The Making of White Room

Your lips possessed a fire pressed lightly
Gentle and warm, with no reason to fight
myself
I was the beheaded lily, attempting to regrow.
My foundation already shaken
I revealed to you, my friend,
a sweet smelling and slightly sweating hand
With which you used to pull me closer,
with a touch of excitement.
But I misunderstood your purpose or you misunderstood your malice
I thought you held peace within your embrace
but I was strung and laced with oiled string
That were set aflame and burned grooves into my collarbone
And something thrilling,
tinged with a fear that I tried to overlook and bury,
Unearthed itself little by little
Anxiety building,
growing so tall that I had to force myself to let go
But it wasn’t soon enough
I hit the ground.
I shattered.
My anger died and was reborn into a monster
that I had hoped would consume us both
But it’s only me that stares out of this white window,
sitting on this white bed,
Looking out at a world that I won’t rejoin
Until I piece back together what I thought was mine.


My poem "White Room" was written about and partially in the psychiatric inpatient ward. I was there for around 5 days, partially because i had no medication to stem the tide of mental feedback i was having. looking back, it still hurts, but probably because the place i am in now still sympathizes with the girl who ended up in that hospital bed. Even if it's true, that I've gotten better, something in me cant say for certain that I truly have, although I have parents and friends that would say differently. Right now, my interests rarely lie in getting better. They more rely on BEING better. As for being better, I havent really managed it quite well.
In addition, one would think with all my boy problems that stem from my own mental unhealthiness, that I would give them up all together for awhile. Yet, everytime I think about doing that, I remember how unfair it was that the trauma from my years in middle school kept me from maturing socially in high school and college, especially when it came to dealing with sex and romance. It's not fair that I missed out on so much time and I dont want to miss out on any more. But god, I still feel like I'll tear myself apart from this because what I really want in my social life isnt within my reach. I want something different for myself. Most of all I want my brain to operate differently and function as if it still wishes to be alive and the person I am. No meds will fix that either.

To Spanish or not to Spanish?

so i was in one of my "moods" when i happened to think up this phrase "mi corazón siente hinchado pero vacío"... it made me wonder if i should start writing poetry in spanish as well... or a weird hybrid of spanglish... i dunno but a poem about how i ended up so immersed in Latino (most mexican and puetro rican) issues and language might make an interesting poem... we'll see.

plus it will be a welcome break from writing about how depressed and lonely i am

Unlearn

Apparently I've been neglecting my blog. i will probably post about recent happenings and thought later but for now, here is a poem i wrote and performed.

Unlearn

Drawing crooked and indistinct lines in the sand between what I’ve known and what I’ve been told. Community, Humor, Family: all of it the romance that I’ve been told that my black skin is supposed to offer. Black survival and my survival are one in the same and yet are two opposing forces that I narrowly walk inbetween, always falling over one side or the other. The elements of this survival are jarring and change it's meaning everytime I think I get closer.

Community: Is it cold spaghetti at a barbeque or block parties with a broken fire hydrant?
Humor: Is humor making something so foul and stifling into a joke, so that it can unravel the bindings holding you prisoner to it?
Family: Is family the people who are the only ones who will defend you from anything and anyone?

The ante-bellum and "old time" stories detailing these attributes weave throughout 5th grade novels and primetime on BET but rarely get to a place where I can recognize them, save for the few that I have experienced first hand.

Instead of drawing from the same stale well of what I’m told that blackness means, I recall and regurgitate how these “givens” of blackness show themselves to me.

Community was exclusive; a club that only the ones who had "made it" could be in to show off our status. It was an isolated bubble of protection from the dangerous darkies that inhabited the outside world and werent fit to dine on the delights that our community consume with the quickness. We comforted ourselves with the insulation of how they weren’t like us anyway, that they needed to get jobs, get lighter, get Jesus, and get “educated” because hey, that’s how we did it.

Humor was a self-righteous exercise as we laughed our way over uncomfortable feelings of the holes we had dug in ourselves to be filled with other people's projections. Humor was a quick pill to ease the constant ache of sitting on people who we were and weren’t a part of.

Family was a badge of honor that we used to flash at people to let them know how much we were worth. Our kids were properly mixed with good hair and even better elocution. We were kids that went to good schools, good programs, and received even better scholarships.

And even as i look at these implications, I feel the love from my family and our commitments to making each other happy. I still feel the good times filled with laughter, I still feel the comforting presence of being within my community. My home.

We are kids that need to unlearn the poison of a double-edge security that has supported us and injured us for so long.