Twenty-nine.

Here I stand, a mountain of jelly that cannot be moved.

Here I stand, a lover of hope that cannot be found.

Here I stand, a teary-eyed girl of sensitivity.

But then I move. 

I move with no purpose of direction or of drive.

I am the wind that changes thoughts and scatters newly browned leaves.

I am the cattle that stares as the world drives past.

I am the snow that slides under the feet of waxed wood.

I am the volcano that has forgotten to rupture and lays dormant for centuries.

I am the bird that poops on your car and then hurls itself under the wheels of another.

I should have stood still. 

Either way, I am wasting my time.

Twenty-eight.

I tried to explain

How my mind revolved around the sun, slower than the moon revolves around your movements, before I could think of a sentence.

How my thoughts felt so scattered that the star that burned across the sky last night had lived before I could gather them again.

How my feet forgot which way was down before I took a step because they had no roots.

How my lungs sucked air that was so tainted that they forgot how to breath on their own.

How my heart kept beating when I wish it would stop.

I tried to explain that my skin felt too tight and my bones were too loose and that doesn’t even make sense.

I tried to explain that nothing made sense because the galaxy didn’t need me but I needed me and who cares what I need?

But I opened my mouth and made fishes jealous at how well I imitated them.

I open my heart and I bled everywhere and still, still, it kept beating when I wished it would stop.

I closed my mind to contain my thoughts and I forgot there was a whole world at my doorstep.

I tried to explain myself but I felt so foolish at how my hands waved words that nobody understood.

I tried to explain.

Twenty-seven.

Green is the colour of growth. It’s the colour of humanity before humanity became us.

Green is the colour of balance. It’s the calm eye in the middle of all the chaos.

Green is the colour of harmony. It’s the flutes and the violins that play in the background of your peaceful mind.

Green is the colour of our souls coming out of our ashes. We are the phoenix that can’t turn red because being reborn means you have to grow first.

Green is the colour of love. The colour of pure hope when I look you in the eye.

Green is the colour of insanity. It’s the colour of scales I’ve created to mask the pain that you love her when I’m standing right here.

It’s the colour of anger that burns out into sadness that burns out into humiliation.

It’s the colour of my smile when your eyes find her, even when she’s not here, but I still am.

It’s the colour of the bottom of my feet that are rooted to your shadow and my hands that are stuck on your back as I support you.

Green is the colour of my wounded pride that knows I love you but I can’t even tell my heart no.

Green is my colour of hope and everything horrible that comes along with it.

Twenty-six.

How is it, then, that I became so cold? I used to rush towards acceptance and love, and I tangled myself with the electric tangles of people’s opinions. I smiled, even when my teeth hurt, if it meant that people could love me.

I saw that when I smiled and they smiled back, their mouths were abysses with sad gossip attached to my name. Their teeth were razors that had been sharpened on my reputation. Their tongues were Dubai buildings with secrets in every floor. Their throats were filled with honey that defied the laws of nature and were rotten.

I saw that while I was enveloped in their opinions of me, they were laughing at how easy it was to set me on fire. Their sweet words to me turned sour when I was looking away. Their fingers were pointint at me and I was pointing at the mess of words choking me.

I saw that what I thought was silence was the low humming of their whispers to each other. “Look at her” and “Stupid girl” would occasionally rise above the din.

And I understood that the cold was the Siberian desert that I had ran to to protect myself. There were no people. No whispers or laughters. There were no opinions to fight with and to lose to.

And I’ve spent so much time wondering the cold, that I’ve become frozen.

Twenty-five.

I wish I wrote like you breathed. Like you lit a match and inhaled the fire. Like you ran a mile in my shoes, even though they pinched your toes together into a club. Like you wept so loudly the air inside you turned to water. 

I wish I wrote like you laughed. Loudly and boldly. Quickly and fiercely. Happily and wholesome.

I wish I wrote like you looked at me. Like I was the best thing to happen to you. Like I was a galaxy and each star in its pattern.

But I write like I breath. Hesitantly. With sadness. Like maybe I should stop because I’m no good anyway. 

I write like I laugh. Softly and quietly. Badly and painfully. Slowly and wistfully.

I write like I look at you. Like maybe I should kiss you but I don’t know how. But I try to, anyway.

I wish I wrote like you are you, but I write like I am me.

And I am nothing.

Twenty-four.

I remember the first time

I became an Immigrant.

I was ten years

And sixty-eight days old,

In an all white class in Virginia.

