i lie on my back staring at the ceiling,
waiting for the numbness to crawl in,
but the world fades instead,
the air thins, and i hear it breathing.

from the corner she unfurls,
a shadow too wide for the room,
her hollow face sinks beside me,
her gaze pins me to the mattress.
i do not move.

the walls buckle as he arrives,
his limbs bending to fit,
grinning like he knows how small i am here.

his fingers scrape down the plaster,
the sound breaks into me,
a weight settles in my ribs.
every inhale feels stolen,
the room shrinks and i cannot scream.

i escape to reality,
my gaze jolts from corner to corner,
there’s nothing left and no one here,
yet my skin stills stings from the burn of eyesight; i will not be sleeping tonight.

We dance in joyful essence as a group
We gather in robust laughter as a family
We shoulder the duties of work diligently as partners
We cook in companionable camaraderie
But why do we cry alone

Imposter Syndrome, it’s real.
The more I step out of that silent box, the more my inner critic tries to peek through.
The more I raise my voice for my truth, that burden of “silence protects” tries to scream louder than before.
I’ve held my breath for far too long.
Bit my tongue more times than I should “to keep the peace.”
I’ve stood frozen in spots I should have walked away from.
Acknowledging what was is not what is has been a work in progress.
These mini steps that have turned into big steps have been exhausting yet fulfilling.

Imposter Syndrome, it’s real.
It does not define me, nor will ever define my character. I will not allow such. This voice will now be told across all the noise.
My truth will inspire.
I will gracefully inhale and exhale this breath of mine.
My tongue will no longer hold scars.
I will no longer stand frozen, for I’ve defrosted a long time ago.
What was is just that, was. What is, is just that, is.
These big steps I’ve created have gotten me so far. To this moment.
Bigger steps are being made.

Imposter Syndrome, it is real.
But, it is not me!

That’s my pretty baby
Driving mama crazy
Lovely little lady
That’s my pretty baby

Eat your macaroni!
It’s good for your bone-ies
So you can beat up “homies” **
And Mama won’t get arrested by the police!
** [implying self defense, not man hating or bullying]

That’s my pretty baby,
Driving mama crazy,
Lovely little lady!
That’s my pretty baby…
That’s my pretty baby!

(The song is on YouTube! https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=D0z8GSFOhTc&pp=ygUdUHJldHR5IGJhYnkgY2hleWVubmUgamFtZXJzb24%3D )

Her first name,
Korina.
She could shorten it to Kori,
so she could rhyme with her sister’s “Tori”
Or if she’s more of a tom-boy and wants it to sound less girly…
Korina is my female English version of the Spanish word Cariño, meaning affection and love.

From conception to birth, she introduced a new kind of love to me, another rhythm to my heart’s beat, & I created it out of my own body… It was almost surreal.
Her middle names, one her father’s middle name and the other the only word that comes close to describing what she is to me, what it felt like when she came into my life.

Heaven.
Lee.

I wanted Heaven to be her first name, but I was afraid she would dislike it as an adult because of the religious affliction or that it might cause some unintentional pressure to be perfect or something.

So I placed it in the middle, right before her father’s middle name “Lee” so that she might remember she is both Heaven and heavenly to both of us.

Korina Heaven Lee.
Mi cariña heavenly, my heavenly love
Pretty baby.

They grow up so fast… Never pass up an opportunity to gush and brag and feel pride in your child… Never pass up the chance to shower them with adoration and encouragement… Say all the things now that you will regret not saying, even if they already know.
It’s still nice to hear.

