month of ma[nia]y

IMG_1958

I’m having a grand time, really.

Like, there’s microcosms of such light in all this heaviness.

And, I am so aware when it is happening, yet so poignantly aware that it has the complete opposite effect on my chest.

It sinks. My eyes, refuse to look at the beauty before me.

Steve says it all has to do with this “irrational feeling that I am not good”.

The frenzied sickness of my thoughts. The grace and clarity of my speech, even if it’s not genuine. The fixation on overthrowing the government. The gladly fucking men a decade older than me who are the government. Fuck. It’s all haphazard and I feel like a fraud.

I agree with Steve, but he’s also my cis white therapist from Pennsylvania who loves pastels and cardigans. And me. I make him laugh a lot. What would he know though? Yknow?

A year and a half of mulling over my life in search of an analysis and chance at progress. I’m still here. Maybe I should try yoga?

My upbringing was painful. I was a poor, abused, depressed little thing. I was silenced as soon as I could speak. My mouth is still trying to grasp for every breath at proof of my ability to, and shit since I found out I’m good, I can’t quit.

But I lack something. Though I excel at most things I immerse myself in, my success at productivity is truly not fulfilling. I don’t know what I should be doing. I love music, I write, occasionally, but there’s something I should be doing! If only I could identify it..

Two years after the birth of this blog, I am changed. But this voice in my head is at work and it’s not nice. It urges me to rush on through, attain the impossible, get out of the hood, fill my void with sex, drugs, sad tunes, mediocre friends. The office jobs, the pervy boss, the conniving older womxn that wish for my demise.

I need a break..again..but that’s okay right? I’m allowed to take breaks? To slide the world off my shoulders and be a tourist somewhere for some time?

Until I’m something. Until I find something. Until I have something to show for. Maybe then I’ll be absolved?

Everyone I know lusts for this youth. This uncertainty, no ties, endless possibilities. But mostly I’m just floating man, and it sucks. It fucking hurts. It limits my survival. And I have so much left to do.

“So the next time I tell you how easily I come out of my skin, don’t try to put me back in
just say here we are together at the window aching for it to all get better
but knowing as bad as it hurts our hearts may have only just skinned their knees knowing there is a chance the worst day might still be coming
let me say right now for the record, I’m still gonna be here
asking this world to dance, even if it keeps stepping on my holy feet”- Andrea Gibson

I’ll try to stay. Okay?

xx s.c

Advertisements

the fifth column submission: who am i

I am sunken lungs

despite the way my laughter races time

and wins

surprised at it’s own blithe essence

as it considers it’s melancholy wrapped in tar

from evenings and corners and benches of lonely smoke,

the bittersweet refugee of this body.

 

I am always rising,

filling rooms and hearts at width

and leaving

only an apparition of validation

with the same rendition of full words

making friends feel whole

making lovers out of friends

taking their accolades under my tongue and

spitting them out instantaneously

as this reel of life chooses me

and proposes a tasteless audience.

 

I am sculpted feet, smooth, unsure, unseen

in black leather and bursts of blue flames

treading heavy, falling over my knees

bruising, bleeding, still singing

rebel songs whispered to me in dreams

by those that loved me all knowingly

passing their blood and metaphysics to me in

screams of sweet conception, strife and stories.

 

I am here

shackled to this lifetime by brutish force of colonization

an alienation of flesh and worry

always wondering how much more I can do to compensate

for the way people look at me

 

I am here

there are words I must reveal

that I am still trying to remember

there is sun that kisses my face

and well, there’s something beautiful about knowing

that it loved my ancestors like this too

 

So this is me.

I find solace in knowing that the stars endowed me with some sort of consciousness.

And this is me, still trying to fill this hole in my chest with ink.

 

I am here.

I have to remember how I got here.

I have to race time

or it will never know

how much it’s done for me.

And I want it to know.

I want it to know that I exist.

 

 

They all leave, mama

Pero tu ya sabias

siempre recordandome en mis fantasias

En los episodios de infatuacion que me dan

cada cuantos dias

No se si es por que quiero que me pertenescan

No se si es porque nunca he pertenecido

Why do they all come along and alter me so irresponsibly?

Cogiendo me desde el suelo, acarisiando mi ego

Me quedo temblando

And I give myself up

Slowly I shed off the layers, mis petalos, the accessories

Revealing my root

They hold on then toss me

They all leave me, mama

Es que no te hago caso

Aunque tu nunca me has dejado

Que voy hacer cuando ya no estes?

Pues ni amigas, ni amores a mi lado

Naci con ti, y asi acabo.

cis het piggies slopping around in the patriarch’s narrative

I sit across a pig and his boss.

They ask me to recollect my trauma.

To pin point each of the nervous threads in my memory

that now hold my body under siege,

affirming the paper thinness of my frantic skin.

Weaving clamps around sore throat’s air ducts.

I suppose the invasion left me starving and delirious

because this time, my words brought no sustenance.

So if there’s such a thing as justice

Pigs don’t eat that shit.

wednesday mourning

Time punctures generations skin

Weaving threads of inherited trauma into woman’s bone

There is a man with blood on his teeth 

Smiling down at the patchwork of pain

I sever him methodically.

 He watches me feed his body to the starved pigs, 

both eyes, one, ghost eyes, none.

