Amor y apego postraumático: (Post traumatic Love & Attachment)

it comes out the most when... 

when I start coming to terms with

having feelings for you,

at first, I toss & turn

contemplating whether or not 

I should even engage in 

telling you, because your

a response that could be what 

brings it out first.

the day that I tell you

how I feel could be the 

day that I die more inside &

whatever has been dead already 

will be bought out

of its grave for it will be revived

for their death to be done again,

for their body to be put back 

in its grave & put back to sleep

like a child before bedtime.

or it could possibly be the day

that you start showing me that

you have feelings for me first,

not giving me the time

to be able to come to terms with

Whether or not the fact I remember your name

is because it’s part of the norm

to know what to call you

then to understand that it’s become a lullaby

in my sleep.

the very first time that I send you a text

It’ll give me the jitters,

when you text me back moments later

it’ll give me an adrenaline rush

like a cold brew of coffee

first thing in the morning, but

the day that you don’t respond

right away the day that I start 

to think it is over before it’s even begun.

you tell me that it’s been 

on delivered for 8 hours,

I tell myself that within that time

that you would have gotten busy,

my heart tells me that there’s somebody else

that is more important than that 

is taking the time off your thumbs.

and the day I feel like that

is the day that I start to disappear,

the longer you disappear

the more I fight against myself

to push the thought of you out, 

the more I push the thought of 

you out of my heart, the more it hurts,

the more I wonder off back into the life

I lived before I knew your name & 

memorized your face.

even though things go forgotten

my heart has a memory of its own

so things never really go forgotten.

I will never tell 

you how these things

makes me feel.

I will never let you fight in the wars

that takes place at these times

right in front of your face, 

I will only let you sit there clueless,

oblivious to my emotions &

to my traumas because the day you

try to fix me

will be the day that you are pushed over the fence 

of either falling in love with me or

falling out of love with me,

all the while

I will have started to get accustomed

to your healing words,

and your healing hands.

Me as a Word

I stumbled across a question

one mildly hot afternoon, but

after giving my answer

I felt like the question stumbled across me.

The question:

if you were a word, what word would you be?

Sifting through my twenty-three years,

overlooking the grams of time like sand

that made me who I am today like a sand castle on a beach.

The seconds, minutes, hours, days, and months

all microscopic dictionaries of words I've used in time.

With all the words I've used 

simultaneously there's only one word

that if it looked in the mirror 

it would share my reflection.

'Resilient'

This word as defined means;

the capacity to withstand or to recover

quickly from difficulties; toughness.

This word as Chrissy-fined (as defined by Chrissy) is more

then the 'I think I can' mantra,

more powerful than 'She believed She could so She did'

it's understanding and adapting to the highs and lows of each day.

Being okay with going back and forth

between smiling and crying in a game of catch.

It's falling on your butt, doing surveillance of

your current surroundings,

respecting that they were there for the landing and

bouncing back up again.

Resilient 

is protected and befriended by the heart,

teaching the heart pain isn't a forever lesson.

It's learning that each day you grow into a new person

like a seed turning into what it's destined to become.

So if I were a word, I'd be resilient.

A word that carries its hardship and 

learns something about herself as she does so.

Dear Light Skins: A conversation with self in a shattered dysphoric mirror

 

Throwback your shoulder
puff out your chest,
accentuate your waist,
but remember you are not a princess or a Barbie doll,
there are none that look like you,
you still have to look realistic.
Keep a smile on your face & do not break eye contact,
Learn to keep a good posture
even when the world spits in your face,
keep your lips glossed and appear full,
and learn how to codeswitch your appearance for those around you
to smile more around your white peers,
smile carelessly
like you’ve earned your keep&
everything you own without any handouts
around your black and brown peers
they can tell when you’re trying too hard, but
they also know when you’re not trying hard enough.

Speak properly around both of them,
your white peers will think you’re talking ghetto &
your black/brown peers will think you sound white if you don’t.


