“Monolonging” for something more.

Who the fuck am I writing for, anymore?

I used to believe that words could fly through the folds of time.

Connect the dreams of the deceased to the pondering hands of those present.

I used to keep my laptop without a password, so if I were to die, my dreams would flutter beyond my pitiful life.

I imagined them slipping between the fingers of someone who needed to hear them and the agony inside of me would temporarily drift away.

Just how I envisioned my life would end.

Drifting into someplace warm and with fields of swaying green grass.

Now, I am not so sure if there is anything to envision, other than all my pent-up thoughts being choked back inside of me, just like a river of stinging tears.

I find words crumbling inside of my mind.

Breaking off like the crunchy orange rust on an abandoned bike.

They fall away and become one with the wet soil underneath.

Even the ants cannot waste their time to care.

So, why should I?

Who the fuck am I writing for, anymore?

Mentors tell me, I should write, for me.

Care for it, like therapy.

Keep it tender.

Make it raw.

Keep sawing valuable pieces of my soul off and stapling it to paper.

Make it monetizable.

Make it my own.

How much more can I physically take, before writing just feels like a form of exquisitely cruel torture?

I have written what I want for years. Only for others to pity me even more.

Why the fuck, should I write anyway?

Mentors tell me to build a world and fill it people that I know.

Make characters.

Let them grow.

How can I build a world, if the only person screaming inside, is me?

How can I build a novel, if the only story begging to be told, is my own?

Why the fuck, should I write anyway?

My words fall onto a page slowly, as my tears slam into my keyboard faster than my fingers can type.

My desk is a vast ocean.

My mind is an enormous chasm.

Yet, it is only filled with the many versions of me.

The me who needs the world to feel every ounce of anguish that was inflicted on me, through lines of soliloquy.

The me who needs to grow the roots of my tree beyond the expanse of rudimentary creativity.

The me who is still a child, holed up in the musty pantry of my past, waiting for adulthood to shepherd me further from collapse.

Who the fuck am I writing for, anymore?

Is it you, who scoffs at me from a distance, from a place far beyond my reach?

Is it you, who mourns the chastity I never got a chance to wear?

Is it you, who climbs a mountain high dais, eager to beseech?

Is it you, who says they worry, but chooses no weight to bare?

Praise, praise the gods who protect little children.

Praise, praise the gods who rejoice by drinking liquified words from a gilded chalice.

Why the fuck are you listening, anymore?

Would you give me a legacy?

A reason to keep going.

Would you watch me wither away, extend your fingertips as far as they could go, to catch these wandering pieces of me?

So, if I were to die, I could keep on dreaming modest dreams again…

Could you catch those parts of my history, with aching hands, and set them ablaze in the minds of those that needed it most?

Could you start the fire and promise to never snuff it out?

Why the fuck aren’t you pleading, anymore?

Why the fuck aren’t you?

My laptop has a password now. My laptop has a password now.

My laptop is full of those hacked of parts of me.

Only to become a dream, if someone else dreams it too.

It cannot just be me. I also must be you.

A little accommodation for me, please.

A little accommodation for me, please.

I have a rant that has been bubbling inside of my mind since the start of the pandemic.

I want to preface this with a little backstory of my own.

When I was a child, I was sickly.

Even as an infant, I would vomit up formula regularly.

The stomach issues did not end as I aged.

I was put on a lactose-free diet and yet, I was regularly asking my mom to pull over so I could get sick.

I would run fevers a lot as well.

My mom was sick too, but of me.

All I wanted was some grace, some accommodation.

I dreaded going to school, because the wretched feeling in my stomach would not go away.

I asked to stay home often, to no avail.

Unless I was puking all night, or had visible signs of infection, I was forced to attend school.

The same happened in college. Even with my weak fortitude, I was able to get scholarships and grant funding.

But my health took another dark turn.

I was throwing up semi-regularly. I was rapidly losing weight. I was taken to the ER twice for urinating blood.

