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.
The glass has been consumed dry and the time ticks the seconds away into the nothingness of an empty memory. They process and release, process and release, and the cycle moves on through endlessly until finally it is time. All are anxious to leave and if disappearing in thin air were a possibility, you would never see anything from them again. There is an overwhelming feeling of lethargy picking at these bones and making the skin parched for rest. Persist, the cycle has not been completed. Respire the stagnant air, for freshness is not possible in this atmosphere and you must take what you can get. Provide your minutes as payment so that you may consume before you are consumed completely. Run down to the basement and greet Hades in his humble abode and perhaps you’ll convince Persephone to return to the world of the living, but even the sweetest flowers are poisoned by the most devilish of men.
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.
She fucks her life up for you and for those stupid traditional “family values” that ultimately only negatively impact her.
She screws up her credit for a man’s mistakes or he steals her credit cards and she deals with the fallout.
She fights a divorce battle in a society that endorses domestic violence and rape culture.
She fights in a legal system that will blame the woman simply for being a woman dressed the way society wants her dressed.
She only buys things for others because she’s been taught her entire life to not be selfish.
She listens to music that’s meant to liberate her and exemplify her beauty as a woman, but the songs on the radio are all about “tits and ass.”
She says she doesn’t want kids because she lives in a world where ambitions don’t fit in with the role of a woman.
She lives in a world in which the work force doesn’t want to take in mothers willing to work because employers think she won’t be effective or focused at their firm.
She lives in a world that also tells her that she should get a job because being a stay-at-home mom isn’t a “real job.”
She goes on social media to keep in touch with her “friends” only to find that ¾ths of them are sharing some stupid meme about how the last generation of women didn’t teach their daughters to do shit.
I guess they all forgot that the women of the past generation fought for civil rights, humanitarian rights, a position in the workforce, and for financial equity.
They forget that women now are fighting for the same things and they’re also sacrificing their lives in the endless wars for this country.
They then say that women don’t belong in the military—the very same men that don’t enlist say this.
They forget that most of their teachers are still women who care deeply about students that forget to respect them or haven’t learned to.
How are the kids going to respect women when all they hear is about women sucking dick and only get images of women twerking on the Internet.
No one knows where to find the women fighting for the world on the Internet, but they’re always there.
They hear Malala’s name, but it’s as if it were just some movie that isn’t real.
They never hear about the women scientists, CEOs, doctors, lawyers.
They also never hear about the intriguing and extremely competent lives of the women custodians, bus drivers, cops, and other women in lesser-valued professions.
They never hear about the immigrant women that were renowned doctors or professionals in their home countries that now carry on these lesser-valued jobs.
They never mention the women crossing the borders risking their lives and intelligently outmaneuvering the dirty politics that would rather they be sex slaves.
Why don’t these things ever get shared?
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.
Let that burning red tea boil. Let your feelings erupt because they placed microchips in your books and in your brains. There is the manipulative son of a bitch so cerebral and invading your cranial territory like Cortés and his Conquistadores. The man will stick it to you literally and figuratively until you learn that even your red tea won’t heal your bleeding veins from their hell-bent wrath. Your body is an empire, your mind is the Earth, and my dear, your soul is the universe. He screams your name at night and pollutes your existence with his tongue. Yes, the very same one that sent shivers down your spine and the very same one that made you cry. He let his fists bang the walls when he was angry with you for bringing out his true self with your wishes of sincerity and honesty. You gave him mala beads in the shape of rainbow pearls that were deep-colored like the pools of your soul that are hidden under lock and key in your magnanimous body not at its prime yet, but getting there. You scream his dynasty’s last name in vain because no one is there to listen to your throaty exclamations. Your silk bathed lips made him quiver like soft chrysanthemums caressing, tickling, touching his goosebumped skin. He wanted what was between… He wanted what was within… The warmth radiating from your experienced body and soul and mind collected in his lungs and suffocated the hell of his inner oceans, which quenched your fire eventually. The oil will only burn until there is none left in his waters. You were the fire. You ARE the fire hiding underneath the skin and within his bone marrow. You ARE his dream and you are the dreamer.
The song is about the rivers being followed, sounds so serene yet full of strife. The woman inside of me followed rivers too and she followed them until she walked mid-stream and lost her footing in the surprising depths. The falling was like that of a jumper removing themselves from the ledge, only this was slow in motion downwards with the force of gravity playing games on the body. Feeling like a foolish child for following a river that has nothing left except to fall into the ocean. The food chain of love, in which a goddess chases moving water that only wants to flow away to reach the endless depths of the ocean. Now there is a depth inside the heart of that down goddess who left her spot in the night sky to follow a broken dream, a broken stream.
Keep footing with the riverbanks and swim against the current little fish. Lay your eggs on the rocks and remember to not move backwards or water will fill your gills and your very own habitat will make you drown. Why do so many things wish to fall into the ocean? The sun sets over the bay with its slowly rippling water because even waves crash into the ocean—the ocean’s soldiers trying to regain the land by pounding on it until eventually it succumbs into its cool molecules. The clouds fall into the ocean, the ocean flows into the clouds eventually overtaking the atmosphere too.
Tell me my sweet goddess, why do you follow the rivers that follow the oceans that take everything from you? You have the salty ocean in your wounds now because you are a star that has fallen. Tell me my beautiful goddess, why drop down from the heavens for this watery hell? I ask myself these questions each and every day…