Bare Bulbs

Journal

She pulled some old foil from a paper bag filled with trash. The paper bag had been serving as a trash can in her home – by Home, she was living in a glorified garden shed with a single, bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling. She slept on a naked mattress that may have been mistakenly placed there at some point – no framework, no sheets, nothing to give intention. Beetles often would crawl through baseboards, up her walls, and greet her face to face in bed. Foil in hand, she fashioned it into a makeshift spoon – her family back home kept calling to see if they needed anything. She always said no. Ashamed to admit that her single can of beans would be opened with a pocket knife and consumed cold with a spoon made from the old seal of a long forgotten tub of yogurt. Underneath a bare light bulb, in a garden shed, on top of a hill, in a city that reeked of placidity.


His face contorted by anger, screaming something about how ungrateful they were. She hit pause on the moment, collecting herself. Just how many times had she found herself in this place; A man, a mother’s lover, threatening her safety with harsh words and violence? How many more times would she let it happen? Unpause. He grabs a cup and throws it against the kitchen wall in her direction, it was a gift from her grandma. The answer was “no more”. A sister was having convulsions in the corner, nothing had ever filled her with so much rage. No one should treat them like this. Trembling, sobbing, her older sister being enclosed with a hug. No more. No more. He had run from the scene, perhaps to cleanse himself of the murder he had just committed, yet he still yelled. You better fucking leave or I’ll make you regret it. / A threat. / The last threat. / Fucking try me, little bitch. / No response. / Coward. / Her sister’s eyes were glossed over, all but black. A voidness she had never encountered before. Running upstairs, she grabbed the first duffel bag she saw and stuffed it with clothing – she would never come back. She wasn’t sure where she was going, but she would not stay here.

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quantify this

Journal

Dim lit streets. Popcorn infested, making pretzels. A cafe, cup of espresso. A university, hundreds miles away. One thing remains. A continuity that exists beyond our control. I’m thinking of you. Given away only by a faint blush of my cheek and a sly smile. Passion radiating off my skin like a warm Moroccan sunset or a crackling fireplace tucked away in a cabin. A Parisian lamp on a street at midnight, a rustic and aged kind of beauty. Unfulfilled excitement of Night, providing the dark mask, promiscuity and lust. Give me only time and I might bloom in front of you like a prize rose, but we have no more time. Cut short. Severed and no other option. Drama and chaos, but I just want a simple love. One. The perfect and beautiful family – fell in love young, met through coincidence, married on a whim but everything felt right – waited five years to have kids, had a healthy and established relationship as a couple. Humble, happy. But there is no time, no future, nothing substantial here except that Moroccan glow emanating. Nothing a scientist could quantify, except in heartbeats per second. I love-

frail·ty

Journal

The cavernous hole inside, swallowing light. Eating away at the life, slowly and surely it will die. Heavy headed, clouds on the mind. Aching for a presence. Missing and mish-mash, gone yet never mine.Ever-looming possibilities, worst is yet to come. This desire is unprofitable – all outcomes end in idle pain. Harboring cool indifference, you’ll never come around – as my weakness, you stand before me. Tender condemnation – forever segmented into a whole by the love I never received.

Exclusion

Journal

It must be great…

To have your phone constantly buzzing with people who want to talk to you.

To have hundreds of likes on anything you post on Instagram.

It must be nice to be invited to fun, exclusive parties.

It must be nice to have parents that love and care about you. Families that are concerned about your wellbeing. Who give you things you don’t need. Who support your decisions and want to be a part of your life.

From where I’m standing, on the outside, alone, it looks amazing.

Because I’ve always been an outcast. A weird kid. The person your kind will always exclude, even if just to give unification to your group. The one who gets picked on and pranked for the enjoyment of everyone else.

It’s my reality.

To have parents who never check up on me. To have siblings who actively bully me. To have to work harder than you at everything just to make a little bit of headway in every area of my life.

I have to settle. I have to make hard decisions. I have to lay in bed at night and feel social exclusion because no one talks to me unless I initiate a conversation.

And as I sit in the breakroom and your phone goes off every few seconds, I’m reminded that some people are just desirable.

And I am not.

But perhaps a person has to go through the social exclusion and the reality of being undesirable to lift the veil and uncover that life is about the little moments, the sweet and cherish-able rather than the short lived and meaningless. Perhaps I have grown more than you, perhaps I have a stronger sense of self and independence because no one actively cares about me.

Or maybe that’s something I tell myself to feel better.

Forget Me

Journal

Deep sigh escaped between her lips, a lost moment.

He would never understand that when she smiled to herself, it was nearly always because he was nearby.

The sound of his voice. His pitchy laugh. The way that he would sing obnoxiously. All of it made her heart glow.

He might know, but understanding of her deep affection would be lost on him because he did not feel the same way.

Seeing him literally made her day better. That alone made it a good day.

She loved him.

home·sick

Journal

I feel like rambling. Letting my words flow free like a brook. Roll, pass, flow, dipping and weaving elegantly passed beautiful vines and rocks and wildflowers.

I’m naive. Letting the cursor blink. Thoughts halt. I’m afraid. Something inside me just stops, wondering if I will ever understand. Analog age, no more wildflowers. Silicon Valley instead of my hometown horchata and Orange Blossom Junction valley with the Dead Rat Saloon – trading that small town for a high tech city that moves faster than Cottonwood Creek ever would. You can’t hold onto the riverbank if the water moves too fast. Can’t find your footing in the riverbed if the current whips you away before you know what’s under your feet.

