wellownedbkup: (so full of shit)
i remember them in lines of poetry. strange, isn't it? that they should fit so neatly into journal entries or memoirs as lines of poetry.

he was "when reading between your unlined/a4 pages".

he was "where i can't whisper...//"sweet dreams, trezo"/into digital ears".

he was "the darkness that curls on pillows left empty by lovers".

he is "we no longer love, but stare out windows/to old skeletons, the bones we expose".


i would try to explain it more, understand it more, but all i can see is loss and anger. is struggling to see something in them that i cannot see in me. unwanted and wanting. loved and unloving. desperate for something more than real.
wellownedbkup: (writing)
i don't write anymore.

i've tried. believe me, i have tried to write. i've tried to be bigger than myself, be more than the sum of what i know. and even now... i don't write anymore.

i read something i wrote a year and a half ago. half truth, half wish series of vignetts for a night at a wedding. i wrote it over a year ago and i was in love with it then. saw in it some flaws, but figured it was ... mostly whole. i read it again just today, and i wanted to cry with how lonely it sounded. wistful, hopeful... then crushed and lonely.

i've a year of stupidity and experience under my belt. have been loved. and though it did not last, i know i loved in return. i've broken hearts and had mine broken... and even now i am basically alone.

so why is it that i wrote a story about love, about being loved and quiet crushes... only to see it end with dialogue that means everything and nothing:

"i'm not brave."
"it doesn't have to mean more than it does. you looked pretty tonight."

it ends with a rosebud in her plam and him walking away, no resolution other than that the night ended. and i cannot believe how alone it sounds. just tone and atmosphere crashing from a dewy dreamer's high.

that's one of the last things i wrote, i think. something that worked well at the time and then life started to interfere. but i don't write anymore.

i don't write. and i wonder if it's because i don't have the time, or if sex has conquered my wistfulness, my longing. because, when it boils down to it, what i write lingers heavily in a romantic strain. searching for the one to make the world a bit less insane. and one of the last things i still felt like writing is... heartbreak and loneliness.


i should throw in the towel. maybe writing isn't for me. i love it, but i don't long for it like i used to. i don't feel compelled and i don't.... i kinda don't care anymore. maybe i am tired. or maybe my obsessions have changed. but i just...

i don't write anymore.
wellownedbkup: (Default)
"the undiscovered country, from whose bourn no traveller returns"

sex was not what i expected. that's a silly thing to say, i'm sure. but when i look at my past in regards knowing about sex? yeah, it fits.

my mom's one of those people who HATES sex. )

* - names abbreviated because i have to stop talking about him eventually.
wellownedbkup: (Default)
dear lover,

i know you said you'll message me later, but i haven't stopped crying long enough to be able to hold this conversation on the phone. and i need you to know everything before...

i'm not giving up without a fight, my love )
wellownedbkup: (Default)
minutes since we hung up the phone: 24.
minutes since i've wanted to text or call him back: 25.

i woke up at 3 this morning to help my mom and found myself asking him via IM: "do you think i'm too clingy? or needy? or something?" and then following that up in maybe 5 minutes with the "*sigh* nevermind. it's just my issues peeking through. sleep, my love, and peace attend thee." because that's true. he calls me almost immediately to ask why i'd think that. why i'd assume he thinks i'm clingy. which i don't. i just... wonder.

i don't know. i know that people have lives. and that they don't revolve around me or my schedule. i'm used to being very back-burner in anyone's life, including my own. so today i've sent a handful of texts to him, telling him i love him or just a random thought about school/homework. i texted him because i wanted to see him. or hear from him. and knowing as i do what he's doing this week... i still wanted him to call me up and tell me that i'm gorgeous and that he wishes he was here to wrap his arms around me or lay his head in my lap.

in the balance of the day, i've thought of him more than i've thought of all the things i have left to do before graduation and real life actually strikes. i opened our text thread on my phone maybe every 5 minutes to send him something and only by sheer dint of will did i erase it and lock my keypad again.

the first thing i think of in the morning, and the last as i fall asleep, and i don't know how to not feel like i am barely breathing while waiting for him to text or to call. insanity. even now, when it's been another 5 minutes or so since i started writing, i keep forcing myself to look away from the phone because i know that i'll hear a tone when i get a text and that my signal is fine. but he won't text me tonight. staring at my phone will not change that.