Learn how to speak with your eyes and not
as much with your mouth.
When people look at you confused they're most likely wondering
what you’re mixed with or what gives you the right here trying to fit in
with them, they’ll listen to anything you have to say.


Learn not to say a word
unless the person is deserving,
that is why you deal with what
you deal with today
because your words are like the wind
it blows with no direction
just looking for an ear canal or a branch
to stop its travel,
people like you are better to be seen
not heard,
to be awed like a piece of art,
touched with consent
try to remember that
the next time something doesn't feel,
"just right to you".

Learn to keep a good posture
even when they spit in your face,
or call you by your name,
thank them every time they call you Christian or Christen,
even when they ask you countlessly
if your name starts with a “C” or “K”
or ask you if your name ends with an “an” or “en”,
cause as long as you’re correcting them then
there's less of a chance that you’ll ever forget it,

Thank them every time they get it right on the first
try or when they tell you that it's spelled uniquely.
do not correct them,
this is not your fight.


Stop acting
like they think you would act,
don't act too confident,
don't act like at the drop of a hat you could
have someone at your feet ready
to do your bidding,
stop acting like life is a struggle,
you're going to school full time, but
only have a part-time job, but yet
you still turn around and say that you
are doing all that you can
so what you can't sleep
drink coffee in the morning,
drink some espresso in the afternoon and
jug back an energy drink right behind it, but
still have no energy by
the time 3:00 rolls around,
still don't have enough energy
to try to force yourself
to close your eyes at night, but
what's new, this is not a struggle
you have plenty that
is still needed to be done.

Learn to keep a good posture
even when they spit in your face,
this is not your skin complexion's fight,
this is a fight more like clockwork that
you should already expect to fight
this is normal, stop acting surprised.


Speak your mind, but only on paper
because that's all you'll ever be good for as a writer.

Learn to keep a good posture
even when they spit in your face,
even when you go home and tell your parents
about what you have to go through, but
will never understand from your point of view,
and they'll never understand how people have said that with your eyes

if you just bat them, boys would go crazy,
they're never gonna understand that with
your complexion no one in your community is gonna trust you,
and everyone else from every other community is going to hate you,
they'll never understand how you feel,
how do you worry about the reasons why people are friends with you
because the past has proven people are out to use and break you
like a romcom popular girl,
this is not your skin complexion's fight,
it's just a fight you haven't learned how to give up from yet,
a fight where you should be a middle ground, instead of a battleground ...

Respectively

I'd look straight into
your eyes.
I'd get lost in them,

melt in the hazle haze

that'll let me see clearly

just enough

to catch glimpse

of your soul &

see the purity glow

that'll blind me

leaving me vulnerable

in your presence.

I wouldn't mind

for I've already found refuge 

in your eyes &

had gotten wrapped up

in the hospitality

that was waiting there.

I'd tell you

we wouldn't need

to use words to speak

for all the communication

that is still available

is more than enough.

All of our words

in our eyes &

at our fingertips

as we hold each other.

I'd tell you

how I feel.

How you broke down

monuments I made of

walls that were used to protect me &

replaced them with 

yourself in record time.

The world would melt away

at this point &

only then would we be there

between the lines,

between the universal pull &

without the need for gravity

we are here.

I'd tell you that 

we ourselves are poetry.

That our thoughts,

our feelings, & emotions

are the words to our melodies.

I'd tell you how I feel

let the wind carry

my very words to you

for you to hear them.

I'd marvel at the sight of you.

I'd like to make both cheeks

crimson red

like precious rubies.

I'd cherish you & protect you.

I'd often remind you

that I will never stop

doing so through my actions.

I'd tell you how I feel & 

make sure you knew

that the way I feel about you is real.

She is...

She's tilted for the Earth, but 

her head is caught up in the heavens.

Bilingual in the speech 

of heart and soul.

She speaks,

Who listens?

Birds sings to her 

to keep her grounded, 

anchored as a reminder of her goals 

from her past and her future selves.

She tilted towards the Earth, but 

her father reminds her she is not 

of the Earth that her feet is tethered to.