77%

I can remember the feeling clearly. I can still taste it, I can still feel the weight of it dragging on my heels, filling my lungs, and chilling my bones.
I am grateful I made it out alive, because looking back I can see that I needed serious help, but help was not coming for me.
I lived with severe depression, suicide ideation, low self esteem, and a handful of other BPD/BP symptoms that went undiagnosed for years.
I was never introduced to the idea of coping skills, boundaries, self care, and I had never heard of things like self fulfilling prophecies, victim mindsets, and justification/avoidance/etc. I wish someone would have brought these things to life, because I think I may have realized sooner that I wasn’t alone or the one to blame for the awful sadness that clawed at my chest like some tortured animal.
I began self-harming as a form of punishing myself. I believed that I was selfish for even breathing. I hated myself so much that I truly, truly believed that I deserved to get hurt and I should feel guilty because if I loved my family then I wouldn’t poison their life by being present in it.
Often I would fall asleep in tears, praying to wake up as someone else or to not wake up at all.
It breaks my heart sometimes when I look back. As a child, I just wanted to be loved and important, and as a teen, I just wanted to be loved and beautiful.
I wanted to be beautiful more than anything.
To me, beauty was something unattainable and far away.
I really was an ugly duckling , so to speak. I don’t believe there are more than 3 photos of me from the time I was in 2nd grade to about 5th.
The summer before 2nd grade my babysitter decided to shave my hair off. On top of being malnourished and having extreme dental issues, having no hair was enough to push me to become a social outcast.
Those little kids treated me like I wasn’t even human.
But every day I woke up just hoping to have a good day. I could forgive my worst enemies without blinking. Every day I just wanted to have a good day.
But I started fighting a lot, partly because the other kids thought I was a boy and partly because I wouldn’t tolerate being bullied any longer. After some months went by, even the adults at school and around public spaces were confused about my gender, and a few had even asked me to stop saying I was a girl.
I felt betrayed and confused. I learned during that time that I could hurt people back if they insulted me, and that love is conditional to beauty.
I moved away after 7th grade for 2 years but was forced to move right back.
They acted like I was a completely different person.
Now people suddenly expected me to be female?
I couldn’t hang out with the guys anymore, and if I did they were trying to throw game at me? I couldn’t wear whatever I wanted anymore because people couldn’t control themselves? I’m supposed to do my hair and makeup and wear dresses and walk in heels now?
Deep down I yearned to be in touch with that femininity that had been denied to be so long ago, but it was hard.
I tried to be grateful, because I knew some people’s journey required surgery and years of hormone therapy. To be told your something that you know your not and trying to play pretend as something else causes a pain I can’t describe, so even though I was secretly relieved I wasn’t sure how to just “be a girl.”
I obsessed over my appearance, I would often stare at my reflection until tears welled in my eyes and whisper to myself these horrible things like, “you’re so freakin ugly. No wonder your mother drinks all the time. No wonder everyone hates you. Your so freaking stupid look at you. I wish so much that I could just beat you up, I hate you so much.”
… It was just one vicious cycle after another.

There are a lot of factors that led to my escape from the prison of that perspective.
But the main one I want to share happened on my own.
Its strange, because now I am considered “hot.” Sometimes I even feel beautiful, but not a whole lot. That’s okay with me, though. I wish that the younger me could feel even the small approvals I give myself, even the smallest kindnesses… But it wasnt until the day I came to this conclusion that any of my self esteem started to change.
I realized… There are worse things to be than ugly.
It may sound ridiculous or even obnoxiously obvious… But this thought had never actually occured to me before.b
There are better things to be than pretty. There are worse things to be than ugly.
I mean, id been through some of them. Being lost in the woods, feeling heartbroken, searching for a missing person that you care deeply about, losing a parent to prison, and being miserable were just a few of the things that I went through personally that I decided in that moment were much worse than being ugly.
This was a breakthrough.
I don’t NEED to be pretty. Sure I want to but do I NEED to be?
Hell no.
I was tired of chasing people’s love, tired of wasting so much energy on their approval. I was just plain tired.
I realized that people couldn’t see right through me. They couldn’t see the damage beneath the surface.
The day I stopped caring if I was ugly or beautiful changed my life. Because that’s the day I started caring about if my life was beautiful or not. I started caring about what I was doing and not about if others cared.
This led me to getting some painful dental surgeries that ended with dentures and a normal smile, some crazy tattoos, and a few hair color choices I could have left in the bottle but mostly it led me to freedom.
I don’t know if my story is unique or if anyone else out there is trapped by the beauty myth… But just in case I’ll say it again:
Beauty does not define value.
Others do not define your beauty.
Your value is yours to see and appreciate. You set the bar for how you will be treated and respected.
Beauty does not define importance, power, or entitlement.
Beauty is not just appearance.
Love yourself, you will see the change in your reflection yourself.
You are beautiful, you are worthy, and you are human.
There are so many worse things to be than ugly.
-a horrible person
-attacked by wolves
-evil and cruel
-dying
-mean
-lost
-sad
-going through the motions
-uncaring, inconsiderate
-starving
Etc. Etc. etc.

I was strong… Loneliness so deep, like the sea.
I was strong—I didn’t need nobody.
I was so strong, I needed everybody.
I was strong enough to pass as Happy-Go-Lucky,
Even when the cracks showed under the weight.

But strength, they say, isn’t always a gift.
Being “The Strong Black Woman”—what a cruel myth.
A title dressed in resilience but laced with chains,
Hiding the truth of my heart’s quiet pains.