i miss him before i even hang up the phone. i crave him lying next to me and actually waking up beside him, knowing he won't leave. *sigh* i just need to accept that, until that happens on a regular basis, i need to let go.
wellownedbkup: (Default)
lj idol, week 13 home game
i don't care about apathy: what i 'should' care about, but don't.

the confucian ideal is to respect your elders. there's a level of respect in the language, actions and treatment of elders in many asian cultures. and while that occasionally slips, it's still... it's still there.

and i? i've had it. i'm fed up. i cannot and do not care anymore.

my grandmother is in her 70s. she's just.... she spends half her time swearing that she's on her last leg and about to die. all stories are switched around so that she's the victim, or she's the hero. she hasn't been out of the house except on the rare occasion for almost two months, maybe more.

i made her join weight watchers with me about 3 weeks ago. why? because she's got arthritis in her leg and is on 8 blood pressure pills and her doctor told her that she'd need to lose weight to get off of a few of the pills and to lessen her arthritis pain. so, yeah. she needs to lose about 100 pounds to get to what her BMI says is the right weight, but she could be ok if she just lost 50. so, yeah. that was the thing. she's been getting angry at the weigh ins because it's not exactly the same at the place as it is at our house. she doesn't follow any of the recommended program (measuring servings, tracking items and points, adding activity), and says she's doing it because i need the help.

she acts like everything i've done lately is either not enough or an attack against her. i haven't done anything for myself for so long that i don't even have an idea of what i'm doing when i graduate in 3 months. THREE MONTHS. that's just... i've been caring for my sick mother for 5 years, trying to graduate college, and holding myself back so that i don't hurt anyone's feelings or screw anything up.

everything's so messed up that i don't care anymore. i'm so tired that i don't care that my voice is raised or that my tone is disrespectful. i don't care that she's 50 years my senior or that she's 'more knowledgeable' or whatever. i ought to, but i don't anymore.

i've given up too much to care about whether i'm hurting one old woman's feelings by doing precisely what i'm supposed to be doing.
wellownedbkup: (Default)
one day, when i'm pretty, i'll walk around my house in a tank and a pair of boxer shorts because i'll be comfortable in my skin.

tl;dr )

i've got a long way to go on my journey toward fat acceptance, clearly. but one day. one day, i'll put something on and finally think that i look pretty. and soon, i'll be happy to be in my own skin because i won't give a shit what everyone else thinks. kthxbai, haters.

and one day, i'll be exactly like Rives' poem--Gorgeous:

Gorgeous, transcribed )
wellownedbkup: (Default)
it's a fact. i? am a horrible friend.

i don't answer phone calls. i rarely answer text messages. i flake out on hanging out with people and it's very easy for me to avoid the people i call my friends. i don't think i've really been all that close to anyone in years...

except for maybe Pippin and Sobe*. the three of us went to the same high school, separated by about two years between me, pip and sobe. the two of them have possibly been the two who have put up with my shit the longest and still care about me.

like, sobe? sobe tells me all about her classes and life across the river. she invited me to my first halloween party... which is the oddest thing in the world to say, and invited me to hang out with her and her friends at the local fireworks show... which i'd never done before. she puts up with me even though i don't always answer her instant messages.

and pip? pip and i had much the same wavelength for so long. we lived in much closer proximity than everyone else, and understood things about the city that others didn't. and, god. ok, so pip sees me when she can and we work out ways to hang out. and it keeps ending up like... once a year when we see each other. though i will say i've seen her three times in the past month and that has been the highlight of my life, really. and we made variable plans for the next couple of weeks. i'm more up on her life than i am on anyone else's (save sobe) from high school.

and, shit. both these girls know how hard it is for me to see anyone. i've got the family that's a cross between heaven and hell-- very loving, in that sit-together-for-dinner-everyday way, but also restrictive and unsupportive about EVERYTHING.** so nearly 100% of the time, i have to lie to my folks about where i'm going or who i'm seeing. and when i'm out, i'm always watching the clock, anxious and nearly walking right back out of the door as soon as i've entered. that halloween party? if i checked my phone for the time every 15 minutes, i wouldn't be surprised. i arranged to "accidentally" meet up with my pip at a karaoke bar when i was supposed to be with other people just because i missed her. even so, i could hardly sit still, continually watching the other folks i was with for indications that they'd tell my parents that i was with a HEATHEN***.

