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

12 of 365: Why

Lately people have been shooting my ears with questions like “Why do you like to write?”, and I’ve been caught off-guard every time, not really having a reason to like what I do or even know why I do it. I can counter with “Why does anyone do anything?”, but my own answer leaves me feeling unfulfilled and empty.

Why do I do something that I like and try so hard, when I probably won’t ever make it anywhere? Why do I take time out of my life and strain my eyesight, wrack my brain for words to form sentences I haven’t seen yet. How many words do we have in our vocabulary to make a new sentence? How do I know that what I’m saying doesn’t already exist?

I don’t know. Those are way too many questions.

But I–I don’t know why I like writing, per say. I like how words make emotions and experiences eternal. I like how personal they are, written down and kept forever. I like how everyone reads it in their own voice, adding their own meaning and sighing because they find bits and pieces of themselves in these words.

I like making things? I like creation, I should say. I like coming up with worlds and people and societies, and I like watching them grow or destroy.

I don’t know, I like it because I like other things so–it’s just my second nature? An affinity I have? A talent I’ve developed over time?

I don’t know. Stop asking me why I do things.

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.

6 of 365: Macaron

Life allows us small luxuries when our clothes start to hang off our bodies, tired and ragged after the frustration of not being good enough long enough. At times, the luxury appears in the form of a petite french pastry, or of a friend’s laugh, warming up our insides like sunshine. The experience is ephemeral, but it isn’t about the brevity of something good–instead it’s of savoring the stage.

Keep your hands out of your pockets and pull the clouds away from the sun. Let the light make love to your skin. Let its warmth remind you of the reason you breathe.

Do you need a reason to not enjoy the good things?

5 of 365: Star

There’s stardust on the edges of your eyes, sharp and glittering like ceremonial knives.

“Try not to miss,” I say, and the next thing I knew, the nebulae in your eyes darken, the starlight dances across your arm and fingers as you pull and release your bow and arrow.

You smirk at your accuracy, my mouth falls open at how precise you are; I think I might have fallen.

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.