Dear World,

I’m exhausted. I can’t keep doing this.

I’m trying to be the girl you need me to be—the happy sister, the daughter you can boast about, the cousin you admire, the friend you can always turn to. But it’s all crumbling down. The walls are closing in, and the floor shatters beneath each step I take.

I feel weak. I feel numb. I feel empty.

Every hurdle drains another drop from my lifeline, and I don’t know if I have enough left to keep standing. I try to explain my pain, hoping you might help me, understand me, or even sympathize with me. But no. Instead, you mock me. You tell me to deal with it, to dust myself off, to keep going—as if my suffering is just an inconvenience to you.

I have given him my all. I have given up the person that I am for him. I have given up my bonds, my roots, my connections—just to keep him afloat. I have taken care of him from the moment I laid eyes on him because I knew he was my treasure. I knew he was worthy of so much more in this life.

I showed him the beauty of the world. I showed him how incredible it is to be alive.

Yet now, I am nothing. I am invisible. And no one seems to grasp why that has shattered me. No one sees how I poured my heart and soul into loving and nurturing him. I made sure the world saw only the best in him. And in the end, that kindness has come back to haunt me.

Because now, everyone treats me like I’ve lost my mind for ever wanting to walk away from the best thing that ever happened to me.

When they can’t open their eyes and realize…

I am what happened to him.

I am trying to hold on to the one person I love most in this world, but he isn’t growing with me. As I fight to shatter these walls and climb out of the pit I’ve fallen into, he sinks deeper. I reach for him, trying to bring him with me, but he is nowhere near.

I tell you that having him around is draining me, that his sorrow is suffocating me, that his weight is pulling me under. And yet, all you say is, That’s how it’s meant to be. You are meant to save him.

But the moment I decide to save myself?
The moment I put my foot down?
Suddenly, I am the enemy.
I am a tyrant.
I am the monster.

When I am sick, when I am weak, when I collapse because I cannot keep going, I find myself alone. And yet, he—he is the one surrounded by love, by compassion, by endless care.

Weren’t you, dear World, the one who brought me here? The one who was supposed to love me, to protect me, to see me?

Then why do you shed tears for him while casting me aside, as if my suffering does not exist?

It’s crazy to think that they try to convince me that because you were there while I was at the brink of life, that somehow means I owe it to you to stay by your side. That somehow, that means everything else should mean nothing. That everything else should seem like minor issues that will simply resolve themselves.

But truly.

Am I misunderstood?

Should I really feel misunderstood?

But maybe the truth isn’t that I am misunderstood. Maybe the truth is… you never wanted to understand me at all.

Because truly, these opinions are coming from places that lack so much knowledge and depth.

This set of mountains
moves west, and wester still
until they move north and south
following the six directions.
Their crags speak to the sky
of the events below,
all in the rocky languages
poorly understood by those bound to two feet.
Caressing the earth in moccasins,
he, or was it she
looks about in the craggy heights
for a handhold
in the pegmatite faces of canyons
the reds and blacks in the most deeps,
those purples of sheerness
keeping the less adventurous at bay.
Coming down to the valley
below the gorges of distance barely seen
she, or was it he, knows
that off in the yonder reaches
there might just be a place in that bigness,
to drive their thoughts to.
An abandoned two story ranch house
sits the still, its invisible solitude
quiet now of children’s voices.
The hand split shingles on the roof
still keep the weather out
both the harsh winter snows and warm summer rains
don’t touch the singularity of a dry interior
as if waiting for the family to return
from where they disappeared to, so long ago.
That ranch house perched on the mountain side
has the cook house and porch attached
where a descendant has placed new tin
over it. Then left it again.
And there, under that
is the place where the questions
may have gotten answered,
and maybe not,
perhaps just having raised those inquiries
into the meanings of the lives lived
under the eaves.

A bright, powerful, raging flame.
That flame is designed to burn and spread.
So, it is met with fear—contained, controlled, and extinguished.

Creating orders to always:
Maintain the concrete box around the fire, stoking its flames as intended.

Lavish in the heat exuded from the tiny air holes provided.

Withhold fuel.

Pour water on its red-hot embers to seek amusement in the sizzle and steam.

And most importantly, keep the knowledge of its power a secret—don’t let fire know it’s fire!

But fire will always do what it is meant to do—even if it lingers among embers, conserving energy.

Unrestrained, fire embraces its natural design—boundless, exuberant, transformational.

Some may see only destruction in the flames,
but fire brings creation just as much as it brings ruin.

Only fire determines its true purpose.

Sparks ignite to share light and warmth,
providing and transforming—not just to consume, but to sustain life itself.

