before I try loving anyone else. I said to him, I says...

Friendo: HAHAHAHAHA Omg I'm dying

What a great guy though

Me: Ugh. I guess.... Lol.

Friendo: We can't use sex to cover up our feelings.

     I think we call this progress. I suppose this is what is to be expected when we try to shoot our shot with a man twenty years our senior instead of wasting even more of our precious youth with 20something-year-old boys who spend a minimum of 3 hours a night playing video games and reply to book-length, depressive texts with, "that sucks."

M

my parents divorced when I was young

a freshly planted flower hadn't even sprung

act up, catch a licking without a tongue

you feel me? feel he got his liberty bell rung

speak about getting spanked to remind thee

that's just how life was back in the Nineties

play hide-and-seek hopin' they don't find me

mom, dad, I'm sorry, stop hitting my heinie

dad had his alcohol, mom anti-depressants

all they both wanted was for the pain to lessen

through them I learned my most valuable lesson

bottled-up emotions lead to aggression

my mother raised me & my father paid child support

wasn't by choice, though, he was ordered by the court

father feels like his dues are paid and he's done enough

money might buy happiness but it's no replacement for love

what's my purpose in life? been asking since my creation

acting on how you feel puts the "sin" in sensation

if you can dream, you can achieve it–use your imagination

one step at a time; can't feast without preparation

sometimes things are out of my hands like levitation

but life goes on with zero hesitation

asking when they're getting back together since their separation

a broken home isn't the end; it's the start of a new foundation

a decade has passed since that's how I felt

I've accepted everything for what it was, including myself

the cherry on top was: it wasn't good for my health

livin' in a fantasy world, my emotions in constant stealth

'cause you have to see it to believe it; didn't believe emotion exists

didn't go to the extreme of my sister and cut my wrists

lookin' back at the Land Before Time: Journey Through the Mist

I've come a long way, but some things are unclear and missed

when was my dad gone? how long had he been there?

I know his absence made for a very long winter

my emotions have always had a sign telling me not to enter

never craved attention; my siblings could be the center

—Marcus Garvin

What Iz II

...15 now. Angst Steady Rising™.

Driving down the road, hurting, thinking of you. And nothing but you.

Some may think I’m drunk, but the only thing I’ve been drunk off is your love.

You make me hurt and cry and I think this is the end. Should I swerve over the yellow line and risk both of our lives and more, or should I drive over the white and crash into a tree?

The tree would embrace me more than you do, and then maybe I would feel happy and loved and free.

Maybe I should drive over this bridge and get swallowed by a whole new habitat.

I don’t know how but by the end, I will die.

Driving 29 over, running lights, not thinking, ruining other people's lives.

(Like you did mine that night) I stop,

run out the car, look over a cliff and jump, but not my body… my soul.
I fly off the edge and crash and burn, roll in the weeds, crushed.

I’m crushed and my soul’s gone

I told you something would die

Da Youth

           My 14-year-old cousin and I were sitting on the patio of a Mexican restaurant in Small Town, Colorado, when she snatched my margarita glass off the table and recorded a Snap Chat video of herself gushing,"The margarita my awesome cousin bought me!" This was entirely untrue.

           "Why did you just do that?" My eyebrows furrowed.

           "So I look cool." She shrugged nonchalantly typing on her phone. I shook my head. She'd been going on and on about this "hot" guy she added from the area; a 17-year-old Italian boy named Benecio. I wanted to remind her that she'd be flying back to Florida in two weeks and that he would be forgotten before the plane touched the runway, but I held my tongue. I paid the tab and drove to the town's only dispensary. I bought two pre-rolled joints and some gummy bear edibles for $23.09. I love my state.

         I started heading to a park as we lit up one of the spliffs. I tried not to get annoyed when she announced, "I'm not even that zoinked... do you feel it? I don't feel it..." My brain chanted, "♫ Bitch, don't kill my vibe."

           Once we got out of my car and started walking towards the pond she goes, "Okay, I feel it now." I looked over and smiled. She told me how she's going to ask ol' dude if he blazes. She swiped on his Snap Chat name and started tapping away.

His reply: no do you

She had the audacity to type, "No, I drink." I stared at her with an amalgamation of shock and disbelief.

He goes: Nice. Keep it classy.