My classmates said,

"Hai, y’all!"

And I spoke back in 

Immigrant.

They hollered and they hooted;

They snorted and they tittered.

They wanted to know 

Why I spoke like I didn’t belong.

Why I spoke like my blood was wrong.

Why I spoke like my parents raised me like an animal.

I realized

That my breath smelled like the Caribbean Sea;

My blood was seasoned with spices;

My words were sewn with greens

Yellows

Reds

Blacks.

My classmates saw me as a hummingbird,

A small blur with a needle in its head.

I saw them as eagles

Who took up too much space.

I moved so fast that I stopped

I stopped speaking

I stopped breathing

I stopped being.

I learned that if I could not be 

Me,

I would not be anything.

I voided myself,

Trying to flap my wings hard enough

That they could not touch me.

And still.

They made me into

An Immigrant.

Twenty-three.

I want to sit with you and listen to you laugh. I want to see your eyes widen when I nod in understanding of your passion. I want three hours to pass as we drink coffee out of chipped cups that have seen just as much as we have. I want to you to scratch your beard in a moment of unconscious vulnerability. I want you to smile so hard I can see how the coffee has stained your entire teeth. I want you to take me home because you can’t bear us being a part for a second, and not because you want to have sex with me. I want you to have sex with me anyway. I want you to hold me and let me hold you back. I want, and I want, and I want.

Twenty-two.

FIVE. I was sitting at my desk in kindergarten with a boy who was my soul. He and I did not have too much in common, except we both were loners and sickly. Each recess, as most of our friends went out to play, he and I stayed inside and found joy in each others eyes. I did not have friends, nor did he, but we had our sickness and we had each other. I found myself in his cracked fingers, in his carefully combed hair, his earth toned uniform. I found my soul with boy who sat beside me in kindergarten.

Twenty-One.

A hollowed out crystal shown with liquid whiteness, broken up with the mountain of ice. The humidity made the overweighted heat press closer, and my skin broke out in watery pimples. They made rivers that traveled down my temples.

It was a good day.

Twenty.

His bearded grin stretched across his face, a shy gift he offered without hesitation. His eyes were silent stars, emerald-coloured hope with a little bit of brown to make them seem human. His face was a lighthouse that called out to my wayward soul-ship. “It is dangerous,” his light said, “to come too close to the jagged rocks that surround me.” But I was not afraid for myself, because it would mean that I could feel the pain of his unfathomable and unmovable base. But was it for his own safety? Was there fear that my maiden hulk could tear at the solid mass that housed his light?

So I took note of his beacon of warning. I sailed past, and his eyes were emerald-coloured stars.

Fourteen.

His whispered syllables multiplied into a colony of hungry ants, desperate for the honeyed drops that blossomed on my skin. His fingers wove into the untamed morsels of my locks as he took and I took back. My throat gave way to the songs of his gifts, and he answered my call. We moved together, the layered earth swaying back and forth with its power. And then we separated, becoming independent continents with unspoken words. He leaned over and placed his lips on my own, an ambassador exploring the inside of my mouth. 

He was a colony of ants, and I was the honeyed drops.

Nineteen.

Her scratchy voice reverberated with the soulful love of her spirit, sending small goosebumps down my darkened arms. The heartfelt hurt of forgetfulness seeped out of her throat to paint a picture on the canvas of the piano notes. The drums vibrated, a reminder of the ever present hope that punches out a steady beat. Then the saxophone’s reedy breath soared out, a fiery Phoenix amidst the beautiful pain.

Her scratchy voice sang with soul.

Eighteen.

Your easy smile for my easy laughter. Your handsome face for my hungry eyes. Your lovely mind for my skipping thoughts. Bottle-capped glasses for dragon-green eyes. Wrinkled noses for quiet teasing. My love for your heart. Your love for my soul. Me for you. You for me.

Seventeen.

There once was a girl named Apsothe

Who lived with George Clooney.

She wanted to go to Hawaii,

And he said,

"What? But I love Russia

With all my socks and buggers!”

Sixteen.

The mirror of the lake shown

Under the blazing of the Sun’s Heat.

It rippled,

The Waves dancing to the Shore,

Being held in the arms of Wind.

The Earth was being baked to a crisp,

Waiting to come out of the oven to cool.

The Blue Sky,

Tinged with the whitish fluff of clouds,

Simmered above us.

The world around us moved

In its quiet tranquility.

A bird’s throaty gurgle broke the silence.