She wasn’t a normal person. She was different.
Her hair was medium length, soft and wavy, falling in such a way to frame her face. She had eyes that shone as bright as gems, a green Moissanite shade. Her voice was gentle and quiet, with a raspiness that made her singing voice naturally lower than most women (an Alto). She had a slight lisp and stuttering problem, so she struggled to articulate herself verbally.
She was so intelligent. She loved to read and learn new things. There was a plethora of random facts that she knew, things learned from school and books that she had never forgotten because they were so interesting to her. When she focused on something, 9 times out of 10 she could figure it out for herself without any help. But she wasn’t just book smart.
She was street smart as well. After the life she’d lived, she knew how to outsmart others for the safety of herself and her family. She knew deep down when a person or place wasn’t safe to be around, and she voiced those concerns to those close to her in the hopes they’d listen (which while growing up, no one really did listen until it was too late).
m
She held her head high and purposefully ignored the looks she’d receive from others while in public. She didn’t consider herself beautiful- she was a bigger woman, short too- but that didn’t stop people from staring at her, nonetheless. She knew that half of those looks were full of hatred and disgust from cruel, judgmental people, while the other half were full of lust and desire from men; men she had no interest in being around.
She was bullied as a child, so it didn’t faze her that grown adults had that same attitude toward her even still. She was made fun of for things outside of her control- her voice, her height, her shyness- and it was no surprise that despite her natural beauty, she was called ugly as well. It took decades for her to finally believe that she was perfectly and wonderfully made, exactly the way she was.
She had such a big heart, full of love and compassion for every living thing. She felt deep sadness when witnessing others picking flowers to keep in a vase or causing harm to a poor defenseless animal. She stood up for what was right and wrong, even if others disagreed or mocked her for it. She knew that showing love and kindness went much further than hate and ridicule.
She was sure of her purpose in life; spread love, joy, and respect to everyone regardless of their past or present. She had her limits, though. She was entirely uninterested in truly evil people (like those in office, for example), knowing when to dust herself off and move along when her love and presence were unwanted.
She wasn’t perfect by any means. She was only human, after all. But she tried every day to become a better version of herself, to reconsider old patterns and habits that inhibited her from reaching her full potential. She was patient, and honest. She was so full of optimism and hope, not only for herself and her own life, but for others and their lives as well. She could always find the silver lining for those who needed a glimmer of the hope she had. She was a good listener, and she truly cared for others in a way that made the world scoff. But she could not and would not ever stop being who she was.
No one had to understand her; she understood herself. No one had to love her; she loved herself. No one had to give her anything for her to be happy; she already was. The power she possessed was more than enough for her to make a change in this world, and she knew that.
Now it was time for the world to know.

This is my poem for the contest.

Fool’s Gold.
As I melt away,
Fragments pouring out.
In crystal shards or tears,
A clear substance.
So irregular in shape.
Am I pulled apart, or was I never whole?
Built up through pieces of pieces,
Glued together to represent some semblance of a being.
Would it even be Kintsugi?
The wasted gold, even that will melt.
I am the finest particle;
Smallest in my existence.
Mold me into anything,
Melt the glass and give it shape.
Breathe life into me, and I will be.
I will venture forth.
But the stronger the gust and I will shatter.
And who will hold me then?
Am I bound to the same fate yet again?
The tacky, sticky liquid that forces my arm to my leg.
My limbs are wrong.
I don’t look like this, or at least I didn’t.
What did I look like?
I don’t remember.

Young activities produce experience.

Experience shows up both good and bad.

Bad experiences brings caution back from the wind.

Then love comes as a surprise.

Love of family creates boundaries. 

Boundaries close in on protection.

Protection was confused with judgement.

Judgment lead to non communication. 

Lack of communication created space.

Space emptied hearts and minds.

Emptiness wedged a divide.

To be divided was death.

Death of the greatness of relationships held dearest.

Separation followed the deep sleep. 

Deep sleep slowly stirred with awakenings.

Awakenings felt awkward.

Awkwardness steered to strained communication. 

Strained communication took a toll in counsel.

Counsel calmed emotions. 

Calmed emotions created questions. 

Questions lead to opportunities. 

Opportunities opened doors with revelations.

Revelations carried burdens away.

Burden free hearts opened doors to quality time.

Quality time transcends to honesty.

Honesty produced connections. 

Connections to more glorious relations.

Relations grow exponentially to love.

Love enhances protective boundaries. 

Boundaries constantly, continually being misunderstood. 