          As if that wasn't hardcore enough, she told him, "I'm drunk and I think you're cute." What in the actual fuck is going on here? I thought. He opened it but didn't reply. After that, she talked non-stop about how she "fucked up" and wondered if she "lost him" even though he was a complete stranger. We found a suitable tree and sat in the shade of its branches.

14: I totally just fuckin' high texted... have you done this before?

24: ohhh, for about... seven— eight years...

*together* hahaha

14: Then you were like, "Put the fuckin' phone down..." 

24: Yeah! ♫ I can make ya put ya phone down...

14: Did it all— did every time, did it end out alright?

24: ...I can make ya, I can make ya put ya phone down ♫
I mean, yeah. I'm here, right? I made it out alive.

14: No, I mean, like... did you ever, like, break up with someone on accident or some shit?

Or, like, done what I did? And did it all turn out alright?

24: I have done ten-fold to dudes... hahaha

14: Ten-folds?

24: It means ten times as worse. * moment of silence* I feel bad breaking hearts, but it's gotta be done sometimes.

          I stare up at blue sky and soak in the warm summer air. She stares up at her blue screen and scrolls through people's stories without truly paying attention to any of them.

14: Should I post something like, "I fucked up"?

24: Why would you do that?

14: I don't know.

24: You don't mind just having your business out there like that?

14: Yeah, no.

          We're quiet as birds chirped around us. A subtle breeze rolled through to dance on our skin

24: Thanks for hanging out with me.

14: Thank you... I have a million thoughts going in my head.

24: Tell me some.

14: Okay. *sigh* I feel like it's really sad how girls subjectify themselves for a guy, you know what I mean? And for instance, I do it. Literally, this is ruining my whole mood because I think I fucked up with a guy. Like, come on! I was literally looking on Instagram and saw 5,000 cuter boys. Like, I really just need to... I don't know. I don't know what makes me want to be with guys so much, you know what I mean? Like, I feel like this isn't who I was, you know what I mean? I didn't bow down for a guy. I didn't change myself for a guy. And then all-of-a-sudden it feels like that's kind of how the social media everything perceives it, you know what I mean? I was really hoping that this would let me unplug this summer, but it seems like I just get on it more. I'm more into social media. Like, I wouldn't have even known who Bene was, and I wouldn't be in this situation if I didn't see his profile picture. I mean, it's a great way to communicate — don't get me wrong — but at the same time, it's actually just changing our minds.

          Silence settled in between us as I took in the unexpected depth of this underestimated youth.

24: That's deep, bro.

*together* hahaha

14: I know!

24: What does "subjectify" mean?

14: We all have the definition in our own words... To me, I feel like it means "bowing down" or changing who I am. Letting the man control, you know?

24: Uh... submissive?

14: Yeah, it might be that too.

24: That's what that means.

14: Oh okay...

          More silence.

14: This has been really fun. So tell me something more.

24: hahaha I haven't been talking. You have.

14: I know... Do you want me to tell you something more?

*together* hahaha

24: What do you want me to talk about?

14: Just... your life. What do you think about my boys problem? With Benecio?

24: You've never met him before?

14: No.

24: And you only know—

14: Of him.

24: Well, no, I— *sigh* Who you think you know is this person that you're creating. It's called "romanticizing". So in your head you're like, "I'm going to meet him and he's going to be so funny." And you're going to care about what he has to say and be interested in him. But, you know, sometimes you meet people and they're quite the opposite. So, obsessing over him... it's just not worth it.

14: How can I stop?

24: I don't know. Don't you have other interests? Like—

14: Soccer.

24: Did you finish reading that book I fucking sent you? 

14: I'm halfway through it.

24: Did you read it on the plane or no?

14: Yeah.

24: Yeah, I don't know. Just, uh... you don't like talking about music or...

14: Um... I like talking about real-world problems but no one seems to enjoy it.

24: Like what? 

14: Like what I just said about the whole social media thing was a big part of how I feel.

24: So, there's this book... That's the thing, you know. You gotta read! And you have to learn! And study. It's called Modern Romance by Aziz Ansari, and that's basically what he talks about is how technology has changed dating, and it's a lot of what you just said. And how our attitudes change. 

14:  Because we feel like we need this person... and we need it fast. I've realized that the human race who once in the older times were very independent have now become very dependent on each other. Which, I mean, isn't a bad thing in certain aspects, but when it comes to you have to feel like you need someone in your life, as it may be a friend, or it could be also a lover or a mom or a dad, we have to feel like we have to need this close person. But really, we, as humans, could do everything by themselves and be perfectly capable of doing it...