i'm constantly thanking god that i have these girls in my life, that they're as understanding as they are. i'm so chickenshit all the time-- i could probably have moved out by now and been ok and a better daughter than i'd ever thought to be... but i'm afraid to go out on my own without a couple thousand safety nets. i'd be very alone in the world without these two lifelines to an outside world. there's only so much a girl can do when her sphere of friends usually comes and goes with the tides of lust for her brother (not going into that. suffice it to say that these girls only know me and not my brother, and have been my friends for far longer than most as a result)...

so thank god, or whoever... thank life. i have a sobe and a pippin to love me.



* - names have been changed to protect the innocent.
** - i love my family. i wouldn't change them for the world. but i also know that they're imperfect and i would be a much better daughter if i didn't have an 11 pm curfew and didn't live at home. i have to work too hard to censor myself at home, so it's a necessity to get out as soon as possible, despite my love of them.
*** - a term courtesy of my religion vs. my friends. since they aren't JWs, they say that my parents see them as heathens. which... isn't far from the truth. my parents think that my friends are beneath me and would drag me down into the muck and mire of the world. i try my hardest not to talk about my gay/bisexual friends from school, for fear that i'll never have friends my own age. for what it's worth.
wellownedbkup: (let go)
August 5th

It’s hard to breathe. She lies in bed and all you can do is watch the weight of her words gather on your chest and weave itself into a blanket to suffocate. You never know if it’s about the words themselves or the flow of them that make you want to grieve. But you lie still beneath the weight of her words.

She talks about raising her brothers and sisters, how her mother was at work until late in the evening. How she never had the chance to be a child because she? She had responsibility. Words like “college” and “father” fall from her lips like gifts and curses, scorpions wrapped in a bow. The things she never had (“long hair,” “light skin,” money, things, shoes without holes), the things that she gives as a present to her children with only the edges sharpened by her regret and disdain. You lie still beneath the weight of her words, breath slight for fear of wounding yourself on her words.

She closes her eyes to stem the flood of tears and cries out in her incomprehension. What did she do wrong? For a daughter and a son to be at loggerheads for a dozen years and no one is any the wiser? You grieve and strive to stop listening to the tide of a parent’s heartbreak. You’ll drown.

You can hear the accusation in her voice, even as you sneak away to your own bedroom and the sound of her voice is only a memory. That she’d never do anything like that to her mother is understood. That she’d sacrificed, all too clear. Thoughts tied to the weight of your mother’s grief, you drown, wondering what the hell an 11 year old could have done.
wellownedbkup: (Default)
i feel like my poetry has to have some kind of meaning
like each line has to have an image
i read this poem
about building dynasties made of words like bricks
and i wondered what it meant when each line was only
one word
or two.

and maybe it's just the poetry snob in me
the one that called her workshop class a joke because the real challenges?
the real challenges were made by her.
there's an expectation for each line to have weight
to roll on the tongue like the sweetest berry and linger like wine
like dry wine that leaves its acrid flavor too full for a mouth

one word lines do not an image make
nor are the breaks to be bandied about like sticky caps
cutesy instead of clever and misshapen on the page.
wellownedbkup: (chicks)
you won't forgive me for this

it's weird but sometimes i like girls in that way you wouldn't approve of
and sometimes i like guys that way too that against the wall desperate way that comes and goes
but i don't have the capability to love
anymore
you took that away with your pain and your tears and your perfect past of zealousness

you make me feel like a bigot and a hypocrite
magnetic word poetry strung out over locker doors that spell freedom and lies

i write things down so that i'll remember couched phrases of why we don't all gel like before
why she was a whore and he was depressed how sick
these four brick walls so whitewashed paint peeling and quiet
stones that refuse to cry out i write so that i remember and swear and never love

you won't forgive me for this

i lavish affection on the available and attainable
no effort because he's really not my type and it's just fun
and games i could play if only i wasn't so desperate for someone to take me away give me rest
give me peace and please me release

you'd hate it when you saw
half innocent half vixen half pussy half raven
200% in negative not what you thought at all

i'm only quiet because i still have respect and words can be shifted into pleasantries

i miss being able to love
wellownedbkup: (Default)
so i'm stuck.