(style score 100%)

I don’t hate you; that’s just my hard face.
That face, smudged with abysmal thoughts, tangled feelings and fear; louder than any words I could come conjure up.
My hard face, such a menace, etched deeply with lines of age, pain, worry, trauma.
Here babe, let me show you my soft face.
The one which is vibrant with love, kindness, empathy and forgiveness.
I promise I love you, I’m happy, I’m at peace. I’ll put on my soft face for you, you’ll feel more at ease, without burden or wonder if I want to stay or leave.
That hard face, it doesn’t always tell the truth. I’ll stow that face away, because I love you.

I’ve oft succumbed to subjugation’s crush,
been scarified by sorrow’s caustic calm,
and felt the frantic beat of anger’s rush

—but—

have never dropped the H-A-T-E bomb.

I hold that weapon, ticking, in my soul,
unwilling to unleash it on the world,
to watch it flare, expand with godless smoke,
consume the light and healing I deserve.

An earnest smile outshines the sparking fuse.

They’re blinded by a still and gentle grace
unknowing of the heavy peace I choose,
the strength it takes to snuff abuse’s flame,
enforce a fragile, self-effacing truce—
forgiveness is a battlefield embrace.

Dear World:

Why did you want me to stay in a box? Why did you say to me repeatedly that I was not afraid of you? Afraid of what just because we don’t agree on the same things, we don’t carry ourselves in the same manner, we weren’t raised alike my parents raised me and your parents raised you. You think I have an answer for all things and yet you feel that I don’t always need to respond. Let me say this I am me; I stand up for me, I protect me, sorry I am not passive, sorry I am not timid. You sometimes can knock me off my feet, have me spinning around what did I say this time, or should I have said it the way you preferred, no, no, I can’t we just agree to disagree. If not then I know I will fight you tooth and nail, not physically, not even verbally if you take me their pure silence will come over me. If we can talk and laugh on occasion than we should be able to meet each other in the middle.
I just want to me, and if I had to stand for you or with you it would be unbearable, because you continue to try to break me down, degrade or slander my character. How would you ever see the beautiful flower that I have become, the great creation that was molded. World we have no need to misunderstand each other if respect is put on our names, colorism, and racism erased a real fair share in the piece of this huge pie.
I am tired of fighting, let’s find a better way. How can we come up with a mutual understanding ceasing the misunderstanding? Looking forward to a more productive way, and positive outlook. Let us remove the negative aggression not you just wanting to point the finger at me all the time. Nope, if that is the case being misunderstood is who I will forever be, I MUST STAND FOR ME!

Thank you,
JoVonne
3/21/2025

Dear Silence,
You have been my unwelcome companion for far too long. You shadow my words, twist my intentions, and leave me stranded in a world where my heart speaks a language no one seems to understand.

I have tried to explain myself—to shape my thoughts into something digestible, something easy to swallow. But no matter how carefully I choose my words, they still slip through the cracks of perception, distorted by assumptions, drowned in silence.

You make me question if I should speak at all. If I should shrink myself into something smaller, something simpler, something easier to accept. But that is not who I am.

I am tired of being labeled before I am listened to. Of being told I am too much or not enough. Of feeling like I exist on the edges of conversations, of connections, of understanding itself.

But I am done fighting you. If being misunderstood means I am complex, layered, and real—then so be it. I will not soften my truth to fit someone else’s comfort. I will not erase the depth of my soul just to be easier to read.

So, Misunderstanding, you may follow me, but you will not define me. I will keep speaking, keep feeling, keep being exactly who I am. Me.

And one day, someone will hear me.

Sincerely,
Someone You’ll Never Silence Again

Dear World,

The saying goes, “Sing like no one’s listening, love like you’ve never been hurt, dance like no one’s watching, and live like it’s heaven on earth.” – William W Purkey

But what happens when you sing a little too loud, and the room goes quiet? When you move in a way that feels free but someone decides it’s too much?
What happens when you try to live boldly, unapologetically, while knowing full well that people are watching?
It seems the only time we’re accepted is when we’re small…quiet enough, careful enough, easy enough to digest.

Why does love feel like a one-way street for anyone who dares to show up fully?
Some days, “misunderstood” feels like a second skin. Something we wear even when we’re trying to fit in.
I could’ve sworn I tattooed the word across my forehead the day I shared “30 things I’ve learned by my 30th birthday,”only to be labeled a know-it-all instead of a human being— 
A hermit with external skin, someone who has deeply lived and learned. 
The taste of confused gazes makes it all feel not just real but bittersweet.

What if connection isn’t about needing more, but about wanting to be known?
 To share a thought, a spark, a feeling without it being misread or dismissed.
And still, it gets misinterpreted at every turn.
But I know something now that I didn’t before:
The battle to be understood is not the battle worth fighting. The real victory is in surviving at all.
I fought a ‘silent war,’ one I was never supposed to win.
 But I did.
I escaped with my life and built something greater. Something unbreakable.
 A life filled with love, with defiance, with choice.