It’s the end of the year 

I am hunting cosmopolitan sales,
while girls are hunted under fear stained sheets.

The coming year will pass me by in a flurry of pages, stories, statistics.

The yellow-eyed patriots will continue to assert Empire abroad, militarizing broken states.

Collapsing mosques, homes, lungs.

Fingers pulsing on triggers, pulsing hearts and last pulses lingering

suspended in finite breaths, 

breathing in polverized

life turned to dust, death.

War will not ravage Amerikkkan soil next year–

that would alter predestined first world trends.

The cadence of bombs won’t clamp my brothers throats in their sleep, they’ll continue to dream in kind colors.

One will start school and learn about the vastness of the world.

I will not tell him how many bodies lie under the Mediterranean Sea.

I will not point to the places on the atlas where hatred burns holes,

indicating generations of oblivion.

My bloodline will remain intact,

we will still exist, like this.

My contemporaries won’t break the cycle of silence,

they will sneer at my urgency.

Stuffing their faces in bourgeois feed , interweb validation, sedating distractions, purple noise.

How to jostle this world out of obsessive greed?

World leaders concede to massacres abroad, meddling in coups while bruised babies wonder across sister’s breast, if their father’s leg is really missing, if mother will come back having escaped the bloodthirsty grip of the agent of state, with his grim face, with his haunting grace.

I awake in the night screaming for Aleppo and Screaming for Palestinia and Screaming for 

Yemen 

Vietnam 

Rwanda. 

I inherit broken Nicaragua, where my mother screamed as her grandmother collapsed screaming where the same Entity, Concept, Government massacred my revolution poised uncles and raped the women who make me possible here now.

I trace my hands, I calm the electricity in my bones…existing…still.

Holding close the memory of the children, and women, and the frightened since hate’s origin 

Holding close the places where timelines bury bloodlines 

Where pachamama prematurely swallows her children back into the ground lifetimes and time again.

There is no song to sing tonight, there is no rhythm to soothe the panic in my lungs

Liminal spirits wander our plane, friends. 

My sisters and brothers are screaming.

Flesh in fire

Conclude another year.

Another genocide.

scraps from the void :^)

enough with the bruised chest

with the walking carcass

maybe if I endeavor in this American dream

and internalize this crippling American ethos

I will what? Bask in consumerism?

even here that case would be a monument!

how lucky you’d be!

“considering your circumstances….”

considering my skin? do you consider my skin?

my physical will always be considered initially

my metaphysics capture only those who listen closely

a god-complex to contrast the hate aimed at every breath you continue to take

with your bruised chest

enough with the bruised chest

the walking carcass

the bawling baffoon

asphyxiate

insert- suggestion, fugazi

my fruit is not yours to take

it is mine, it belongs to me

you snatched it in a moment of false opportunity

 

this fruit is not yours to take

my round cherub face

and the blue over my eyes

are not an invitation for my virtue’s demise

 

this fruit is not yours to take

I want to skin all thieves alive

what gave you the right?

it doesn’t matter how late it was at night

who gave you the right?

 

now I can’t sleep at night

my knees keep shaking

everyone keeps asking if i’m alright

and I die a little inside

how can I confess that I was in a moment of rest

that I thought I was safe

that another thought I was theirs to take

when in: sanatorium

I wore my jim morrison shirt to my weekend trip to the psych ward

This escapade turned out to be a week long movie

Of drugged up kids with fucked up shit that’d happened to them

Like, there was a girl who was raped by her uncle multiple times but no one listened until her skin was purple

And there was a boy who’d get beat by his dad every day and had to get out of the psych ward to make sure his little brother wouldn’t get beat by his dad every day

There was also someone who’d swallowed 7 blades, it wasn’t their first time there

Upon my arrival a ten year old  greeted me by reciting a poem I knew

“Your family hates you and your friends watch you bleed” it went

I’d be okay, according to her. she was getting out that day.

I remember the grayness of the place and the timely activities

I remember the slashes on everyone’s arms, teen angst what it do

I remember the desolation covered up by criminally high doses of medication assigned by some ex-hippie pseudo children’s mental psychologist bloke who had only 30 seconds a day with us

you see, he had to get out of there and go spend his salary

I couldn’t speak much

I didn’t care, obviously

I’d literally failed at failing

(to off myself) in case this wasn’t already clear

New and distraught adolescents came and went

I befriended the introverts as I usually do

President sarah they called me

It was probably the toxicity of high school politics that put me in the sanatorium in the first place but hey, president sarah of the undead dead

holler at your 21st century hamlet

There was a girl and her name was violet

She heard me singing heaven knows I’m miserable now and joined in

She saw me reading lolita and so I snuck into her room and  we deciphered why we were in the loony bin in the first place

Though its quite reasonable, considering the way we see the world or

The trauma that we inherited from our parental units

Or maybe it was the wisdom our bodies were too small to hold

Maybe we weren’t held enough as children

Then there was michael

his voice dripped of such devastation and frank discomfort of being

Naturally I gravitated toward him

We were good friends even after the post-psych shit

That by the way fucks people worst than when they get there

There are many lost little souls I met in the valley of my existence there

I wish I could immortalize them all

They’re either keeping on or dead

And I wish I could tell them they should stay

Even in a world that doesn’t ask them to