She's tilted towards the Earth,

the breeze and the wind carries her words,

Her heart is where she reads from and 

is where she writes.

She is growing and maturing 

beyond wildest dreams or fairy tales.

She is here.

She is here.

She breaths through me,

I am her protection, 

her shelter.

The garden that she walks through 

has been created by these words 

of multicolored ink.

She is here right in front of you,

but ask yourself 

- who hears her when she speaks?.

When arguing with someone with age regression

*Age regression "A Little"- is when a person reverts to a younger state of mind. They may regress a few years back from their current age or, in some cases, return to a child-like or infant-like stat*

do not take an argument at face value,

do not continue to take and think your words are just that,

because she'll never tell you otherwise.

she'll never say that when she was a child

her household wasn't always a quiet safe place,

she will not tell you that her parents used their words 

like arrows with spears of fire at the other ends,

will not tell you that they would use her as a target and 

turn around and say that if they did not love her

they wouldn't have cared.

would have chosen their battle like their last meal

slow and precise

rather than a shopper on Black Friday

looking to be the first one to this deal

only this deal was not worth the price, but

this deal is the first to be able to reach her and

 fuck up her day for no other reason but 

as the parents of the child

they have a certain hold on her

 that could both break her and build her up.

she will not tell you that every two that you raise your voice at her

she will instantaneously retreat to her childlike state

she will become obedient and quite

shut down fast so that you can flip the light off

she will not let you know that just like her parents

you have a hold on her that could wrap around her neck and 

block any air to lung circulation

her blood to body circulation

she will think it is normal

will remember all the nights that she cried so hard

that she could not breathe and

her head felt like it was gonna explode.

do not take an argument at face value

no matter what the argument is she will already

feel as if it is out for her to lose,

do not talk over her, and do not give her the floor to speak

she will not know what to say

even when she does, she will not say it

because she doesn't want to defy you, 

does not want to act out

will try to hold back her tears

will drown herself from the inside

she will not tell you every time6 as a Child

she was forced to answer for her tears

was forced to answer for her silence and her blank stares

were forced to stay in the room and forced to follow through with a lecture that she never said she needed

the lecture that thought no adequate lesson yet

opened the floor for the parent 

to once again being spoken down to and scorned.

“Is Love a Connection?”

Love is morning dewdrops, kissing the soles of my feet,

as my body melts, and oozes into the Earth.

I always thought love was supposed to be

between child & parents,

Love is not roots wrapped around my ankles,

pulling me deeper, closer to its baneful core.

thought that love was supposed to be protecting &

compassionate - not overbearing & insecure,

Is love a connection?

I used to think that love was supposed to be

a soft place to land,

I thought of love to be a quadrilateral being,

its walls collapsing, suffocating me.

a comforting place within 

an offsetting world.

Diamond rings, roses, white picket fences,

the gripping glare of the TV screen.

Is love a connection?

Is love a connection?

Love is the ability to look in the mirror &

not find anything you’d want to change,

Love is an individual. She carries herself,

wrapped in blood-stained sheets.

Love’s been the silence within a 

world full of chaos,

Love, let me lay in your hair,

let our tears seep into the Earth like stardust.

an example of world peace

instead of segregation & hatred,

Love does not reside in silent rooms

littered with broken glass, cutting the soles of my feet.

I thought love was the answer to all -

a feeling that’ll cut through fear & anxiety like a knife,

Is love a connection?

not an anchor that holds you in place - 

unable to breathe.

Love grows from my elbows, fills the cracks in my teeth,

I see her when I smile.

Is love a connection?

Love holds me while I scream until my throat bleeds,

she is proud when I am angry with the world.

I always used to think love was the heroin in a story,

Is love a connection?

something with a constant like clockwork or the world's rotation

always there - not like the seasons change over time,

Love is orgasmic, filling my veins

with undemanding, natural bliss.

Is love a connection? 

I thought he was love when I found him

all the while, he was still to be defined,

Love is knowing all its forms - its goods & bads - 

it’s mood swings - its body's curves & imperfections.