I was strong, even when they looked past me,
Strong, even when disregard was all they’d see.
Strong enough to hold the world,
Yet too strong to be held myself.

They called me strong like it was praise,
But strength became my cage in so many ways.
No room for tears, no space for need,
Just a shell of power, a soul to bleed.

But what of my vulnerability?
Why is softness seen as fragility?
I’ve learned that strength isn’t just standing tall,
It’s also knowing when to let yourself fall.

I am both—strong and tender, bold and unsure,
A mixture of fire and water, pain and cure.
I am whole, not in spite of my duality,
But because I embrace all that makes me me.

So don’t call me strong if it means I must break.
See me as human, for my own sake.
Strength isn’t a shield; it’s a choice to be free,
To honor both the strength and softness in me.

The ghost of “us” still lingers, a haunting refrain,
A melody of memories, a bittersweet pain.
I grieved for the future we’d never attain,
Two souls entwined, then severed in twain.

We’re like two planes in the sky, headed in two different directions,
A near hit or miss, a fleeting connection.
I gave it all I had before I ever decided to quit.
Deep within the depths of my heart, you’re someone I’ll always miss.

But the weight of “what ifs” began to erode,
A heavy cloak of sorrow, a lonely road.
I knew I deserved better, a love that would unfold,
A story where my spirit wouldn’t grow cold.

So I broke the chains, shattered the illusion,
Found the strength within, a silent revolution.
Each step forward, a victory, a new constitution,
Rebuilding myself, a slow, steady evolution.

The sting of regret still lingers, a phantom limb,
But I’m learning to breathe, to finally swim.
In the ocean of life, I’m no longer adrift,
I’ve found the courage to rise, to finally shift.

Truth be told, we’re better off apart,
But our connection is one that genuinely touched my heart.

Hey you ;
Thank you ;
Thank you for being here ;
Thank you for creating Truth that keeps the noose loose as you choose to continue through the fears ;
Thank you for trying your best even when it seems like every seam that holds yourself together has been Severed and ripped to shreds ;
Thank you for trying your best even when it seems like everything you’re thinking is like a hoarders dream, thoughts of a convoluted mess ;
Thank you for trying your best even when things that are in and out of your control seem to spin out of control, and you try to hold on to the right when it seems like there’s nothing left ;
Thank you for staying alive, even though every day seems like a daily struggle just to survive ;
Thank you for choosing to resume these pages of life, even when you’re burnt up and exhausted and no longer want to write ;
Thank you for being here ;
Thank you for being you ;
Sincerely true ;
From me to you ;
Thank you ;
;

I am the proud mother of two incredible boys, Kaheem and Xavier. My journey into motherhood began with Kaheem, a blessing I never anticipated but deeply cherish. Kaheem, who has Autism, has faced many challenges, including bullying at school due to both his condition and other medical issues. Yet, through it all, he has shown immense strength, teaching me what it truly means to love unconditionally.

When I first found out I was pregnant with Kaheem, it was just four months and four days before my 25th birthday. I was scared, nervous, and unsure of what to expect. His father suggested abortion, but the moment he did, my maternal instincts surged. “No,” I said. I wanted my baby—he was a blessing from God.

At the time, I struggled with bipolar disorder, PTSD, mood swings, and deep depression. I doubted myself, wondering if I’d be a good mother. When the time came, I was in labor for two days before undergoing an emergency C-section. It was then that my mother faced an unimaginable choice: save my life or my son’s, as the doctors couldn’t stop my bleeding. In that critical moment, she chose both of us.

Even now, writing about it makes me emotional. When it was all over and Kaheem came home, I learned what love truly means. He became the love of my life, and for the first time, I understood the depth of a mother’s heart. My parents stepped in to help, especially my father, who became both a dad and a grandpa to Kaheem.

Three years later, I discovered I was pregnant with Xavier. I didn’t know until I was five months along. Fear surrounded me—everyone was concerned, urging me not to have him because of the complications with Kaheem. But I refused to let fear dictate my choices. Xavier was another blessing from God, and I embraced him with open arms.

This time, my C-section was without complications. I had Xavier on a Monday and, by Tuesday, I was out of the hospital, walking around and shopping for baby supplies. I’ll never forget the older woman at Food Lion who stopped me. “When did you have the baby?” she asked. When I told her, she gasped. “Girl, you need to take yourself home! You had a C-section yesterday—you’re not supposed to be out here!” But I had already endured so much; I knew I could handle this, too.