on the one hand, mom. a woman who's been sick for the majority of my life with nerve damage or inexplicable pains or explicable pains (rheumatoid arthritis, for one). i haven't seen my mother healthy in a long, long time. i'd love to see it, in my lifetime.

but the likelihood? so scant, i can't even pretend it's not pie-in-the-sky.

so she needs care. constant, hand-and-foot waiting on her at every moment of the day. her eyes aren't what they used to be, so she needs help reading occasionally. her joints don't move how they used to, and it's no surprise that she needs help with motion for that reason alone. consider tonight, where a section of her thigh is hurting for no reason. she can't sleep, so it's not like there's much room for anyone else to rest.

we all have to be to work by 8 in the morning. when it's 1 am, who can really summon the energy to stay awake and comfort her until she rests? and when it's constant need for care, when is there ever time to get away except once she's died?

a rock.

on the other hand, life. even if i ignore the rock and choose to leave mom to be cared for by someone else, there's life. there's school and work now. there's no job prospects on the horizon. there's that fence about grad school and becoming a teacher that says "ugh mornings. ugh students. ugh more school." and then replies "steady paycheck. grants for just trying. steady way off this rock."

i haven't had the best training for the work field. the shortcuts are where i spend my time; this current job has prepared me for nothing at all except watercooler gossip. i'm scared because there's an economy in the toilet and nowhere to put down roots (and this isn't the time to put down roots, but i gotta be stable somewhere).

a hard place.

i feel like there must be some option i'm missing out on. some way where i don't consign myself to being unhappy and unfulfilled at every turn. i can hardly stand to care for my mother now, which pains me more than you could ever know. she's my mother! i consider it my duty to make sure she's comfortable and well taken care of. and yet, i can't stand it. i'm tired. but to just leave would only mean that i'm going for a job that will never work for me. sure, it's a needed field and sure, i could get paid well for it. but it was never something i really wanted to do.

i don't know what i want to do. the only answer that comes readily to mind is to sleep. but we know what they say about a little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the hands. sudden destruction. devastation. and while i could be proven wrong at any turn, there's no career to be had in sleep. i'm tired, and i'm too young to be this way. i feel like i've missed the part of my life where i could make stupid mistakes and love too many people at once. i've missed the part where i'd have fun and instead lived only a half-life in comparison.

it would be wonderful if it was all just some strange dream, instead of constantly having to choose the storm or the rocky shore.
wellownedbkup: (genius)
Prose poetry, any topic...

Like the End of the World
You want to take a Mental Health Year.

Disappear to a different page in your atlas and see the sights somewhere else. England Paris Belgium Cairo Tokyo. Anywhere but here. Anywhere, so long as it is out of this world when it's ended. You cannot stay home anymore, because if you do, you will have to hear everyone talk about it

again again again. There is no more cohesion, no brotherly love. There is just them. And you, standing separate, because you cannot talk about this again. And you cannot take that anymore. To stay home means that you will have to sit and watch her have a twenty five year project that could last her a lifetime.

You cannot stay home.

Welcome to the end of the world. Where there is no more love between You Your Sister Your Brother Your Family. There are secrets lies manipulation nature-versus-nurture

divergence. Lines of best fit for data that makes her immature, and you mature. Lines that make you a liar and she a mother. Lines that lead you along until there is no cohesion in the family and all there is to say is that you loved each other.

Once.
wellownedbkup: (tape)
9/25/08
(Ode) Windup Doll )

9/30/08
Throwaway Ode )

for in class exercise, we brought in an object we could lend away for a weekend. into the box it went, after writing an ode about our object. so i said goodbye to my little windup Ariel and Prince dancing toy and said hello to Jake Snider's picture, from which the other ode is created.



9/29/08
Ode on the curve of his back )

for reference:
spinal dip in a sinusoidal line
latissimus dorsi meeting erector spinae
wellownedbkup: (Default)
9/22/08
Three Dong Opera

Cataracts of woven basket hats spill forth into the ring,
hungry for a glimpse of Saigon's Nightly Sideshow.
See the man who can play a trombone with his toes!
The bearded woman, the snake handler and the albino.