          I'm thinking her public school has introduced evolution or hunter-gatherers yet. I see that her single mom marrying someone has been a rough transition and my heart breaks some.

24: Mmm... questionable.

14: Of course we need people to interact with, but to go day-to-day, we feel like we need someone to be there, holding our hand. 

          I'm quiet as I take in her monologue.

14: In my opinion. You don't have to agree.

24: Have you ever... hahaha yeah, I don't know... When you love someone, you'll know...

14: Do you know?

24: Um... So... You included a wide range like lovers and parents... I don't know... I love you. I need you.

14: Thank you...
What's a big problem you think we have right now?

24: As a society?

14: Mhm.

24: It kind of goes along with your social media bit: that everyone who posts on Instagram, Facebook, fucking everything is just so artificial. And then we think things are weird, like your stepmom thinking she's fat when she's not. Body dysmorphia: when you think you look way gross and just have a low body image. I don't like that on Instagram we post our absolute best and then in real-life things like wrinkles or stretch marks or rolls or—

14: Pimples.

24: Pimples, fuckin' hair above your lip are considered abnormal. We start morphing ourselves and getting surgeries like Kylie Jenner. That's a trip. That bitch changed her whole face, bud. hahaha And for what? Or for who? Because if I never saw another mirror again, looks wouldn't matter to me and I really wouldn't care. I think the more we reflect ourselves and take pictures and scrutinize we stray further from reality.

          "Mhm," she mumbles insanely absent-mindedly as if she didn't hear one word I just said.

24: Life's weird, hard, and complicated.

14: Cool... I don't know. I just don't know why I'm stressing so much...

24: Probably because you're 14.

14: True... You know when something bothers you and it fucks up your high? Like, bro, he didn't he even look at my Story. How long ago was it that I posted it? It was 12 minutes ago...

&friends;