I begged my family to let me leave and stay home for a while. I was told, “I needed to set an example for my brother and cousins. I HAD to be the first one to finish school.”

I turned to my adviser. I cried in her office, asking for more leeway on the extremely strict attendance policy. I needed more unexcused absences. I was desperate to save my grades from being docked as my ability to leave my room got more difficult.

I was drowning.

They told me it was a “policy” for a reason.

All I wanted was some grace, some accommodation.

I asked if I could attend school purely online.

They told me, “If you got to do it, others would want the same thing. We can’t change the rules for one person without doing so for everyone.”

I demanded, “why”?

They never gave me answer that made sense.

I grew up.

I got several jobs.

I was always reviewed exceptionally, and told I was so compassionate with everyone.

Customers, and fellow coworkers alike.

Corporate would praise me for going above and beyond my job title, but when I needed them to support me when my health would have a hiccup… I was always left to make the difficult choices.

I would lose out on the biggest raises and was threatened with termination.

Stunning reviews.

Commended for innovation.

It was never enough.

I would accept more overtime, just to prove my dedication.

One job, in particular, revealed to me how little they valued my personhood.

My reviews demonstrated that I exceeded expectations.

When the pandemic hit, I worked a load of overtime, despite my body screaming at me to stop.

Then a man began to stalk me at work, weeping at me because I refused to marry him, telling me he absolutely had to have me.

He left notes on my car.

I had to park across the street.

I carried multiple box cutters.

We were called “heroes”.

Guests put signs all our windows.

We were “frontline workers”.

I was told, if the man hadn’t touched me physically, the incident was “out of their hands”.

I was essential, until I wasn’t.

I got COVID and was asked to call each morning to report my symptoms.

I was miserable on the inside.

I was exceptional on the outside.

Until I wasn’t.

But I found hope during the pandemic.

I saw companies and schools make changes.

People could finally work from home, they were getting extended leave options, and some financial compensation for risking their lives.


Blessed accommodation.

Would this be the start of something wonderful?

Could chronically ill people be themselves and still keep their job?

Was this the revolution I so desperately dreamed of?

Will everyone get to option to work with their health and safety in mind?

Could I go back to school for a new major and not be terrified of failing every single semester, just because of a flare-up? Would mandatory attendance by a thing of the past?

Everyone was so scared and yet… I was hopeful.

It felt like the world suddenly understood that capitalism could actually be human. Tender.

We could keep the cogs moving and be comfortable again.

I was so damn and stupidly hopeful.

I am always stupidly optimistic.

Now that everyone believes the pandemic is “over”, the whole world is demanding things go back to “normal”.

I don’t want that normal.

Why should I be told how wonderful I am as an employee and then asked if I should go part-time because I was absent three times in a single month??

Why the fuck are we okay with this?

Why aren’t we angry?


I forgot.

No one wants to listen to us, the immunocompromised people.

The world had potential for being a better place for all workers, students, and civilians alike.

Now I put on my mask and wonder why anyone wanted change in the first place?

They got to taste what it feels like to be in my shoes and plead for something different.

Their safety and comfort are now assured, so their voices went quiet.

I silently scream behind my mask.

I silently scream at the pharmacy.

I silently scream, because I spent all my life being outspoken about accommodation.

Now my voice is horse.

My voice is lost in a sea of a new era.

The era of “sameness” and “pretend”.

Change is lost somewhere.

I have no energy to climb aboard another ship and sail to find it.

I silently scream behind my mask.

I silently scream at the grocery store.

I silently scream, because if I were truly yelling, no one would be willing to listen.

The time for listening was back in 2020 and now it’s 2022.

Until I woke up

Once, I had a dream… where a monochromatic sky opened its mouth and I rolled out off a long velvet tongue.

I shot towards a shoreline like a meteor.

My skin was as hot as the center of a blazing star.

My hair was stuck to my face, neck, and shoulders like moss to the base of an old tree.

When I collided with the beach, the ocean cried out in terror.

