I have been removed.
My identity displaced,
Lost somewhere in the diasporas of my bloodline and borders.
My right of return has always felt hidden
Behind amy grandmother’s Spanish last name
And the border she crossed to have a child whose father already had a wife.
I am compartmentalized by everyone.
Only the sun legitimizes me
Because I am clearly her child.
But I don’t know any of her other children’s languages
Or how they make their food
Or how they dance.
All I know is that I am lost,
Let me be
Let me be
I am begging this of myself as much as I am begging this of you.
The colonizer broke my blood into fractions
So I quantify myself
15% 23% 37% 25%
And get forgotten in the numbers
I go to sleep, and
I am everything.
Broken, lost, and whole,
Her father named her after the stars in the hopes that she would become one.
Born on a pleasant May afternoon, Star made her first appearance and almost killed her mother in the process. As her skin reddened with life, her mother’s tinged with blue. Both filled the hospital room with screams clinging to consciousness.
The first person to hold her like she might fly away was her grandmother Tita. Tita introduced her to water, who became a lifelong friend.
Star’s first word was cookie, revealing her indulgent nature that would follow her for the rest of her life.
Whenever you look at her, you get the feeling that you’re looking into the past. That is if you are looking at her at all. When she was 5, she let loneliness brush her hair as she watched other kids play in the park.
I left you with empty pockets and new shoes/ cat scratching the window as I slipped out the door/ no note no text no warning/ I don’t know how to say goodbye/ so I quietly leave instead
I left you with a few more things/ a cat with long nails/ and the compulsion to keep the door open
Your words dripped down my neck like nectar off of a flower/ I wrapped a scarf around it so no one else could see/ walked around the city with this secret staining my throat/ could still feel your whispers brushing against my skin
You brought me to your room while the moon peered over the sun/ peeled the scarf off my neck while I faced the window/ fingers twisted my hair as I sighed
I saw you for half a second today/ you were wearing that itchy red uniform/ remember when I took it off your body?/ remember when I put it back on?
We used to lay in bed all day/ that itchy red uniform tangled up in the sheets/ your hair sprawled across the pillow like the stars across the sky/ your shoes waiting for you beside the bed
I left when the last tree leaf fell outside/ I left when your voice stopped sounding like music/ I left when you accidentally wore my shoes
I hardly see you anymore/ I’m safer this way
Week 1: A Spy in the House of Love by Anais Nin
Week 2: Shalimar the Clown by Salman Rushdie
Week 3: The Liars’ Club by Mary Karr
Week 4: Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert
I definitely think starting off with a somewhat dry autobiography was not the best decision, so I’m going to start with a smaller book by Anais Nin.
Spoke with you on the beach a couple years ago/ you wanted to know if stardust was sprinkled across the sand/ I told you “yes” just to keep the conversation going/ we both were on page 82 of Norwegian Wood/ I took that as a sign that we were meant to always miss each other.
I wonder if you ever think of me/ I need to find you
Have you dreamt of me while the moon was out?/ ask me for my name next time/ but if I only exist in your daydreams/ follow me home
*still a work in progress*