 
     Once the 2 a.m. hour struck, the only sounds in the hospital came from the gentle humming of muffled televisions and snoring. Being a nurse aide in nursing homes (long term care facility, if I'm being politically correct) seemed much more chaotic, even during overnight shifts. If it were a game show, it would be called How Many Bed Changes Can I Do In One Night? or I Know You Have Dementia, Gertrude, But If You Swing at Me One More Time, It's Fucking On. Not on the acute-care floor. These people aren't here because their families don't want to sacrifice their time, energy, and money to maintain their well-being. These people need professional help for pancreatitis, total knee replacements, and alcohol detoxification. After midnight, if I don't bother them for vitals, I leave work before they ring their call lights again. So what do I do in my down time?
     Desktop computers nestle in the coves between every two rooms down a dimly lit hallway. I hop into a chair, take my iPhone out of my pocket, and scan my badge. Usually it logs me straight in, but for security purposes we have to type our password in every few hours. My hands hover on the home keys and I stare at the screen as I type Sidney1 almost mindlessly. Shout-out to typing classes since second grade. My first CNA job was only five years ago and we used a pencil and paper to chart, I think, sounding way older than I am. We stay connected these days. I pick my phone up and use my thumb to click the one button it has. The time and date flash onto the screen. No notifications. There's a fucking surprise.
     I click the Google Chrome button pinned to the taskbar. Even though it will only take a few seconds to load, that's a few seconds far too long for my Millennial brain to be unoccupied. I pick up my phone and unlock it with my thumb print. A screen I'm too familiar with pops up: a green Sailor Jupiter silhouette as my background with my calendar, e-mail, notes, settings, and iMessage icons arranged alphabetically. That's not an accident. I lightly swipe my index finger to my left and a new set of icons scroll as if I turned the page of a book.
     They're all in folders, these icons. Once again, grouped by a common feature. I have a fitness folder with apps I use to log my caloric intake, take me on guided meditations, and count how many steps I take in a day. Another one has my music, podcasts, Pandora, and that cool app where I hold up to a speaker for five seconds while it figures out what song is playing. My photos, Tumblr, camera, and Instagram are in another one while the credit card I canceled but still owe on, my current bank account, and Venmo lives.
     I go into the one with Instagram and click on the minimalist purple/pink/orange/yellow camera. I have no notifications, and the same photo of SZA from five hours ago is still at the top of my feed. A comment by Kehlani is the only one of 2,200 that pops up, and my heart aches from being excluded from a friendship so pure. I wish I could be their friend. The thought emerges from the depths of my unconscious and evaporates just as quickly as it arrives. I click on the magnifying glass at the bottom of the screen with no particular search in mind. There are videos and pictures displayed that are tailored to the content I've hearted and the people I follow. Big Brother doesn't let me down, either, because one of the first posts my eyes gravitate towards is one of my favorite EDM DJs. Jauz' green eyes pierce the camera and the faux flower headband that's clearly a filter lines his forehead. The caption reads, "EDC READY..." with a bunch of flower and heart-eye emojis. The geo-tag is in Las Vegas, Nevada, and I am once again reminded of the elite club of money I have never been a part of. I click the outline of a heart and watch it turn red.
     The royal wedding was just hours ago, so that's a hot topic. Not for me, personally, as I couldn't give a shit less about what's going on in England, but that doesn't stop me from tapping a picture of a Tweet that includes a picture of the princess-to-be smiling in her white wedding gown with "In a world full of Nicki Minaj's; be a Meghan Markle #RoyalWedding" above it. I swipe the post to see that somebody replied with, "Okay but Meghan Markle didn't bring out the pink Lamborghini just to race with Chyna and take her wraith to China just to race in China. She not a bed Trini bitch that's mixed with China with a real thick vagina that can smuggle bricks to China. I'll pass." Being aware of my surroundings, I suppressed a cackle. Stuuuupid. Obviously I don't know who originally wrote the comparison tweet, but I have a slight annoyance towards them. It is rare that an English princess is (albeit half) Black. Ol' started off taking tourist pictures outside Kensington Palace and ended up getting married in that bitch. I don't know why people stay comparing people. This isn't Pride & Prejudice.
     I'm not sure what the word "wraith" means at the top of my head. It gnaws on my thirst for knowledge. I exit the app and go into my web browser. I glance over my homepage of eleven bookmarks. I poke the link that takes me to my dictionary. It takes me two seconds to enter wraith. Below a small ad for King Sooper's I see: [reyth] noun.
1. an apparition of a living person supposed to portend his or her death.
2. a visible spirit.
     Well, what the fuck does "portend" mean?! I look it up and find out it's a verb form of foreshadow. I go back to the original word and read over the definition one more time. Wraith. Huh. I softly nod to myself before returning to Instagram.
     I click on pictures that stand out to me. A throwback to 1983 reads, "The only wedding I care about is Michelle Pfeiffer and Al Pacino behind the scenes of 'Scarface'." It's a cinematic jewel and I tap the heart a little too aggressively. I see a reply to a tweet that says, "When I tell you America hates Black people eh..." I touch it to do further investigating. The original post reveals, "3 Black men were hit by a truck & are being fined for not wearing reflective clothing, while the driver walks free." Only one comment appears underneath the photo and it tugs at raw emotions: "All lives can't matter until Black lives do..." And I'm shook. Living in 2018, I refuse to become desensitized by issues that matter. I swipe to the left and are two images next to one another. "Two people suspected of stealing 90 cans of baby formula from Walmart," it says with the mugshots of a Black man and woman. To the right is a happy family photo of a white man, girl, and lady. "St. Charles man killed daughters before telling wife to 'live  and suffer'." I've seen too many media headlines where white perpetrators are presented in a wholesome, normal light while people of color are almost strictly represented by mugshots.
     I hear a noise that indicates the computer logged me off from inactivity. Another security measure. I stretch my badge to get back in, but right before I reach it, a call light goes off. I lock my phone, slip it into my pocket, and head towards the room.

What Iz

My little cousin read me this insanely moving piece she wrote and I need to share it. Because being 14 is rough.

I'm tired. I don't want to kill myself.

I just want a change.

My friends are not really my friends. They are people who are acting, and how can they put on a show. I meet them and they act like they like me, but really, they want me to be amused. I am their audience, and they got me watching, feeling, happy, but yet when the play progresses and ends, they change. They are different people when they are done acting. That's how some of my "friends" act. Others won't tell me how they feel. A mask is what they wear. These are the most deadly. They wear these masks, but I can tell. I can tell and I say, "sorry" and "what's wrong?" but they stay silent and say, "I'm fine."

I'm fine.

One of the biggest lies they could say.

& last, friends that say they like me.

I can feel them.

The annoyance. The disapproval. The hate.

"We like you," they say.

But, oh, how they lie.

"We like you." Another lie told to me.

They don't. And I know they don't. Why they don't tell me I don't know. I can feel them talking about me. Feel it in my bones. Down my neck. I can feel it.