Jagged rocks rang out like bells at church service when the shockwave rolled across the earth.

The whole world paused to consider the damage.

Birds pulled their flightless young close in the nearby trees. Trees pulled their aching roots close in the nearby forest.

Pearlescent insects with paper wings found refuge under fallen branches. Their bodies glimmered from a distance like twinkling lights as the sun’s rays caught a glimpse for only a moment.

But… here I was, inside a giant crater.

A hole surrounded by wet sand and desperate hermit crabs trying to haul themselves out.

My skin was as hot as the center of the sun above.

I was afraid.

The mouth gasping between puffy white clouds began to drool, and my skin shriveled as the cold droplets began to assault my bare body.

What could it want?

Why did it abandon me here?

I pulled my legs in tight and felt the sand shift uneasy underneath with more crustaceans escaping towards the sea.

From a distance, an ever-darkening ocean rumbled, and fish of many dazzling colors retreated towards unknown depths.

I heard wind arguing amongst itself about which direction it should blow next. I smelled summer arguing with spring about when it should resign and give the season up to the next candidate in line.

The gaping mouth in the heavens began to laugh.

It stilled the turbulent waves of the black ocean.

The tide did not come in to drown me inside of that massive hole.

The gaping mouth in the heavens continued to laugh.

It slowed the decay of fallen animals in the black forest.

The gaping mouth in the heavens persisted.

It laughed until it cried.

It cried until it resulted in more violent laughing.

The grains of sand around me were stiff and bloated with water pouring from the amused sky overhead.

It reached with my small, wrinkled hands and covered my misshapen ears.

I could not take it anymore.

Even the tiniest crabs had managed to escape with their homes intact.

Was I the only one forced to endure this?

My skin prickled in fear.

Why am I here?

When I should have been up there?

I squeezed my ears tighter until my hands turned red.

Then suddenly…

It got quiet.

Hesitantly, I unhinged my fingertips around cartilage and pulled away to listen.  

The mouth in the sky, had a twisted expression hanging across the horizon and a soft phrase felt out between hazy lips colored orange, yellow, and all manner of brilliance.

A phrase I shall never forget.

“Go forth, in fear. Go forth, in joy. Go forth, in embarrassment. Humans are fragile and you may think, you were cast here as punishment, but at least no matter the circumstances, they, always… go forth.”

I never understood what was so funny to the vastness of the sky, until I woke up several lifetimes later.

This feels

This feels

Bend me backwards into a column of silk strands

Slide your callused fingers between my lips and pull out a ribbon of secrets

The saliva of truth drips down your wary palms

Juice of a fruit, neither of us should consume

I am barely hanging on

You are dangling ornaments of lust off my curled toes

I am lit up

You are decorating my arms with the pointed end of a blade

Shiny and new

Raw and divided

I am barely hanging on

Slide your callused fingers under my eyelids and pull out a ribbon of memoirs

Bend me backwards into a sea of memory foam

Sure, you haven’t even felt me yet.

Sure, you haven’t even felt me yet.

I am entangled in a blanket of your hands

They sting like a bucket of dried burrs

You wrap me up tighter and my mouth rests, astonished

Wet air pours from my mouth like morning sickness




Can you hear my ribs grinding like two cars in a crash?

Can you hear my gasps like there is a crowd watching a man fall from a skyscraper?

Can you hear my eyes trembling like a small child waiting for a school bus in the winter?




I am entangled in a blanket of your world

It stings like a bathtub filled with wasps

You wrap me up tighter and my body rests, horrified

Wet terror pours from my chest like trauma


Too heavy

Too fucking heavy

Too fucking heavy that I want to scream

I want to scream

I want to

I want




When I look across the abyss, the vast cavern filled with memories of my tormented past, I wonder what possessed me to cross it?

I turn around and stare down the hole in awe.

How did I make it? What did I sacrifice to survive it?

I think about the toll I must have paid to have been rewarded with this absurd motivation to stay alive.  

My subconscious built a bridge between my past and my current. I walked along it and found myself years away from my worst days, but still aching at the consequences.

