Days 14-19: PTSD

I originally published this on my tumblr first, but I’d figure I’d drop it here too.

the first step is always acceptance and I accepted that these terrible things happen rather they be random acts of violence or forces beyond my control but I still have these flashbacks and my mind makes up these scenarios and I really

I don’t know I just end crying when the night visits me, always without fail and unless I’m reading or talking to someone or watching something I can’t feel at ease, ever and there’s only so much you can write about because your vocabulary has a finish line and you’ve crossed it, you’ve crossed it so many times, these words mean absolutely nothing, they’re redundant, probably get annoying because the rhythm gets repetitive and you’ve heard it all already

it gets to the point where these thoughts become broken records, they loop, playing over and over and over and over

The needle is too fucking heavy and I literally can’t make it stop, I’ve tried, I really have, you can’t say I haven’t

And that’s probably why I can’t even sleep, you know


Because it happens


Breaks out


Interrupts over

Doesn’t matter how much cute shit I read or watch over and over

I’m not over it

Over and over and over again


13 of 365: Reference

I’d marry the night if it didn’t mean swimming in total darkness with you.

My light snuffed out when you breathed me in, and I thought, so this is love–cold, dark, and gruesome, like in the movies.

I followed you into the dark but I lost you there; when the sharks pulled my arm you never looked back.

My daddy was a sailor, I don’t think I ever told you that, so he made me learn how to swim good, above water and away from sharpened teeth and obsidian eyes.

I had wings when I learned how to ignite my own flame, and then I saw you–

hunched over, lost, mouth rabid; I knew you were dangerous because you didn’t know what you wanted

But I never said that, I said, Jesus Christ, that’s a pretty face. I touched the skin like I touch fine China, softly, delicately with the sole intention of admiring the art.

There was a crack in your design, a flaw, but I showed you my scar, the bites on my arm–“Baby, we all gotta go sometime.”

You were afraid, and I didn’t understand because we were there already–you took my hand, my whole life too.

Why’d you let the muck in this fish bowl confuse you?

Songs Used:

“Marry the Night” by Lady Gaga

“So This is Love” by Ilene Woods

“I Will Follow You Into the Dark” by Death Cab For Cutie

“My Daddy Was a Sailor” by Marina and the Diamonds

“Swim Good” by Frank Ocean

“Seraphim” by For Today

“Who’s Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses” by U2

“Jesus Christ” by Brand New

“The Great Gig in the Sky” by Pink Floyd

“Can’t Help Falling in Love” by Elvis Presley

“Wish You Were Here” by Pink Floyd

10 of 365: Twenties

One of the first things you’re going to do is buy yourself a good old-fashioned piggy bank, the kind that you can’t open without a hammer because you actually want to save up for that trip next summer.

The next thing is update your wardrobe, pass the graphic tees and patterned jeans over to your grandparents for them to hand down, wondering what possessed you to ever think those were cool enough to wear out in public.

You start looking for jobs, because on top of saving up for travel, you want to be able to afford some new clothes.

Your taste in music doesn’t really change, but you seek out other things to listen to, just because it shouldn’t try out things you aren’t use to.

You treat food the same way, and build a tolerance for spicy food and discover that you’re, unfortunately, lactose intolerant. You eat stuff you shouldn’t eat anyway, because it tastes good and who are you to not enjoy things?

There are some people you stop talking to. It doesn’t make you sad, because you start talking to other people and learn even more about yourself, things you wouldn’t have ever known if you stuck yourself with people who stopped growing.

You keep some others though, because you can’t decide if what’s keeping you together is loyalty or mutual adoration, but you don’t rush the revelation, just try to enjoy the little time you spend together.

Life is too short to be half-assed about anything anymore.

You start getting along with your parents and siblings. You tell them you love them as often as you remember to, and take your siblings out to the movies to see the only film the could ever seem to talk about.

You try out a new hobby, and grow a plant by your window.

You read the plant a different chapter from that new book you bought every day.

You realize that life is short, life is long, life is not enough for everything you want.

7 of 365: Disappointment

For the amount of time you’ve spent telling her you wished you had your arms around her, you could have at least tried to remember the limbs you had to hug her with.

For the amount of time you’ve spent telling her how beautiful she is, you could have kissed her back at least once out of the three times her lips pressed against yours’.

I stopped the scene, called cut because this wasn’t the way it was written.

But sometimes life is disappointing and love is not what it should be.

I poured the phone back into my pocket, and smiled at her while you tried to figure out how to hold her hand.

“We can try again later,” I told her.

We didn’t.

4 of 365: Ethnic

My skin is a cryptic shade of pale gold dug up from the center of the universe, and my hair bounces, big and blonde with dark roots growing out.

I stand 165 cm off the ground, full pink lips and strange dark eyes, long limbs and a thin stature.

My delicate hands and thin wrists paint a frail image, but my thighs are thunderous and biceps thick.

In the middle of winter, my skin has been categorized based on the lack of sunlight pouring over my body. “Armanian, Arabic, Chinese, Palestinian, Puerto Rican, White.”

Then there’s the summer, my skin darkens, and I hear–“Eurasian, Filipino, Greek, Indian, Mexican, Native American, Spanish.”

I’m neither of those, of course. I’m Dominican.

Dominican Republic is 50 shades of Black, Brown, and White. We are an entire spectrum of colors, of mixed races ever since the eradication of natives in the years after 1492, when Christopher Columbus decided to father a motherland.

My history is mixed and non-existent, written over and over, revised with streaks of white out veiled over truth. Our statues are carved out of marble to desaturate our darker leaders.

Our types of people are even worse.

Stereotypes are inescapable. My cousin sneers at my clipped, bright hair, my skinny arms and legs, how weird the color of my skin is.

“You talk White and you look Asian.”

Question marks bounce all over my face, so then I ask, “How am I supposed to talk? How am I supposed to look?”

He shrugs, standing a good 10 cm above my head. He’s been trying to build muscle, and it shows. All I see is an obnoxious attempt to live up to standards that don’t make sense.

“Just shut up,” is all he says before leaving.

I lick my lips and just scroll through my phone, thinking of the ignorance, wondering and swimming in annoyance when faced with it.

People can’t justify their micro aggressions with sound answers. I breathe.

I’m me, I’m me, I’m me. I don’t need to prove my pride. I don’t measure my self-worth.

I’m me, I’m me, I’m me.