Saturday Night

brown manila folders

and A4 sheets

surround me—

I sit on the floor of the living room

sifting through leaves

letters

memos

proposals

instructions

reports

and the occasional forgotten post it notes.

my mind restrains itself

from spilling

unto itself

(my head is bowl of stale dates,

names, projects, dates, projects, names, projects, names, dates, projects, names…)

instead it convinces itself:

I am in a field of paper flowers

and these pages are butterfly wings

see the letters in times new roman and calibri and cambria

they float and play with the air like dandelion seeds

I run, jump, and catch whatever I can—

there is a poem here

somehow.

Nowhere Street

I drag my feet to Nowhere Street
Eyes half-shut, searching for a prayer to mutter.
This is my slow descent to insanity.

Some days start bright and happy
Some provoke me with gloom. But, no matter:
I drag my feet to Nowhere Street.

I wake, I curse. I eat, I sleep.
I do the dishes only to see tomorrow’s clutter.
This is my slow descent to insanity.

I have more than ten pairs of shoes
For a destination that never alters.
I drag my feet to Nowhere Street.

I do not know how this started.
I fear this will never end.
This is my slow descent to insanity.

Nights are long and the days are longer.
My feet are tired, my heart pounds weakly yet
I drag myself to Nowhere Street.
My slow descent to insanity.

Snippet: roses

It was Valentine’s Day. I was a high school girl, with a mother who grew miniature roses in her small garden. Without permission, I armed myself with a pair of blunt scissors and took flowers from her beloved plants–fresh buds, half-bloomed, fully bloomed in soft pink and peach hues.

At school, I gave one to my best friend. Another for another friend. And another for a seatmate. But the best flowers? I tied them all up in a small, delicate bouquet and nonchalantly handed it to the boy I liked.

It was Valentine’s and I was so, so young. It didn’t need an enormous amount of courage nor anxiety. There were no expectations and malice in my naïve and innocent heart. I just wanted to give him the best roses.

That was more than twelve years ago. I’ve given other things to different boys since then, but never with the same innocence and selflessness.

 

History of Rage

From wailing and flailing
to crying, stomping, and pouting
to biting my brother’s shoulder
to biting my own skin.

Then came my discovery of knives in words:
the delivery of slashes in clumsy sentences
without fully understanding what each word meant,
with full understanding
that each meant to cause hurt
to draw blood and provoke tears.

Eventually, I had to destroy
something
anything:
there were days when my body explodes
combusts
with rage
in rage.

Most of the time, the only thing left to destroy
was myself.

Time taught me that anger
can be refined. I learned
that the body sways, follows
the flowing rage—
arms akimbo
shoulders tensed
head held high
lips closed tightly.
But my tongue rolls, masterfully weaving
words, sharpened with restraint.
My throat trembles, thrilled
for the impending outburst.

I shiver from my own cruelty.