My parents have teamed against me. My mom falls deeper & deeper into a hole called alcoholism. I feel as though she may never get out. She may never find herself again. A woman whose whole life surrounded her daughter is swallowed by a glass. She doesn't breathe; she drinks. She thinks she fools us by hiding it, but she is mistaken. She tells me she has changed and is not addicted.

"I've changed" & "I'm not addicted"

Two big lies.

Although my step-dad drinks, he doesn't blame. He doesn't hurt; he argues. He's a good man & he is the only person I seem to get along with.

He does not lie.

Or so he says.

My father has a kid. Which I'm happy for him, but he's slipping away. I've never cared much for my dad. He left when I was young & recently came back. He had a kid with his wife & he changed. He slipped away and now, I wish he didn't. He, too, lied. Said the kid wouldn't get in the way. Said I will still love you the same.

Another lie.

"I will still love you the same"

My middle sister, who is so involved with her own world, is too ignorant to look beyond, think about something else, or care about someone or their interests...

Dubious

     "Does that play into being able to read tarot cards.? How sad is it ivw never actually taken interest in your beliefs or even asked about them 😔 how selfish on my part. Educate me 😊, " my sister typed to me, still using that ghetto punctuation from MySpace and not fully utilizing the spellcheck feature on her Android phone.

     "Oh, girl. This might take a minute hahaha. Bear w me." I didn't really laugh. I began to explain the journey by revealing I attended a private school for kindergarten. It was six miles outside a small town and had kindergarten through eighth grade all in one building. Don't get me wrong; it was a wonderful institution. When I "graduated", I could read at a fifth-grade level. My mom was always so eager to tell people. With it being a private school, along with core subjects was a Bible study hour. The teach taught from a book that had been circulating the world for damn-near 2,000 years. A song comes to mind: the B-I-B-L-E / yes, that's the word for meeee / I stand alone with the word of God / the B-I-B-L-E! 

     After some time, God sent down his one and only son to suffer right next to puny humans just to have him killed by Romans. Set up by his own daddy. Word on the street was the mom had never came into contact with sperm. (Don't ask.) If you are a bad person, you go to the fuckin', I don't know, Earth's core and chill with this Benedict-Arnold-ass guy named Lucifer (hood name: Satan) in his crib called Hell.  If you are a good person in life and accept Jesus H. Christ as your Lord and Savior, you would spend all eternity with God himself in the bright blue sky. Certain relatives were also in attendance. Apparently, old dude knew who everyone was, what they were thinking, how they behaved, and what their every move would be. What a creeper, amirite? It was a requirement to talk to him before going to sleep at night and before meals. Not a whole conversation, just a quick shout-out. He had these 10 pretty strict rules that was the criteria for living, usually depicted on a double-stone tablet 'cause the homie Moses was His publicist. 

1. God is your one and only, A1 day-one, ride or die, BFF
2. You have no other friends
3. My name is not an interjection; it's a noun
4. Chill with me every Sunday. Every. Single. Sunday.
5. Be cool to ya Ma and Pa
6. Don't murk nobody
7. Don't be or have a side dude/chick 
8. Don't jack nothing
9. Keep it really real
10. Don't be jelly of anyone else

     I was six years old and had two rather long Bible verses memorized. Again, my mom was always so eager to tell people. 

Psalms 23

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside still waters. He restoreth my soul. He leads down the path of righteousness for His name's sake. Ye though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil for thou art with me. Thy rod and thy staff: they comfort me. You prepareth a table before me in the presence of thy enemies. You annoint my head with oil. My cup runneth over. Surely your goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life. And I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

Psalms 100

Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all ye lands. Serve the Lord with gladness. Come before his presence with singing. Know ye that the Lord he is God. It is He that hath made us, and not we ourselves. We are His people and sheep of his pasture. Enter his gates with thanksgiving and into his courts with praise. Be thankful unto him and bless his name, for the Lord is good. His mercy is everlasting and his truth endureth to for all generations.

     My mom put me in this school for the education, not for the religious aspect. I could probably count how many times she took me and my two elder brothers to church throughout our life. I'd only need two hands. Regardless, I was a Jesus freak fer sher. I had this decoration I kept on my dresser throughout elementary school that read, "I love Jesus". I asked people around me not to use the Lord's name in vain to the point that I was just straight-up annoying. Why did I believe this? My mind was moldable; impressionable. The authoritative people in my life told me this was reality and I believed them. It was all I knew.

