Sometimes you just have to write bad poetry

She said one day all we'd have left is a trailer, and a dog, and a sestina.


but who thought i'd be there at 24,
and it's an apartment in the city,
and a cat, not a dog,
and free-verse, not a sestina,
but you get me.

and she said we'd have paper and pen
and i'm writing on my computer,
because this is now, and i'm me,
not one to write my poetry
on paper, but still.

she was right. i'd write.

though i never thought
i'd write about not writing,
then again,
i never thought i'd be 24
and lacking a good line
or a perfectly placed rhyme.

or be as corny as this,
(well those last two lines, with the rhyme)
but here i am.

i've got nothing.
i've lost passion to predictability,
creativity to caution,
motivation to money.

i've lost me to you,
but that's a lie.
there's no you,
just a me, wishing there was a you.

but that's a lie again.
sometimes, i just get lonely,
and think a you, would make me,
less so. you know?

but anyway,
i'm here, in this now,
without a trailer, or a dog,
or a damn sestina,
so she was wrong,


but still right.

I Want a Kipton, or a Reid, or an Ed...

Ok, I'm embarrassed. I watch the Bachorlette. I don't watch the Bachelor, but when the Bachelorette comes on, damn, I'm there.

And tonight is the finale. And I'm watching these three men tell Juliette that they love her, and I'm watching her turn Kipton down. I'm watching her turn Reid down. And I'm watching her say YES to Ed. And I can't help but think, "I want one man to be in love with me." I want to be in love with one man. When will I get that?

On a day-to-day basis, I'm not searching for love. I don't care that I don't "have someone." I'm okay with who I am; who I am alone. But I've spent so much time by myself; I've spent so much time learning to be whole, to battle my demons; to figure out what I'm looking for, for who I want. I know I'm young. I know I'm a baby. I know I want years, and years, and years with someone before I marry (if I decide I want to go that route) him. I know that.

But I also know that I am ready. I also know that I want someone to be in love with me. I want someone to think the sun rises and falls on me. And I want to think the same about him. I want someone to turn to in my most joyous moments and in my deepest heartaches. I want someone who cares what happened during my day, just because it affects me. I want to curl my body around someone at night. I want someone to call when I have exciting or devastating news. I want someone who cares about me--mind, body, and soul. And I want to care the same way.

I want what so many people have.

And though I try, it's so hard not to doubt that it will happen for me. That somehow I'm exempt from the possibility of that happening. That somehow, for some reason, my body, my traumas, my passions, my whatever will keep love from coming my way. That I will forever be without that experience. I will be without love.

I like to believe that I can survive without having "someone." I like to believe that all I need is myself. And sometimes, I believe it. And sometimes, I am all I need.

But, I want more. Even if only for a short amount of time, I want love.

I want love.



(And at the most romantic part of the show, the ice cream truck goes by. SO perfect).

Every Day

I come up with something new to write about every day. And then I decide it isn't worth it, or I'm too tired, or I get caught up in something else. I don't even wonder why I have such a hard time writing anymore. I no longer question why there's a hole, a longing, in me that can only be filled with the written word; why my "soul" feels emptier and my life seems heavier. I know why. I know that I don't take the time to nourish what kept me alive for most of my life. I know that I've let responsibilities to others come first. I've let things I don't even really like come first. I've tossed writing aside and told myself that it'll always be there; I'll always be able to come back to it. It'll never leave me. So, instead, I leave it. I leave and I let myself get a little bit further away every day.

Rare Certainity

With our world as it is, every day, I become more and more certain about what I want to do with my life.

Happiness is

an ice cold shower on a hot, humid day.

$5 pitchers of Blue Moon.

music that makes your heart swell.

realizing that some hurts, though they don't go away, eventually sting less.

playing Scrabble and not being as bad as you usually are.

being healthy after being sick for so long.

cotton candy.

finishing a wonderful book, knowing you'll miss the characters.

sunshine, especially after a week of dark skies and rain.

knowing that it's ok to cry and feel the pain because it won't last forever anymore.

recognizing how blessed you are.

She Asks Me

Hari Maya and I are talking about the birth of her children and whether or not she wanted girls. She tells me she always wanted girls and is very happy to have them. Or at least that's what I gather from her broken English and my very limited knowledge of Nepali. She smiles, beaming, and lifts her newborn daughter, Sanya, into the air and says, "girls are most priority in US, yes?"

I don't quite know how to answer her. I don't know how to tell her that though girls and women are treated so much worse in many places in this world, they are still not priority here. That although girls and women go through to the top of the educational system, they are still not thought of as as smart as men. I don't know how to explain to her that men and women with the same background--same education, same experience, same everything-- don't make the same amount of money in the same job. I don't want to burst her bubble. I want her to think that girls are priority. I want her to think that as a woman in the US, she is priority. I want her to think that it matters.

I want to believe it.

But I know the truth. I know that we are not. I know that though her daughters are the most precious things in the world to her, they aren't the most precious children here in the US. I know that in our lifetime, her daughters will face discrimination, not only for being refugees and immigrants, but simply because of the fact that they are girls. They will face wage discrimination, stereotypes, sexual assault. They will face so much just because they have XX chromosomes.

But how do I explain this, and so much more, to Hari Maya. How?

Instead, I tell her that girls are important. I tell her that I love girls. I love holding baby girls; I love playing with them; I love teaching them. I tell her that in the US girls are wonderful. I tell her that within families, girls are amazing gifts.

I tell her this, because I don't know what else to say.

I make him call me so that I know he still cares.