My boys, Kaheem and Xavier, have been my inspiration through everything. They’ve stood beside me through life’s ups and downs, giving me purpose and strength. Being their mother is the greatest gift, a beautiful duty I would choose over and over again. I love them with all my heart and am endlessly grateful that God chose me to be their mom.

No matter where you two are, you’ll always have a special place in my heart.
My two little rays of sunshine that shine the brightest in the dark.

I miss waking up to you two every single day.
The warmth of your hugs and smiles made everything okay.

You two taught me patience and how to be more responsible.
The bond that we share is nothing short of remarkable.

I miss the sound of your voices and your adorable laughs.
I promise to cherish each moment, no matter how much time has passed.

I’ve always wanted a family, so I was blessed with two little angels.
Your laughter fills my heart with joy, like life’s sweetest jingles.

To my Little Potato, stay true to yourself and don’t ever change.
To my Emotional Butterfly, there’s always sunshine after the rain.

I’m sorry for leaving you guys, that wasn’t part of my plan.
I hope one day you’ll forgive me and try to understand.

You two will always be my babies, no matter what anyone says.
I’ll cherish our memories until we can be together again one day.

Spring, not sprung.

People can look like they’re fine, but inside they’re crying.
Many are trying, too many dying, I’m flying on some parachute of prayers.
To the God’s who will listen. To the points of the cardinal directions.
I look up and no longer see Orion who has always been my protector.

My hands fall short of magic. My generosity exceeds in deeds, grateful to bless, but somehow not enough to me. I know life is unalome, never even keel- my path made me stronger, wounds have healed.
Although the deeper I dive, the pain becomes real. I deal. I’ve observed on every level, inhaled, exhaled and weighed it on the scales. It tips. Balance is off-
When the whole world is upside down and right side up, I still live in my bubble. When I’m lost, I retreat. No white flag, no olive branch, no phone calls, just me- in the corner with a pen and paper, crying. For everyone I’ve lost, for everyone I’ve ever loved and had to walk away from, for everyone who bears the weight on their shoulders but wakes up and smiles at the world, I am you.

Spring, but not sprung.

Let me feel the rain on my face as I know it waters the flowers that blossom in the spring.

I miss my family and friends who are in another realm. Let their energy protect mine. Allow me to shine like gold in a river on sunny day.

I need my magic or I am useless.

To the God’s~ Please protect us.

the clockmaker’s bride

they can’t go where i go,
they can’t see what i see,
they don’t know what i know,
that can’t be what i be//i believe i’ve been living for myself- i have been living for life.

knowledge that belongs to you will find you.
what’s yours will come to you.
the focus on the future blinds you from the opportunities you are surrounded with today.
you would not be in this space if you weren’t wanted.

so why do i feel like you’re trying to prove yourself? your worth?
what is there to earn//i have nothing to give
are you entitled to the approval of others//are you too ashamed of your experiences to approve of yourself?

is it your experiences that make you, you?
is it your beliefs that makes you, you?
is it your actions that makes you, you?
what is there in the world that you claim as the creation of others//i claim that which i create
i don’t know.
i have no clue to be entirely honest.
consider this: am i what you decide to call me, or am i what i say i am because i’ve decided to be?

in one way or another, existence supposes definition,
you are something to someone, even if that someone is the ground you walk on. the plant life you trample over with the careless entitlement to destroy.
are you going to allow yourself to be defined?

frankenstein’s monster. he does not have a name because his creator never gave him one. although he could decide to name himself and shape his own identity, he could never cut the ties that bind to his father. the bond is why you seek approval. the bond is why apathy is worse than disapproval; those who are not acknowledged are the ones that destroy. you need to be responsible for everything you create, whether it be art, technology, literature, or life.

never give your creations to the world to be defined by the world,
they will never deserve what you are.
in approval or disapproval, acknowledge what you’ve done.
thank accountability for it,
take ownership of it,
the way every influence in your life have taken ownership of you,
how they’ve taken care of you,
how they’ve hurt you,
remember how you felt,
remember the feeling,
some people have nothing to feel,
i implore you to be intentional in your interactions with others//be intentional about how you make them feel,
how you make yourself feel.
you may be the reason someone in this world is lonely,
remember how you’ve felt in the deepest chasm of your limitless,
to whom/what you wanted to take ownership of it,
your friends, your parents, your lover, yourself, your gods?
now think of who you are to others, a friend known for being reliable, a child known for being grateful, a lover known for making someone feel whole, a creation grateful for who’s grateful for being created?
privileged.
who are you to abandon what you’ve created.

“i know all about the pain that you go through” – Gustav Ahr