     I always had this unhealthy paranoia about behaving. I felt guilty for masturbating at age five. I would apologize to God/Jesus/Holy Spirit-split-personality-ass entity in my head, because apparently they read minds or some shit. Baby Jesus, I'm sorry I'm being inappropriate... but it feels so good! Remember how you died so I could do this and be forgiven? Because same. 

     When I was in eighth grade, I started going to catechism on my own volition. Well, not really. My best friend and paternal family were Catholic. *Nudge, nudge* I attended church most Sundays, sprinkled holy water in the shape of a cross across my forehead, genuflected before entering pews, and participated in weekly leg workouts. I loved the unity. Everyone in that church just wanted our friend to know we needed help, because being a human sure is hard. 

     One of the first spiritual catalysts I encountered was a spunky, thick, 16-year-old chick named Jenna Ray of Sunshine. She was the first Atheist I encountered. She revealed this information and I gasped in confusion. That's a really a possibility, huh?

     "So... " I slowly replied. "What do you think happens when we die??"

     "It doesn't matter." Three words that remain etched into the space between my cells. The aftermath of taking her last breath was none of her business. Profound. I couldn't stop thinking about it. I went back to catechism and it just wasn't the same. Homosexuality wasn't allowed. (Why not? How does that affect anyone else's well-being at all? Like... at all?) Abortion was okay in cases of rape and incest, but not if a young woman wasn't fully informed on how biology works, ended up pregnant just to have the  sperm donor not participate in the baby's life, received food stamps and welfare checks due to the high cost of raising a child, and stuck at in entry-level positions because the cost of an education in United States is entirely too expensive. My ideology melted to create something entirely new. It was eye and heart opening. Snakes don't talk. They just don't. They don't have the proper anatomy: no language acquisition device in the brain nor lips to form words. It's not a thing. Things were getting sus. 

      So many of the world's problems could be avoided if people were just honest— honest with others and honest with themselves. Both God and Santa Claus were invented by man to represent a moral referee. Be good and you will be rewarded. Be bad and you will be punished. I have a radical idea: what if we were good because it's just the right fucking thing to do? 

   Personally, I think one question needs to be addressed in all situations: is someone going to get hurt? If the answer is yes, don't do it. If the answer is no, go gorillas. I usually think on a gray spectrum, but this calls for a black and white framework.

I Used To Be...

We never understand one another.

Empathy is one thing. 

Living in the same emotion is entirely another.

In birth, a crying baby's wails demand to be interpreted.

Kids are shushed and shooed.

Teenagers feel humanly sensations but are still shushed like kids.

Young adults make huge life decisions, 

and are trying to find a voice that was shushed for so long.

Middle adults are torn between leaving their younger version

and maturing to their future form.

Elder adults are over-looked and under-visited.

I imagine those who are on the brink of death must have it worst...

Present Passion

   A few hours ago my therapist told me there's a difference between being lonely and alone, but right now, I can't tell the difference. I feel like I'm both, though I've been wrong before. I had to leave the nest we once shared because the silence and emptiness was too unbearable. There's an excerpt from Plato's The Symposium that goes, "According to Greek mythology, humans were originally created with four arms, four legs and a head with two faces. Fearing their power, Zeus split them into two separate parts, condemning them to spend their lives in search of their other halves.” Mine was a beautiful boxer, painted brown with a white strip from her chin to her belly, who went by the name Mia. Now, I don't condone animals having human names, but in all her perfection and glory, I allowed it.

   I've come to the conclusion that I have never loved a person as much as I loved that dog. She had the most unique personality― vibrant and lively and lovely. She was introduced to my life at a very dark time. She was my silver lining. Let's see: I had just dropped out of nursing school, I choked out my best friend since fifth grade, I broke up with my boyfriend, and I got so drunk at a party, I tried to fight every guy and girl I encountered, walked into barbwire, and cursed myself with deep gashes on all four limbs. It wouldn't make it to the highlight reel of my life. But there she was. And now I've lost her.

   I told my mom, "There are things that bug you, but the minute they're gone, you almost miss it... I've been so stressed out about Mia pissing on my carpet and having to shampoo it weekly, but I would give anything in the world to have her here with me if that's what it would take."