Love lies in the ruins,

she helps clear the debris.

Love, is the happily ever after once wanting to

cut off the story after ‘once upon a time’ but decided against it.

Special thanks to Cloe Looze who write this poem with me.

A Notebook & Journal that'll hold my words as Deserved.

Looking for

notebooks or journals to buy,

for a writer, this act is a science on its own.

A drawn-out checklist

must be achieved before this purchase can be finalized;

1.) Good page quality,

2.) Ink & emotion absorbency required,

        -I wish not to worry about leaving smear marks behind or

        the need for time for the words to settle into their environment.

        I crave the security that through my writing, through the magic of words & poetics

        I am casting out demons & monsters that's lingered since childhood, 

        ill thoughts & shadows 

        that they'll stay between the lines like their dedicated rooms, to be read where they are

3.)mandatory durability,

not to mention the ability to 

lock words in place.

Trying to capture the specifics.

this search shares the sensation 

of searching for a clean slate to start over on, 

like looking for a new body to put this soul in.

My words,

often escape me,

failed me when I needed them the most.

Time has flown out of my hands,

they say time flies when you're having fun,

but when getting stuff done

within an amount of time

starts feeling like constantly failing to catch your breath

while it being just out of reach isn't what they meant.

These days all a blur &

this pain relief or not feels more like an anchor.

These lines are like bars

to put & keep all of this unpleasantry

that the world like gravity leaves you feeling is normal.

Sometimes I feel like my words

are the fruit I go forth & bare.

During those times

I feel like a witness,

a witness to my own demise,

almost as if I am out of control of my own fate

so I isolate, disassociate,

I try to put what's left of me into the words,

that I often try to disown as if that hurts less.

-Overthinker. Internally self-judgmental. Safety on, walls up like broken drawbridge. Flight responses.- 

But like bread crumbs or a gold brick road,

parts of myself scattered among the words sometimes worlds apart 

all returns

finding their way back to me,

their escape out of the abstract &

into luggage that I carry in my journals 

full of artistry & ink,

like the flesh of bones & veins,

the belief in seeing the whole picture

without overlooking the details.

I am a poet full of prose & experiences

if I don't share no one will ever know,

It's funny how it works like that.

My heart often follows the wind, the currents they create

delighted to find out where it'll go, meanwhile sometimes when I write it's more or less to elaborate what I already know.

When You Love Someone/What Did I Want?

     An author wrote; When you love someone, they become a part of who you are. They're in everything that you do. They're in the air you breathe & the water that you drink & the blood in your veins. That their touch stays on your skin & their voice stays in your ears & their thoughts stay in your mind...

    So this must be why since we first met my whole world has been put back together, just to be shattered & never recovered. That must be why since I've met you, my assistance has been more like an astral projection, but instead of my soul returning to my body it stole someone else's & made a home of a haunted house, a vessel to restore this broken glass, this mirror of a soul with no super glue or ghostbuster kind of closure anywhere in the seeable sight. That must be why I don't like water & suffer from dehydration, even though my body is 55% of water, you've called the water of my body a sea in sorts that even after you hurt me I prayed God would allow me to baptize you in. This must be why I have circulation issues, why my arms & legs don't want to act like they belong to me, & why they want to stay asleep & a dream of being touched, held & loved. Instead of the present tired and aching.

    The author wrote; You know their dreams because their nightmare pierces your heart & their good dreams are your dreams too. But even with both of our heads in the clouds & our feet barely ever touching the ground I doubt that we really ever knew each other dreams. Or would have guessed that our dreams would later be used to tell our stories to each other as a way to use our dreams at our disposal like recycled paper. That our dreams would later be able to communicate through the silence of being blocked, kicked out of & ununderstandably placed on the sidelines.

    The author wrote, And you don't think they're perfect, but you know their flaws, the deep down the truth of them & the shadows of all their secrets & they don't frighten you away The words are like knives cutting open the sore that I've sown & burned shut with the ink of my firey hot pen to forget the pain I try to permanently forget. Call the love I used to have captured inside of me like fireflies a little girl strongly believes they are fairies, stupid & unrealistic because saw all of your flaws, did not want them to be alone, mothered, girlfriend-ed & adopted them, made them my own. Now all I have is for them to remember you by - to involuntarily reach out to you through. 

