While I'm a Young Thing...

I just want to sit at home by myself with a bottle of wine and write and cry about how I’m no Ernest Hemingway.

My Early Christmas Gift

It's not the ring that I wanted, but it was unexpected and it's beautiful and perfect.
He loves me and that's all I really need.

Snoring Afternoon

We giggle at the thought

of that peculiar snoring sound.

Suddenly, I miss home.

Sitting in your arms, I make

the same analogy. Tom & Jerry

and old cartoons with feathers

following the breathing patterns of a sleeping

fat man.

You pretend that's me,

but I only talk in my sleep.

You're the one who lightly grizzles.

You're not as obnoxious as my dad, who was always

sitting on the couch or a chair back home,

snoring like a storm despite how many

folded socks I tossed at him.

I know you're missing how your dad used to snore

on long afternoons, lazily watching golf on TV.

I soothe you while you're sitting

in your chair: send my fingers

through your hair, let you morph into

a child- helpless and wanting- until you fall

asleep with your head buried

in my neck.

Then I hear the light breathy whir- the sound

of your snoring in the afternoon.

No sleep. Just Thoughts.

11:32 P.M.

You swallow your sleeping pill and chase it with a kiss before we lie

down in the darkness, pure dark when electricity first vanishes.

I don't recognize these familiar shapes, even the shape of your body,

only small circles of light burning their piercing colors into my retinas.

I stare at the shadows dancing across the roof as streetlight

streams in through the window. It reminds me, the world is outside.

Voices bustle, murmured

past 2 A.M.

Just lying there. I think about mid-November and the way I cried

about your dad more than you did. That's how we started, or rather,

when he ended. Then I find my mind on January when we first fell apart.

I feel the weight of my limbs sinking lower

into the mattress, into the dent in the side I sleep on.

I notice the strands of my hair set loose

in the sheets (I know how that pisses you off)

and a hazy outline of my face near the wall, adjacent

to the hole that still needs repair; you need it too.

The wall never changes even when everything else does.

We're tucked into these oversized sheets

(too big for a twin bed)

like corpses in a coffin. I feel the dead

weight of your arm across my waist. Heavier, heavier.

My eyes fizzle with the light of the clock.

4:08. Yes, in the morning.

I exhale a sigh of frustration. You're like a secure barrier

keeping me tucked inside the sheets. Trying to, anyway.

I extend my arm across your back and send my fingertips exploring

the vast mountain of your shoulders where you keep the stress, bottled up.

My attempt at comfort. No sleep. Just thoughts of it.

Yeah, you took your damn pills. Your sleep comes more easily now.

But I carry your stress under my eyes. Dark circles. Dark thoughts.

Thoughts of your dead father, buried now for almost four months' time.

Carry the casket, the sorrow. Now I carry part of the blame

for your explanations as to why you run from thoughts of death.

American “hush hush.” Hispanic “lo siento.”

Alcohol and pills: Your survival guide to life.

I just want to fix you; us; this whole complicated scenario.

We're sleeping in his coffin. Sounds so fucking cliché.

7:45 AM- time to wake up.

Ode to My Family's Old Purple Van

In the middle seat

of our burnt purple shell of a minivan,

I sat watching the world flash by time and again.

With enough room in this row for two,

I often sat through the sleepless drives toward

historical destinations on summer trips to Virginia,

Washington D.C., New York City... anywhere really.

My drowsy head rolling sideways

in search of refuge on Amanda's unwilling shoulder.

The bonds of sisterly bickering

on these roadtrips were commonly animated

with a pair of Jessica's adolescent feet

dressed in doll clothing, hanging over the edge

of my retractable armrest.

The itchy patterned fabric was a close friend

- a confidant- who soaked up my tears

and the bitter taste of goodbyes.

Tears for my buried idol, Abuelo.

Tears for words too harshly spoken, sidewalk-chipped teeth,

and for raw elbows and knee-skin

freshly broken on school-ground pavement.

Even tears of laughter trailing back

from sunny daytrips to the beach, sand

buried in the scratchy grey cushions and rugs.

Peeling tint that smelt of melted plastic became a hobby,

easy entertainment on the most tedious drives through

hours of bumpers close to kissing and the thrill

of driving on the part of the road that tilts.

My childhood was in that seat, buckled in tightly

while the world sped past as fluttering shadows

across the drooped rooftop, stopping only at dead

red lights, zooming past any color green through

“orange” (as they'd say), defensive in the ever- expected

traffic of Miami at even the darkest hours, when lights

only flash yellow.

There was always the fight for the front seat,

but I'm disinterested. I want

the middle

where I have full view of everything.

Don't Go to Bed with Wet Hair

I'm almost two feet taller now, but no longer at home.

I don't have the same comfort from the hair dryer's

fiery electric drone.

I used to watch the clock dance for hours

and wish I could sleep. I'd scrunch my toes

in the cold contrast and bunch up my shoulders.

Only simple commands were called out:

“Turn. Left. Up. Down.”

When he had insisted wet hair would make me sick

I hesitantly decided, Dad knows best; Old age made him wise.

So I would stare at the bathroom tiles with a burn

behind my eyes. I knew it was an inevitable

recurring ritual, blow-drying this hefty heap.

Through the wild mess of hair

atop my head, there were but a few chances

to catch a glimpse in the mirror, peeking

through the puff.

Blood rushed to my face as I turned my head

upside-down. The tugging brought tears.

Large fingers brushed my scalp. Heat encroached

behind my ears.

But I secretly enjoyed this painful grooming

though I would never admit it then; when I was

standing a tiny bit taller than four feet.