Survival was supposed to be the hard part.

Survival was supposed to be the end.

Survival never ends.

My body shivers at the thought that one day, something horrendous will crawl out of that hole and remind me that survival is not a linear process.

You do not go from being abused, directly to being freed. The line is not straight, but a crude scribble drawn by the hand of a lonely child.

Because even if my abuser has died and long since took a final breath in this world, my wounds go far deeper than a physical presence.

I will not undermine how fortunate I am for knowing my tormentor is dead. Many survivors must move away from their childhood towns, abandon their homes, distance themselves from all traces of the past, just to be certain that person will never make an appearance.

I am lucky. I feel that I am.

I also feel that I am depressed.

I am lucky to feel depressed, because maybe if therapy had not worked, I would not be able to feel anything?

What toll did I pay to make it to today? What of my soul did I sacrifice to live a normal life?

Or am I still paying my debts off? Are my tears enough to keep me here another few years?

A series of questions…

A series of questions…

Do you ever think back to transformative moments in your life and cannot recall how you felt at any given time?

How perhaps, none of it felt entirely genuine?

I find myself, mouth agape, as I examine photos taken of me from what feels like lifetimes ago.

I am in my early twenties. Hair chopped short against the back of my neck, eyebrows penciled on thin with black a drugstore charcoal pencil, and my skin so alabaster it looks translucent. I am laughing. I am bent over, with my hands clutching my shockingly slender waist, as a former friend strikes a pose nearby. My denim shorts, stolen from a friend’s closet are barely long enough to cover the wiggly little scars on the flesh of my thighs.

This looks like fun.

Was I having a good time?

How can I not remember?

My hair is blue. Right, I had just moved back in with my mom when my hair was blue.

Was I happy during my blue hair phase?

Do you ever think a polaroid would stir such nausea in the pit of your stomach?

I never even considered it until my thirties were imminent.

I could not call it nostalgia. Nostalgia would at least give me a ghost, a subtle sensation, to how I felt in those pictures.

What is the opposite of melancholy?

I know the melancholy, but I have no sense of the person in those photographs. I have lost so many lifechanging years, inside of myself.

When the memories are stored away, the feelings they inspired just vanish into obscurity.  

I do not know the person that loved you. I do not even remember what it was like to feel the skin of your fingertips at the small of my back while I regurgitated several craft beers into manicured grass.

Your voice does not have a tone. It is just the sound of plastic bags being shuffled at a grocery store. It is just the sound of water filling up a bathtub.

White noise.

Your face does not have an outline. It is just the build-up of creamy oil paint on an unwashed palette. It is just the movement of a sweaty crowd slamming against one another at a concert.

Utter chaos.

What is the opposite of melancholy?

I never even considered it until everything became hazy and I found myself on the other side of my voyage.

I do not know the person that loved you. I do not even remember what it was like to be so satisfied by the waters of your vast ocean.

That ship sailed away with my memories.

There is a lighthouse shining brilliantly in my red tinged eyes, looking back from a slightly bent picture.

Fear is

Fear is

I fear the shadows that exist among the lines across your palms

Your hair smells of the fuzzy mold growing on the side of a forgotten picnic orange

Acidic, yet multifaceted

Repulsive, yet medicinal

I love how it creeps across your shoulders and beckons me to dance in the wrinkles of your laugh lines

Your eyes are warm like the thighs of a nun who left her vows to a ravenous hunger

Apprehensive, yet beautiful

Pessimistic, yet inviting

I love how they soak in every inch of my naked body and beckon me to dance in the thicket of your body hair

Your hands remind me of the cherry salmon being carried by the current of a screaming river

Primitive, yet persistent

Authentic, yet eager  

I love how they stroke the webbing of my pale stretch marks and beckon me to dance in the valleys of your hips

I fear my present cannot take much more of this endless dream

I fear my future cannot take much more of this vicious cycle

I fear I may not be able to love like you

A dedication

I have spent these last few weeks incessantly mulling over every new update in the media.