   For some reason, it would be different if I were in my room and she were in the living room, which happened sometimes. I've went to call her a few times but stopped myself. Was it the pure reassurance of her presence? Her absence is so permanent. I called my mom crying and exclaimed to her that I wish my baby wasn't buried in her yard. For the four years we had been together, I use to loathe when people called Mia my daughter. She's my fuckin' roommate, I would say. Now the only noun I refer to her as is My Baby™. What can you do?

   I walked into my friend's house and told him, "Here's some banana bread. There's no amount of cooking or cleaning I can do to keep my mind preoccupied." I tried to explain to someone once that if you've never taken acid, you can't know what it's like; there's no way to explain it. The same thing applies to love. To have unconditional love (it's like that with dogs... not-so-much with humans), to have constant company, and to be immediately forgiven, there isn't much that can hold a candle to that. I was listening to The Beatles' "Something" and I broke the fuck down. They told me:

Something in the way she moves
Attracts me like no other lover
Something in the way she woos me

I don't want to leave her now
You know I believe and how

Somewhere in her smile she knows
That I don't need no other lover
Something in her style that shows me

Don't want to leave her now
You know I believe and how

You're asking me will my love grow
I don't know, I don't know
You stick around now it may show
I don't know, I don't know

Something in the way she knows
And all I have to do is think of her
Something in the things she shows me

Don't want to leave her now
You know I believe and how

   And I was like, "Daaaamn." That was naht what I should've been listening to. It's such a comforting and surreal feeling when you hear someone else describe the exact way vibrations shake your heart and truth rattles your bones. My therapist told me I need to address my emotions and experience this grief. Being sad is insanely unsettling and I'm not with the shit at all. Someone once tried to explain to me how frustrating it is when you're mourning yet you see other people smiling and laughing and behaving as if everything is fine in the world. I finally understand. As it stands, I am not okay with the world continuing on and behaving as if one of the most god-given gifts to Earth hasn't lost its life force. Is she here with me in spirit? Perhaps. I want her to be with me here in the physical.

And that's just too much to ask.

Antiquated Amor

       Just the other night I had my feet kicked up at the nurses' station scrolling through Facebook when I heard a yell from a room at the end of my assigned hallway. It was two in the morning, and I didn't want the disturbance to wake anyone else up so I headed toward the source of the noise. A small man lying in his bed wearing nothing but a white t-shirt and brief (re: respectful word us nurse aide's use for "diaper") had his hands cupped around his mouth to amplify his voice.

"Corporal!" he repeated.

"What can I do for you?" I laughed. He dropped his hands and looked in my direction.

"Will you look in that top drawer for something sharp? I should have a spam opener in there." This man is not what we call "with it" and therefore had no business obtaining anything serrated. He continued, "I need to cut this metal off my leg." He pointed to a white cloth wrapped around his left leg that kept his bandages intact. My eyes did that sorrowful sympathetic thing as I walked over to his dresser and pulled out the top drawer.

"There are Belvita crackers and socks in here."

"Keep digging around," he insisted. I lifted all four contents out of the drawer to exemplify my honesty. "Well then check the second drawer." I pushed the top drawer in and opened the second one.

"There are only t-shirts in here."

"I just need to get this metal off me. It's hurting my skin." I heard another resident's call light so I came up with a distraction for the mean time.

"I'm going to see if we have something in the kitchen, okay?" I lied.

"Oh... that would be wonderful. You're a good woman." My heart only broke a little. I left his room to help my other resident. She needed to go to the bathroom. So I pulled back her covers, squatted down to swing her legs over the edge of the bed, and helped her transfer to her wheelchair. When we got into the bathroom, I asked her to put her hands on the rail next to the toilet in order to help with her equilibration. I pulled her nightgown up and brief down. She groaned as she eased herself onto the toilet and I heard her bones creak like an old house being rustled by the wind. A few minutes later, she was holding the rail again as I cleaned her bum with a wet wipe. I lifted her underwear around her waist and dropped her nightgown down to her thighs. I got her back into bed and placed the call light on top of her quilt, reminding her to ring if she needed me. I removed my gloves and the trash from her bathroom and put it in my bin. From a distance I heard,

"Corporal!" I walked down to the small man's room. When I got to his doorway, he was lying on his back with both his legs dangling over the side of his bed, trying to get up. 

"You put your legs back in that bed, private," I demanded. I laughed at myself. His thin legs slid back into his bunk.