...

my inner thoughts
The deep truths of them all, I vaguely remember you comparing them to a fox; I remember you telling me about this fox - capturing feelings felt for them & how this would vex me. I try to stay away from terminal rhyme, the x sound is the echo sound that echos in this vessel that's followed suit, this heartache has become an untreatable x-treme terminal illness.

...

And the author continues to write; In fact, you love them more for it, because you don't want them. You want_. The author left the last line an open-ended, a hangnail, a to-be-determined, an unwritten fantasy, a sentence my soul is waiting to finish & live through, an incomplete sentence. The writer & book-warm wants to know ' you want' what? Want to be healed & somehow able to forget the bullshit that the imposter of a visitor with humble beginning the pain that I felt. What does the author want? What did God want when he put this 'choose your own adventure' book in front of me & I ended up here? What did he want when he walked in & out of my life the way that he did? What did my soul & I want when we lead ourselves there & found our way here? What did I want? What do I want?

An Undetected imposter

I think my heart has been exploited, 

bursting at the seams from being 

used far past its capacity.

My heart does not beat 

it has not beat for years,

instead knocks on my ribcage 

like a person trap on the inside demanding to be let out.

My heart is no longer at heart, 

it's now been locked box with four separate compartments, 

a unread book,

a wax sealed envelope,

something that sits on the shelf and collects dust.

This is the such thing I call a heart, 

a muscle and my body imposter syndrome.

People often common I keep my feelings bottled up, 

my heart is that bottle, 

a masterpiece for several other bottles, shards of different color glass, 

each piece made and forced to fit, 

to make something new 

in hopes of somehow making me feel whole.

Instead, I feel like a museum, 

a room is what used to be, 

a green room, something to be projected on, 

a letter lost at sea in this little glass bottle. 

My heart is no longer a heart, but a storage used past capacity.

I am Running, but Not Hiding

I am running,

jumping over obstacles,

the wind lifting me up & off the ground

the more that's gathered under

my paper mache wings, 

pages of words 

I told myself others would 

never want to hear all sewed together.

Into a new year I wonder, 

new achievements, 

tools under my belt like a first aid kit, 

I can heal pain & sobs 

with prayer & a bear hug.

I am running, but not hiding.

The BIBLE says;

"When I was a child I acted like a child,"

But now is a woman, 

I breathe, act and live 

like a woman 

for I've put childish things behind me in 

wooden chest of toys and memories.

The old years blow back behind me like the wind.

Learning to remember not only 

where I've come from, but 

who I was during those time, months and years, but also remembering and acknowledging 

not only the growth, but 

the maturity in my own hopes in dreams.

Because remembering 

the past 

helps ground you, 

will help me reach for & achieve 

my tomorrow, 

my future, 

my to the moon, stars and back

to achieving my peace of heaven.

The Praying Woman

She prays devotedly, 

morning noon and night she prays, 

her heart an open journal for the Lord to write on 

waiting for the ink of his words to be added to the library that is her soul.

She prays, 

when the weight of the world feels too much, 

when her tongue is tied, 

when saying goodbye feels like it'll pull her apart, 

when love is a feeling that is an unfamiliar sensation and her faith is the only sensation that's familiar, 

that homes and grounds her 

when she feels head over heels for someone who just isn't the one.

She prays when she feels alone even amidst a room full of others, when she feels like biting her tongue because she knows the people won't hear her, 

won't acknowledge her voice and feel the feeling that she wants to be portrayed like Him, the almighty Him.

She prays because sometimes there's nothing else to do, or nothing else she should be doing.

She prays,

She prays,

She prays.

She prayed through every milestone, every hard time, and every laid back easy moment.

She prayed devotedly, she prayed to say thank you, because she knows she didn't do it alone.