Let me lay under the sun once more on that blacktop in front of dad’s shop, smell the fresh fruit growing on trees, hot sand on summer days – mallow mounds and lemon trees.

/gasp/

Journal

Place me inside of a glass jar,
Release into the vast expanding
Universe we gasp for air.

Closed off. Veins pulsing. Hot,
Glowing orbs protest against our breath.
There is nothing to breath in this
shallow environment.

Everything is a thin film away
from being ours. Unobtainable, running
in circles around my cage. Unaware that
I have made no progress.

min·i·mal·ism

Journal

It’s important to recognize who you are, in no definition but your own.

For instance, I am an old soul. I love science. I love Oxford shoes and doc martens. I love listening to instrumental piano but also Ghostemane, I have a chip on my shoulder but at the end of the day I just want to be loved. I want to move to Bora Bora in the French Polynesia one day – and also somewhere quiet in the South of France. I love minimalistic art because it can say so much by using very little influence on the observer. A line, perhaps it represents the lifespan of a person, perhaps it represents the beginning and the end of all things. Maybe the line is there to exemplify that simple things are beautiful. Because somehow a line ended up in a national museum. Or say there are a bunch of lines, all of a sudden there are a million different lives being portrayed. A million different universes and you are in this one.

The world with salted dark chocolate. Where rain falls as water droplets and wine exists. A world where a kiss can mean a million things: hello, goodbye, I missed you, I love you, you’re attractive, I can never see you again.

We could have lived in a world with none of that. Water could just have moved by vapor. Chocolate might not have been compatible with our tastebuds. Kissing might have seemed silly.

And all of that came just from looking at lines.

Simple lines. Basic lines. Perhaps even boring lines.

But I would much rather live a boring life and live through all of it than run fast, burn quick, and die young.

Let’s make the good decisions.

I made an unorthodox “good decision” recently – letting someone I don’t love into my life. We have a lot of fun together, and like a puppy sometimes he doesn’t know when to calm down, but it’s cute. And I’m beginning to think he cares about me (which is dangerous).

Can someone take me back to Thai Pepper in Ashland? I don’t want to be the person who lives off of their past memories, leeching everything good out of the current life- but I miss my old friends. They were all so genuine. In the sort of way that Leo is genuine. They all remind me of who I know I am inside.

They are all curious.

ce·ment

Journal

Yet another night, staring into my own eyes, unrecognizable against the dark backdrop. They are filled with some substance? Something terrifying, absent.

A black matter, invisible yet completely present. Intangible.

Glazed over, they go on and on forever sinking deeper and deeper within me, and nothing.

There is nothing.

Emptiness. Dank, cold, something that would send chills of terror down the spine of any.

It’s the fear we all have, complete and utter loneliness. To be truly alone.

To have lost yourself.

To have realized the lies you have told yourself about one day waking up and suddenly feeling belonging. To suddenly feel satisfied.

It will never happen.

Everyday will be like this: the monotony. The plain. The early mornings. The bills. The endless work and school. I will never be free.

I can never live.

sat·is·fy

Journal

I have been met with criticism for my decisions. Done things that were not perfect, however no one is always.

Yes, I am aware, I use men for my own personal pleasure. Men who I don’t have feelings for.

But telling me I need to have self respect when you have your own problems you blatantly ignore is not only hypocritical, it’s laughable.

I am, at the least, aware of my shortcomings. I know that I find comfort in the arms of men I have no intentions of staying with. I know I’ve done it for a long time – it’s not a new flaw, it’s hardly even unique.

But I do it.

Some people pop Xanax, others steal, some harm themselves physically.

I just fuck men who say they love me. Even when I know they don’t. Especially when I know I don’t. They tell me it’s the best they’ve ever had, and I know they’re just saying that to get me to do it again. They say that it was incredible, but let’s be honest – neither of us really thought so. I’ve only had sex with someone more than once with one guy, and I think it was because he was the most desperate.

Everyone who inserts their opinions into my life without me asking seems to think I do it because I have no self esteem or standards or whatever – but the truth is, I find it empowering to know that at the drop of a hat all of these guys would do just about anything for me.

They have never been given the chance to by a girl before, and I gave them something, I saw something in them that made them believe in them self.

Many just think I have no standards, but the truth is, things are a lot deeper than that. I love the power.

But I diverted from my original topic, feeling like people are hypocritical for judging me for my issues when they know they have their own kryptonite and yet choose to judge me. Tell me that I’m insecure, when they are. Say that I need to pull myself together when they can’t afford their own bills. My mom tells me that I need to work harder, do more, when she is totally failing to do her job as my parent.

When will people realize I’m doing everything alone? That I wasn’t handed life on a silver platter and have had to work about twice as hard for everything I’ve got, including my fucking health.

I have issues some people will never even know exist, and yet they tell me how to live my life.

They can fuck off.

I’m doing the best that I fucking can, and since they have never had to live a day in my life, it’s best for me to just ignore it.

I’m exhausted, broke, can’t even relax because I have this problem where it feels like I constantly have to be doing something so I don’t fail.

I have assignments I have to do, but no more motivation. I know I have to work most of this weekend, but I don’t want to wash my work clothes. I want to lay in bed and cry, but even that pleasure cannot be enjoyed.

Nothing is satisfying.