The need to attend is like a fever, a virus they can't shake,
soothed only by cheap won-ton soup in sawdust air.
They crowd the stage, curving themselves amoeba-like,
to forget their woes during Saigon’s Freak Night Fair.

These hollow men, with greedy mouths, raise up such a clamor
from splintering rows of their broom handle seats;
The callused and paper-cut hands of working men
applaud the grotesque, the acrobatic feats.

In porcelain counterpoint, the albino stops all action on the floor,
jangles coins in the kitty, and calls out a hopeful question.
But there only comes the broken shuffling of feet
to hear such an importunate monetary suggestion.


underlined words were the word bank to be used for this poem. a dong is Vietnam's currency.
wellownedbkup: (genius)
9/9/08

Honesty, in Hindsight

I do not know who you are.
I have never understood the language of love.
From my window across the street, I watch her lovers come and go.
Her embarrassed teenage daughter slumps
before stealing in through bedroom windows.
It was my first real job and I was scared in it.

I made you stare through the arch of a window.
Who else has that going for them?
Frosted eye shadow, bangs like birds' nests.
I had grown tired of hanging around
standing in your winter coat, but I don't know you.
You think it's a secret, but it never was.

Not enough light to read your face by.
In a quiet corner with downcast eyes.
Lucky me, I have become hardened, like a doll fashioned from scars.



each line comes from a separate poem. if you'd like to know which, there will be a primer added later on.
wellownedbkup: (balletslave)
September 5, 2008


my two strong arms

it's chronic
this ache that she gets when she moves
or stands
or breathes
it's tragic that they never listened
always the same story of
too fat
lose weight
you'll live.
it's tragic cause she
used to be fun. didn't
cry all the time like there's no hope and no light.

she says she's sorry
has tears in her eyes
while she laughs at
my too-strong arms that lift
my two strong arms that carry
that shoulder her worries until
she says she's
sorry

it's chronic and it vacillates from
too much
to impossible
unbearably agonizing with every shift in a
too-narrow chair.
and she cries out until
my too-strong arms
my two strong arms are useless to her

it's tragic that she
hurts herself more when she
sits too long
doesn't call
when she thinks she's helping me by not relying on me

and my two strong arms are helpless
and my too-strong arms are useless
and it's tragic that it's chronic
that it could've been prevented
and it's pain that's never-ending
and my two strong arms are useless against it.
wellownedbkup: (let go)
8/27/08
hook, line, and she's sinking

it's a blanket for my mother, i say,
like it's a change from anything else i've done the past 4 years
and he spools out another few inches
and the fingers that hold that skinny blue chenille yarn
folds like unmade beds in skin on hand that have held
more than just a hooker's line

it's a blanket for my mother, i say,
cause she's always cold, not like when she was young
younger
back before the tracheotomy
before, when an open window in wintertime was as familiar as breathing
and the color of the yarn in his hands is
the color of his weary eyes
woven into a blanket for my mother.

it's another blanket for my mother, i say,
hands bent unnaturally around a hook, making a fabric
rolling velvet fingertips across knots
like kneading the nerve endings in her feet to give her a little relief
and the smile that creases his face is
reassurance that he understands.

it's a blanket for my mother, i said,
and each foot of thread is another day i've spent watching
another day where she doesn't get better
another day where she feels okay

and Paul Newman spins out a few more inches
and asks how she's doing today.
wellownedbkup: (tape)
I'm beginning to wonder at whether this was the smartest idea I've had. I'm wondering if maybe I've fucked up the whole situation just by doing this... pleading for them to come visit me.

Fucking visitation rights. I came there, they should, by all rights, come here. Maybe it's cause I'm a mess that this is the way it is.

My grandmother, Lord love her, is only contributing to it. Because everyone knows that I want a nice little English boy to marry, or I'm not marrying at all. Or something of that nature. Because my daddy's English. Because I can fucking adjust and live in teeny old England. Because I happen to like small city living (not small town, or village, since that's just... yeesh; but small cities I can do) and England is just that. Small Cities. My grandmother is only contributing to the mess by saying that the boys HAVE to come visit me.