"Will you look in that top drawer for something sharp? I should have a spam opener in there," he said. "I need to cut this metal off my leg." He pointed to a white cloth wrapped around his left leg that kept his bandages intact. I walked over to his dresser and pulled out the top drawer.

"There are Belvita crackers and socks in here."

"Keep digging around," he insisted. I lifted all four contents out of the drawer out. "Well then check the second drawer." I pushed the top drawer in and opened the second one.

"There are only t-shirts in here."

"I just need to get this metal off me. It's hurting my skin." I walked over to his bed and looked at his leg. Large purple bruises covered his saggy epidermis like patches on a worn quilt. Thin tears tried their best to heal but left shallow grooves instead. "I'm sergeant of the first cavalry and they're throwing everything at me." I wondered how oriented he was so I asked him if he knew what country he was in. He responded confidently, "America... where everything is fair." My eyebrows furrowed in disagreement, but I didn't say anything. I held his fragile hand and asked him if he would like a cup of tea; his poison.

"I will have some when you go to make yourself some," he said innocently. I smiled as I had no intention of making myself any libation. 

"I can do that," I replied loud enough for him to hear me. He squeezed my hand and announced, "I read you. I think you are going to do things wonderful." Taken aback, I withdrew my hand. Could this be true? I asked myself. Is this man senile or an oracle? I giggled at the thought and retreated to get his tea. I walked into the kitchen and grabbed a plastic, navy blue mug and went to the coffee maker, pulling down the red lever and watching steaming hot water fill the orifice to the brim. I started toward the small plastic drawer that housed the tea bags. Seeing a label reading chamomile, I snagged it along with one packet of sugar and headed back towards the hall. I put the bag in the water watching it bob to the top. Before I returned, I went into the nurse's workroom. I took a blue blinder with my friend's name on it off the shelf and opened it. He was born in 1926 in Iran, though he was a United States citizen. He was army intelligence as well as a computer scientist. There's this blurry line between reality and a distorted disconnect within a dementia patient's brain. It's wise to take what they say with a bag of salt. It might be true. It might not be.

"Here's your tea," I said, setting it down on the nightstand. Even though elderly people lose their sensitivity to temperature, I didn't want him to burn his mouth. It needed to cool off for a few minutes.

"Let me see your hand," he began. I slipped my hand into his. "You're a creator, you're an observer, and you're rich. I just need to know what your decision is." I cackled.

"Decision for what?"

"If we are going to be together," he explained. I busted out laughing.

"Darling, you're 91. I'm 23."

"So?" he retorted. I laughed some more. "In the eyes of god, nothing is more sacred than the union of two people." I hesitated before I revealed, "Awe, doll... I'm Atheist."

"I don't want to change your opinions, " he assured. "Just be what you want to be." My heart melted and dripped on the floor in a puddle. That was the smoothest shit I'd ever heard.

"Vous êtes la vie," he purred. I smiled and told him I don't speak French.

"Do you speak any other languages?" I inquired.

"Oh yes. I speak Spanish, Hindu, Indian, Australian..."

"Australians speak English."

"It's a different English," he insisted. I bent over in laughter. "We would be pure, wonderful, and decent. You have independence." I was smitten. I was half-tempted to accept his offer. I could only imagine all the things he could teach me; all the beauty and horror and pain and elation and life his experiences encapsulated. The physical can incite curiosity, but it's knowledge that reels us in to love.

"What year were you born?" I asked. 

"Nineteen-twenty... five? Six?"

"Do you know what year it is?"

"Eighteen-eighty..." he started. I laughed and pointed out the impossibility of that if he were born in the 1920's.

"These things are complicated." I smiled in agreement. I glanced down at his brief to see two blue stripes down the crotch area.

            "I need to change your underwear," I observed. "You got urine on your shirt, too, doll. Let me get you a new one." I walked over to his dresser as he blurted, "Will you look in that top drawer for something sharp? I should have a spam opener in there. I need to cut this metal off my leg."

➚

   Life's so funny, because there have been certain ages that I reach where I'm like: Okay, I'm finally confident that this is who I am meant to be. I am complete. Where will this naivete lead me? I'm always growing, learning, unlearning, faltering, and rejuvenating; every year, month, day, and minute. I've finally come to accept this, and so I ingest every word I hear and seek all the knowledge I can cram into this inquisitive soul.

"And four years later, you're dancing around your kitchen with a pint of milk in your hand.

The windows are open wide, the neighbors are still awake, and they are watching you.

They are watching you falling in love with being alive."