Hello

Sorry I have been on hiatus for quite a while. I'm going to be posting some older poetry pieces for your enjoyment. Some aren't exactly my favorite, but I hope you enjoy them.

How to: Deal with haters.

Do you realize how much bigger life is than an uncomfortable run in with girls you went to high school with? In five years, you won't even give it a second thought. I promise. They are not worth your time or energy. Seriously, FORGET THEM! We all hate them anyway and there are better things in life to think about... like my adorable face! And nutella and oh I don't know, people who actually matter.

Go Explore

And you know as well as I do that while yes, boys are wonderful and exciting, there is SO much more to being happy and living a super amazing and wonderful life! 


So get your butt out there in the world and have a fucking blast! The teen years are almost up! Then, the damage we do will be more "adult" so enjoy this! And hello.. Miami fucking rocks. Except for clubbing or whatever, since we're underage (and I don't have a fake ID).. but the city is vast! Go explore.

The whole world is upside-down, but sometimes things manage to turn out right-side-up.

I want to travel far away: Africa, Italy, and Spain. I just want to explore and disappear from how upsetting I seem to be here. Forgive me, please as I run away. It's just too painful not to.

"Good morning, Princess"

All I wanted to do was play hooky this morning, sleep until the afternoon, pretend I have nothing to do and do all of this nothing with you. When you said, “Good morning, Princess” you made it that much more tempting for me to stay in bed even though I was in jeans and had already gotten dressed. It didn’t help that it was so cold- frigid, just the way you like my nose, and that I knew waking up meant you’d be driving away, but with a warm kiss and those three little words, I knew I was ready for the rest of the world today. But now all I can do, with grogginess still behind my eyes and our love-shark by my side, is crawl back into the sheets and miss you and wait for you to come home. Mmm, how I love to sleep and dream about you and me.

Cold Nostalgia

Midday rolling on the warm sandy shore
replaced by the frosty smoke of my early morning breaths.
A cold nostalgia reminds me that I left the place
where I could sprawl out on the sidewalk like a cat catching sun.
The sky seemed more blue on those arts and crafts days.

Butterscotch? Bizarre

A small block of butterscotch
sat tempting my tastebuds.
The flavor unknown made me
curious as a child
trifling through an adult scene.

The edges of the cube,
surprisingly smooth were
like ice. In my mouth it
melted just the same.

Butterscotch? Bizarre
- like a homeless transvestite.
Sweet, but tart, yes, a little
Tart she is. She's an impostor-
rich, creamy caramel, but not
all in the same.

Havana Noon

Sunshine delight is fading down
Past the palms they grew up by.
On the beach, silver water
Glistens. The wind whispers
Secrets from our past.

Didn't you know who your Grandfather
Was? An ancestral wallet with much deeper
Pockets explains the life you were meant to lead.
Refuge and revolution found their place,
Finding me life in a new nation.

It all feels much of the same: The
Palms and breeze, the sunshine
And seas that they waved to as
They said goodbye, now seem
To welcome me back every time.

But this life is new for us all.
We look for answers in the tobacco
Fields now half burned crispy on
A different shore. Havana afternoons
Are no one's delight anymore.

A Poem Is

A poem is a capsule
Buried deep for a time.
Written in it, every secret
Some with a rhyme.

A poem is a confession
To an anonymous priest.
Letting out the sins and silence
- One's own abominable beast.

But eventually it surfaces
Be it harsh or pure.
The secret sin gets out
Feelings honest and mature.

Inspired by: "A poem is a capsule where we wrap up our punishable secrets"- William Carlos Williams

The Price We Pay

Mother always said the best things in life aren't free
These bananas don't come cheap.
The red on your shoes
Replaced father's booze.
A needle and thread
Keep you warm in your bed
As does the licking flame of your candle
Which won't burn your hand because of its handle.
The best things in life aren't free
So we must pay for everything.

Young Things

We may be young things, but we're not too young; we're young enough. We're young enough to understand the beauty and pain of love. We're young enough to be sympathetic to those who need our compassion and blunt to those who can't stand heavy sentiments. We're young enough to be brutally honest or creatively cunning. We're young enough to practice true loyalty, to make family out of friends, to be brave enough to discover ourselves. We are young things and we know how to live with passion and excitement and conviction. Who is anyone to tell you to be anything other than young and adventurous? Go be a young thing with pride in all that you are and all that you create.

Go Find Yourself

The thing about going away someplace is that you change. Life happens. You meet people, you experience things. Everything is somehow completely different. The problem with that lies in coming home because you expect people to notice. You want them to just see the changes in you and understand how to function in your new life, but they're expecting everything to be exactly the same as before. The important part is to recognize you've changed and embrace it. Keep changing. There will never be one complete and absolute version of who you are so go out into the world and find yourself and then find yourself again. Change is beautiful. Change is constant. Enjoy it even if no one else understands.

Please excuse my cheesiness to follow.

Why is it that we can throw around the word "love" when it doesn't mean anything, but can't seem to say it at all when it means everything? I love you. There, I've said it and I mean it and it's real. Who cares who says it first? If I feel it, I should tell you and tell you frequently because life is short and unpredictable and I want you to know how much you really mean to me. Now it's out in the world and you know and it's up to you to decide what you want to do with that heavy bit of information. You shouldn't be shocked. I've known I love you for quite a while now. I'm not asking you to say it back or feel obligated to me in some ridiculous cliche manner. I just want you, however you feel about me in return, but I'm pretty sure you love me too. I've seen the way you look at me like I'm so much more than you could have deserved, like I matter too much for you to ever want to hurt me. It's absolutely terrifying to trust you with every inch of my heart, but you're one of my best friends and I love you. I'll say it a thousand times if you want. And no, it's not too soon especially after everything we've been through.