My appreciation for the expression of others
comes directly from the need to express myself.
I want to get piercings
and mark up my body
and make it my own.
Not because it’s pretty,
but because it’s uniquely me.
I want to drive at night
with the windows rolled down
blasting Bon Iver or Kendrick Lamar.
It’s a distinctive sensation
to feel the breezy wind
rattling the hair on my shoulders.
I want to wait
until I find a guy
who genuinely likes me
instead of settling for somebody
who doesn’t truly care about me.
I refuse to give into society
and their notion that love isn’t out there.
I want to travel
as often as I am able to
and experience cultures
that are drastically different from each other.
The world is full
of unique cultures and lives,
and I hope to experience as many as possible.
I want to express myself
and appreciate the expression of others.
Without truly listening
and truly understanding,
society is reduced
to a bunch of people wallowing about
alongside each other.
And what good is that?
I want to start putting in the effort
to look people in the eye
when they are talking.
So that I know
what makes them feel
happy, unique, and loved.
Things are getting bad again
Words start to feel like stones
And hugs like suffocation
While hazy moments of laughter
Cover the emptiness of my chest.
You’re not full, argues my stomach
You’re broken, says my heart
Every line that has been spoken to me
Telling me how to define myself
Comes back into my mind
Like a fog that deepens in the night.
Just keep your opinions to yourself sometimes
You’re actually smart?
No boy will want to listen to all that.
Crazy feminist bitch.
If you just worked on your stomach a little…
Try being less sensitive.
Get over yourself, it’s not all about you
Calm down, you’re being wild
You’ve been dating for 8 months, don’t you think you owe it to him?
I don’t like the way your words affect me
But I wish you tasted them too
Safa means ‘safe’ in Farsi
She explained as
We made the trek down
From the ranch house to the barn.
By the time we reached the bottom of the hill
The paint cans in our hands were boulders
And we set to work with rollers,
Covering the old wood the color of the open sky
And changing the decrepit and forgotten place
Into a home.
Four beaming eyes with pupils the size of saucers
Still slink away from me.
I know they’ve been hurting
And I know that they’re scared
But I don’t pretend to know what it feels like
To have your life in someone else’s hands.
But that’s why we’re here.
To open our arms
To make a home
To open some souls up to life.
How is it possible for one person
To put the dew on the leaves
The planets in their orbits
The sparkle in my eyes?
When I try to tell you
What I was like before–
Nothing escapes my lips
But now that I’m okay again
I’d just like to say that–
It’s been quite some time
Since someone reached out
To hold my hand like you do.
Only a few lights are on as I start
The music is overpowering my thoughts
I let myself move comfortably
Doing whatever feels natural
I gradually disregard all the technique I’ve been taught
As I try to understand the lyrics
Using myself as a medium
My emotions are set free
Now I can see clearly
My thoughts trail on for miles
I do not choose a single path
I go wherever the movement takes me
e I’m heading towards the fantasies in my mind
They said I can stay for however long I like
If it’s all in my mind
I guess I’ll stay for awhile
while I look into the rain
something captures my attention
I get my glasses
to gaze harder
it isn’t a something
but conversely a someone
he has luring brown hair
strewn crazily around
maybe he is charming
or adventurously brave
will he be a lover
or a friend
or somewhere in between
I grasp my brain
before it can dream too far
simply another illusion
of the precarious could be
an attempt to preserve happy memories
smiles are given
their authenticity tossed aside
A girl, around the young age of 11, cries a few hours later and wonders why she wasn’t allowed to keep those memories stored in a happy place. Winning awards in this weekend’s dance competition was supposed to make her happy. Her mom informs her that this, that, and the other thing too are not good enough. This is not defined as motherly love, guidance, or advice- but as something bitter and frigid. As the sweet girl’s rosy face drains to her typical pale tone, she worries that she will never be somebody her mom adores.