Fairness

They say time heals everything.

But I find it unfair

That it also erases the
sound of your laugh. 

Casual Sex

Sticky.

Like the dampness between my thighs

after 5 or

15 minutes of copulating

it’s over.

Naked

we lay next to each other

talking about

Star Wars

and

Pokemon

but never going beyond

because this is only casual.

Whether they are an

ex-boyfriend

classmate

friend

coworker

foreigner

they will never be referred to as

my lover.

I could call up an ex right now

and tell him,

“Hey, I miss you.

We should get together sometime” and

he would not have the time

of day for me.

But

I could text him,

“hey i’m horny

wanna hook up?”

and we would be promptly scheduled to bang

at 1:00pm on a Friday.

Once the happy ending

of orgasm is achieved

romance

is dead.

Because this is only casual.

Movie scripts and

TV sitcoms promise

sex to be

memorable

expected

whimsical

leading to

accidental

love

but fucking does not equal to

love making

It is exhausting to only be

the booty call

friend with benefits

one night stand

kind of

girl.

Staring at off-white ceilings with

dusty swirling fans

while he snores next to me

I  

Lay uncomfortably on

unfamiliar mattress

left wondering if

he noticed the surgery scar

on my side

or when I gaged

while going down on him

he never once paused

to express any amount

of care

because

this is only casual.

I was

comfortable being

the quick fuck

no strings attached

hook up.

But

I crave

to be

gazing up at a star lit night

fully clothed

holding hands

the kind of connection

that does not exist in

the bedroom.

Because I am more

than just

casual.

Shackled

My wrist feels heavy when strangers gawk at the dull metal that loosely sits. I watch them squint trying to read the small engravings before they finally ask, “what is that?” and they’re never prepared for the answer that I was bestowed with an incurable disease that I must display.

Just in case.

Their stares quickly turn from curiosity to nervousness because they’re not sure what to say which is fine because what do you say to someone young attached to a disease that cannot be disposed of?

Typically, I do not have the heart to tell them how close death has come to me. Or that my days are contained with pain. So I smile and say, “that Achalasia sounds more like A-lack-of-Asians”. They’ll laugh and I’ll laugh. Believing I am okay even though it’s all pretend.

I cannot aptly describe what it is like to constantly be choking on my own bile created by the consistent opening and closing and opening and closing and opening and closing of my esophagus like a serpent wriggling and writhing within my core while spewing venom. The omniscient God of my body is an organ that has lost its biological control. And though this persistent snake can often times bring me to my knees, screaming to the heavens for mercy, it underestimates the vessel it as chosen because I am not too easily persuaded.

I have watched doctors and nurses and specialists pace back and fourth and dance around the word “incurable”. Because they’re not quite sure how to tell a 17-year old girl that she is possibly dying. Or how to explain that her esophagus was meant for an 80-year old woman and that life will never function the same. Eating will be a chore for the rest of my life and I still hear my doctor’s voice repeating:

Small bites, chew well. Small bites, chew well.

But I smile

And make YouTube videos in hopes of helping someone feel less alone by putting myself on display like the bracelet I am shackled to. Then these two girls from Saudia Arbia will interview me for their 10^th grade biology project about rare disease. But are more interested that I am woman that is going to college.

They’re terrified they will not get a good SAT score so that they too can go to college and escape their war ridden country and I’ll sit there ashamed because I do not know what to say much like the people who stare.

And yet these girls tell me how brave and strong I am because of a disease that only imprisons my ability to eat; the only thing weighing me down. 

Stigmas

We were seen walking. Our only crime, really.

When the police officer asked, “Is this guy bothering you?”

I watch him, as he glares at my brother’s sagging pants and oversized t-shirt.

I reply, “No sir. Just taking a walk.” He nods and drives his patrol car away slowly and cautiously. And my brother will scowl for the remainder of our stroll.

Like the time we walked into PetCo to buy dog food. The lady in the green-velvet jumpsuit from Wal-Mart will stare as her Chihuahua growls in our direction. She will affectionately whisper, “Aw, do you not like the inter-racial couple?” I can already sense my brother’s tension and I will resist the urge to yell.

Like the time my brother was arrested because he was the only “black kid” in school for a crime that his white “friends” could easily blame him for. Despite what video recorded evidence might say or the alibis presented by me, his sister, it did not matter.

Because he’s black.

I hate it when people say racism is no longer an issue in this country. This is when I want to scream, “BULLSHIT” right in their ignorant faces. Because they have not seen how a small town’s prejudices can emotionally fuck up an individual’s life that festers and pulls everyone along for the ride.

If I had a dime for every time someone asked, “Did you know your brother was black?” I would be a millionaire. People seem to have a hard time grasping onto the fact that a white family is willing to adopt a child of color.

Stereotypes create un-documentable pressures. My brother is seen as gangsta, thug, and nigga: personas he has taken on as identity that was created for him since he was small by a society uncaring.

How could they know? When these social stigmas are all preconceived ideas passed down or portrayed by the media. All they see is the color of my skin in comparison to his.

But maybe if they opened their eyes, opened their minds. All they would see is what I see.

My brother.

The Willow Tree

Hello old weeping willow,

May I play in your hanging branches?

The summer air is hot

And your ocean of leaves creates a perfect jungle.

Hello again, old weeping willow

You look sick

You’re turning yellow!

No adventure today

I must rake your falling beauty.

Hello today, old weeping willow

It’s very cold and lonely out here

And awfully gray, too

Old man winter has not been kind to you.

Hello, my weeping willow

Aren’t the apple blossoms beautiful?

I see you’re looking better

Your green apparel is returning, how wonderful!

Hello old weeping willow.

Oh how I love your shade.

No jungle adventures this summer.

Goodbye old weeping willow.

I’m moving away,

My stuff is all packed.

I fly out today,

We can no longer play.

You {An Updated Version}

You

Called at three-in-the-morning

Slurred words of slut and bitch

Apologized to get a ride home

You

Held me against your mattress

Laughed at me when I said “no”

Wrapped your hands around my throat

You

Believed that no harm was done

Challenged my attempts at salvation

Struck me down

You

Destroyed my sanctity

Removed my well-being

Diminished the fondness for life

You

Spoke your last words of blame to me

Injected the drugs

Hoped for death like others pray

I will never go back there.

You cannot hurt me again.