To Know When to Throw in the Towel

Such a laboring thought, to know that all you can do is wait. It’s almost as if your chest were a wet towel wrung dry many times and now the threads are jagged and frayed. I’m looking forward to opening my hands and letting it all go.


Wishing for Rain

I don’t take drastic measures, they must seem that way. I only take measures to reach what I hope to achieve. Last year I learned when I should cut back the ill growth of this fragrant rose bush that I am trying to cultivate. I have already learned this year when to let go of leaves that are meant to fall. For the greater good, I make choices because there is no point in holding on to thinly dangling foliage. I have also been in the process of learning how to fertilize and in learning when it is necessary to cut back excessive growth–My roots dig in deeper into this rich soil. It is all love in this horizon; it’s just that love sometimes might hurt a little in some places. I hope I have the willpower to heed the words of the wise and the courage to stand alone as I cultivate this Golden Celebration.


Limits superimposed like the eerie look of clock hands one below the other. Each heavy breath taken is a large wave pushing you under and weren’t breaths supposed to mean that you were living? You know that feeling you get when you’re in a meadow, but can’t remember the way you came in and now you fear trying to exit because you ran out of food and water and you’re also injured. It feels like I’m fanning myself with a broken fan on a hot day, its accordion-like paper frayed.

Sometimes you feel trapped and telling others doesn’t do much for you because they are also trapped in their own glass jars like spoiling jam left on an abandoned counter in an abandoned house. Perhaps in order to rise you need to burn down your home so you are left with no choice, no comfort, only the will to survive. Do you understand self-destruction now?

What the Pressure Creates

Baby, you are a whirlwind. You are a shiny pinwheel representing youth and innocence. Did you ever imagine that you would recreate yourself again and again? Are there traces left of her and if so, in which deepest parts of you do you house her?

Now songs are no longer meant for lovers, they’re your words which hold you within their syllables. You are now a naturally molded piece of obsidian—from heat and fury you shine pitch black. Nothing has ever been more gorgeous.

Butterfly to Fish to Stone

Every moment that I’ve ever been laid low I end up listening to songs that remind me to hold on.

This girl walked into the ocean prepared to never come out. She was ready to become a fish because at least that way she could choose to swim in solitude. On land she was a butterfly with broken wings, frequently caught and held hostage in cages fabricated of fingers and human flesh on bones. Her wing colors used to be green, they represented esperanza. With every cage she became more muted until she lost that faith and the velvet went away from her wings. Now gray, like the color of dark and rainy skies she flew soul-first into the freezing water. Her wings broke away and she confined herself to her newly formed gills. As a fish she was olive green like the bucks she used to give to indulge in the gifts of life. Those very same gifts led to peace on the horizon where she could fly towards the colorful sky in the sunset and where she could rise with the sun.

Always rising and falling. The sun etched its tattoo on her skin.

Now she’s a bottom dweller and she just wants to swim with the current but the fishermen keep trying to catch her. Will she ever live again? They call her home because she provides sustenance when in reality she only wants to swim away but she can’t. Her skeleton is starting to hurt and her spine is becoming frail from the gravity pushing her down.

She wakes up in a pool of metal, iron and steel, that keep her pinned down. The scales have tipped and not in her favor. The bills grow larger as if they had a life of their own. In her throat form stones pushing down into her bleeding heart and encasing it in their harshness. She used to be green, she dreamt of being orange, but now she’s all hues of gray.

The butterfly is a distant memory.

Ramblings of Crazy…

I am ready to rest because today I did what I set out to do. Don’t bother asking what that was, all you need to know is how to do you, boo. Today I woke up an each hair was in a perfect place on my head. My cheeks were rosy, my eyes healthy, and my determination beastly. They keep asking questions like, “Who are you and what sort of monster fancies your poison?” I respond that I make minty cocktails that will freshen you to the core going against the laws of nature and the structure of our planet. They say we have molten rock on this big piece of rock we doze on and we take advantage of it by baking it like the adobo houses you find close to the desert. Ultimately I won’t desert myself and I’ll write you a little love letter pleading for you to… It’ll all get better. I’ll make it better. I lost my train of thought in this stream-of-consciousness scenario that makes little sense, but ditto, it’s all good. My throat burned out a tune and created abstract musical notes asking to be touched because the sound waves are emitted after abstract “matter” came up with the idea to shoot electrical bullets within my skull and man could you hear the canary sing? In how many colors do these little birds come because I can form the rainbow with the portrayals of life that I step into every day. Listen closely to the sounds of my fingers tapping my cellphone to make these words appear on some fake paper-emulator we like to call notepad. In reality nothing’s all that bad, but I’ll complain and when I take a breath I’ll reminisce about the scrawling of pencils keeping track of ideas that flow through axons in an infinite number of combinations. We’re all mathematicians inside our heads. I need to pause this chicken-scrawl for the soul because I’m so tired and need to make more of this Hellen that seems to be propagating the succulent leaves of my life. One moment it works and the next it dies, but something’s bound to come alive. They all make me feel alive. 

What the Storm Created

The feeling when the taste in your mouth is strong and overpowering your senses. You squint your eyes tightly as the alcohol rushes to your head, changing its chemical composition and making you unsteady. It’s just like a strong dose of psychological shock to your system. How many times a day does psychological shock strike? Last night I woke up three times with every thunderbolt. They shouted until I was awake enough to listen to the sky’s chaotic symphony as its electricity coursed through my veins. Their vibrations shook me awake on all the clouds as they helped my descent from cloud nine groggily, ethereally. Who did we just become last night? I drove back hours past the sunset in shining car beams moving slower or faster than mine. Slightly flooded streets swayed our cars like the ceiba tree that the storm felled last night. A tree full of spirits was not broken in half, but rather uprooted as I stared at my night sky; driving into a parallel universe where a piece of me still existed. I’m sure that we must have all crashed because the ambulances always show up at the most surreal moments and I think that I crumble up the sheets of time and space as I psychologically warp myself into new shapes and memories for this new world. The dark, honey redness of this sweet wine brings forth memories from the dark outside. I’m sitting here thinking of friends thousands of miles away and memories billions of seconds away swim towards my neck clutching at my windpipes as I attempt regular breathing patterns. These memories disguise themselves as school of fish in the ocean at night where you can’t see anything unless illuminated by the moon. It all feels more sinister when the moon looks so close to my forehead, as if the claustrophobia didn’t hit hard enough underneath the sunshine. These droplets of water freshen my face as I foolishly look for stars in the cloudy night sky. My feelings are ships lost at sea and when they miraculously return, a faithful longshoreman tethers them so they can’t stumble upon the reef. Last night I dreamt a recurring dream, but this time the ferry taking me from faux Manhattan to Staten Island was completely out of order. The last time we were dealing with stormy weather as we boarded and last night we were in the eye of the storm after all the surrounding damage ran its course. Taste the aftertaste of honey on your lips as your body squirms of psychological shock. Who did we just become last night?