Oftentimes, I am left with this empty feeling.

It is like a stranger has come up to me offering solace, only to viciously rip my heart from my chest cavity and laugh as the beating slows to a distinctive crawl. Just to prove their power further, albeit unnecessarily, they pour lighter fluid on my once tender organ, and set it on fire.

Of course, in the scenario, I am able to witness this entire act, before I most assuredly die. I am unsure how realistic that is, but I imagine I could tough it long enough to see my body become defiled.

I am sure this graphic reimagining of my potential death might have frightened you.

That was its intended purpose.

Many have died between my first publication on this site and this update I am posting tonight.

Whether this was due to the virus burning holes through our population, or innocent people of color losing their lives to police brutality, death has taken upon itself to put the United States in a vice grip.

Our Nation has its heart on the pavement, with several-hundred thousand canisters of lighter fluid hovering in the air, waiting for the fires to ignite change.

We are bleeding for our lost family members, who spent their final moments alone in a hospital bed, confined to a room made of relentless beeping and lungs burning hot like rage.

We are bleeding for our lost family members, who spent their final moments surrounded by people, begging for the light of another morning and lungs burning hot like rage.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t breathe.

Between COVID-19 and the passing of George Floyd.

The Nation’s lungs are exhausted.

They are tired of gasping for air and for freedom.

Our Nation has its heart on the pavement, with several-hundred thousand fists of color hovering in the air, waiting for the protests to ignite change.

“Must we rip out all of America’s organs, to be granted safe passage into the next era?” the naysayers shout from their sumptuous chairs gilded with privilege.

“Must we rip out all of America’s history, to be unified?” the naysayers shout from their salon chairs, after being given every damn thing they have ever asked for.

Statues of inaccuracy fall unapologetically, decorated with badges of spray paint.

Statues of misguided forefathers fall brazenly, decorated with badges of their false representations.

Must we rip out all of America’s organs? Must we?

Must we rewrite history?

History was designed to be rewritten. History was designed to be made, every single day.

No one people can dictate the power of a movement.

No one agency can dictate the power of someone else’s abbreviated life.

You gasp at the sight of millions, gathered in unison, for a man you did not know, for a movement, you cannot understand.

He gasped under the weight of decades of systemic racism.

You cannot understand because you chose not to.  

When push comes to shove, where will your heart be laid out? Will someone take it by force? Will you watch idly by, as the Nation tears apart the body of American history, or will you take an arm in its dismantling?

Will you be willing to feel the pain of your own heart being burned alive, to abide in the necessary change this country needs to end this systemic hatred?

Hatred against people.

Hatred against science.

Hatred against fear.

Oftentimes, I am left with this empty feeling.

Oftentimes, I am left with this fulfilling optimism.

 No one agency can dictate the power of someone else’s honorable life. Even after death, his pulse can be felt strongly in the fists of advocates across America.



This is dedicated to those that lost their lives to police brutality in our Nation. This is also dedicated to those who have been disproportionately affected by systemic racism in our many established institutions throughout the United States.

We must do what we can to push for change, even if it means tearing down the status quo.

Please, go vote and call your representatives. Do not ever remain quiet because the other side wants nothing more than to silence you.

Never let them silence you.


Her favorite color

Her favorite color

I gaze up into the vast emptiness of the afternoon sky and say to you

My favorite color is powder blue

Little wrinkles bunch up around the velvet skin of your rosy lips

You order me to admire every hue

Branches of veins, hot with intuition, dance just beneath the tender skin of my throat

I can sense you tremble as they do

My callused fingertips entangle themselves in clumps of damp grass next to your thighs

The earth retains its breath just for us two

Clouds pregnant with rain march across the atmosphere in a hurry to abandon the sun

A release of tension long overdue

Dread buries itself deep within the aching hallows of my abdomen

It is as if you already knew

A firm hand slides under my clamped jaw and points it towards the heaves

My favorite color is being subdued