She's telling me that, of all things to happen, I should lose weight and then they'll see the real me (because, you know, my real self is hidden under acres of fat) and they'll fall in love and marry me and... BLAH BLAH BLAH.

God, I don't want them to come visit me. Because, of all things to happen? They'll fall in love with someone who isn't (fat, negative, smart, their friend) me or the girl they're dating at the moment. Knowing me? The girl will be tiny and ditzy and useless because as much as I love them, they need someone stronger in their lives than the girls that live her. Someone stronger than me... which is saying something because I guess I'm a little stronger than the girls here. At least my heart hasn't been broken all that much by a guy who wasn't dating me anyway (liar liar).

Miami says he's coming for a visit. Sometime in the late summer. That is so much love, I swear. And yet, there's something wrong with that. Because... Isn't he with his precious jewel? What's there for him here but maybe one (psycho, stalkery, manic) friend? And when he comes here, he'll meet everyone that I don't like because of their fakery. And they'll ask for his number and his email and his MSN and they'll go visit him far more than I ever will because I don't have a real job and they do. And he'll fall in love because there's no way that he can't. It's fate and destiny and....

Juan Pablo says he's coming for a visit too. Says that he needs to get away from his mother. That she's stressing him out with all of her problems. Fuck being an only child when your daddy's not around, I guess. He is her outlet. He says he's going to save to come visit me because I told him he needs to get away, and America has to be far enough away, right? Except, I don't want him to come either. Because, just like Miami, he's going to find some fake girl who wants to fall in love with an accent and won't do anything to keep him on an even keel or to get his mom off his back. He deserves more and better than that. He deserves someone who'll help him take care of his mother, but still keep him (and her, cause she's...) from going off the deep end. He needs someone strong.

My god. I want them to be happy (even if it's without me, thanks much) and if they come here? Fate. Destiny. Karma (though it's probably my bad karma affecting them). The natural course of matters. They are young, impressionable, upstanding English men. Because they are? And because they made friends with me? They're doomed. Forever. I want them to be happy and find a girl that deserves them, and that they deserve her.

And, I know I may not be that girl. I don't deserve to be that girl in their lives because of all of the shit that I've done. But until then, do you think you could just... keep them in their little country?? There aren't any girls close by that could hurt them. I should know. I'm all the way in America, aren't I?

Don't let them come visit me because I don't want to see them broken. I rescind all my visitation rights.
wellownedbkup: (my body)
I feel like I'm finally growing up. I'm not the little girl I used to be; the one with the bitten-down fingernails and the 2 French braids and the clunky flat shoes. I'm finally growing up and becoming a young woman.

I looked down for the first time in a long time and was surprised at the way my hands fit my body finally. The nails are grown out, just this side of unmanageable for a girl who hasn't had more than a smidgen of white at the tips even when she was getting them done professionally. It's more than strange to look down and see the bangles at my wrists actually hanging down loosely over my palm, like they're ready to slide off. Or my school ring moving from my right ring finger to my left middle finger, in that natural progression of looseness. It's uncanny and strange and vaguely satisfying to know that my body is growing accustomed to a womanly figure. Dainty, for the first time in a long, long time.

Imagine my surprise, also, when I was able to move around in 4 inch heels for the majority of Sunday. It's been a long time in coming as well. Hours and hours on end, where I could actually stand and walk around in heels. Swaying my hips so that, yes, I do look like a girl sometimes. I can wear a dress that's slinky around me and high high heels that look vaguely unstable, even though you mostly see me in jeans and dirty flat shoes and dinky hoodies that may or may not belong to my brother.

I'm finally growing up and turning into a young woman. There's still my little failings where I am not turning out like my mother would probably want me to be. I still keep my wallet in my back pocket, and I don't think I've quite gotten the hang of painting my nails a proper color. My nails still chip at the edge and I bite them down to little nubs again, if only to make them start growing evenly. At dressy functions, I'm bending the rules still and pairing a full length dress with pants, which may or may not be aging me decades, but it makes for a very comfortable dance atmosphere when I'm stuck asking girls out onto the floor just like my brother instead of a guy asking me onto the floor (like he's supposed to. No one said this was a Sadie Hawkins Dance...).

I'm finally growing up. And, hey. It's not turning out so bad.

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