And so, I’ve been left with an ultimatum: 
Shrink to survive…
Or let this voice become a flame.

Dan Harmon once said, “Find your voice, shout it from the rooftops, and keep doing it until the people that are looking for you find you.”

To that, I reply with a voice of my own:
 “If there ever comes a time where you have to choose between light and letting the fire die—I hope you choose to ignite.”

Sincerely,


Someone you’ve almost seen

It is frustrating when people mistake kindness for weakness,
Be cautious with your heart; it may wind up in pieces.
Be careful who you trust; not everyone cares,
Moving forward is hard when your mind is everywhere.

They hear but fail to listen, quick to place blame,
Ignorant and resistant to the concept of change.
Are you starting to question everyone around you,
Do you often wonder about a different life for you?

Stuck in their ways, they assume we are all the same,
The last thing I want to do is cause conflict.
It is hard to explain, but if you listen closely,
My life is anything but perfect!

A dull ache in my chest, still not feeling my best,
Raw, unspoken feelings that are hard to express.

I feel misunderstood in a multitude of ways,
Have you ever stayed in bed and cried all day?

It kind of stings when you tell someone you love,
You are not someone that I think very highly of.

Just an honest conversation, no lying or persuading,
Leaving me at a vulnerable disadvantage.
Can I trust you? Who did I open up to?
Big emotions cause way too much damage.

Can you please stop yelling; it makes me shut down,
The loudest silence is peaceful and immensely profound.

I may appear silent, but I carry my feelings deeply,
Hurt disguised as anger burns brightly within me.

Do my feelings even matter? I am trying my best!
I am semi-functional, yet I still feel depressed.
I only open up when I feel close to someone,
The truth hurts, but the liars have so much fun.

Music is my lifeline, a soundtrack to my healing,
Lyrics and beats that convey my true feelings.

I can no longer prioritize your feelings over my own,
It is time for me to lock in and reclaim my throne.
I once was a pushover who gave out many chances,
Avoiding anyone too blinded by circumstance.

I am an overthinker who takes everything to heart,
I am no longer interested in things that pull me apart.

Take a look at yourself before you judge someone else.
My mindset has changed. Yes, I know!
I’m not so stuck in my ways; I’ve learned from my mistakes,
Understanding myself helped me grow.

Forgiveness is the first step, but don’t be bitter,
We all have a past, so I urge you to reconsider.
Honor your feelings, and don’t allow rage to blind you,
The answers you seek are already inside you.

As people walk by – just movements, passing the time
Drifting in and out of our lives
A lingering question remains… “How? Why?”

How sweet life can be in a moment here or there
A walk in the woods, a yawning forth dawn
How it’s swept away, now gone
A haunted whisper around you, in the midnight air

As the moon has a shadow side, so does my path
The next iteration
A decision to live, surrender, to not turn back

As I step away from the outer world
And I go in
I continue to find myself again and again

The arrival of hope
As magic makes a home
As questions turn to knowing
A rite of passage in growth

With the skies of blue and leaves of yellow & green
Our lives drift onward
With the promise of the seen & unseen

The fabric of our lives, the stories we tell
A recipe for peace
Good night, sweet girl

Dear Unsealers,

“See? I told you he wouldn’t care. Mr. Weatherford’s chill.”

“Chill” may be one of the highest compliments a high school teacher can achieve. And indeed, the label is largely a nod to my patience, my understanding, my compassion, and my empathy. Apologies for tooting my own horn… and more apologies for griping about how this compliment leaves me feeling misunderstood.

It’s just that there’s other connotations with chill- not caring, a lack of passion, that in some way, the word approaches an adjacence to apathy.
I may indeed be placid- like a lake in summer. Not much ruffles my feathers, and even when ruffled, me flying off the handle reaches a Mr. Roger’s level of intensity at most.

Perhaps, in that silly comparison, lies another clue as to why the label feels off, why it makes me feel so misunderstood. Because, Mr. Rogers, while supremely serene in one sense of the word is also so intentionally intense in his commitment to his values- especially kindness. His passion for promoting the highest of hopes for humanity knows no bounds. He cares sooooo much, so doesn’t chill miss the mark? Now, wait. Am I talking about him or me?

I like to think that my supreme chill factor is similarly born out of my internal sense of and commitment to what truly matters. Sure, I don’t sweat the small stuff. When you’ve buried loved ones (and when you’ve buried your own past self), you get a new sense of what truly matters in this life. It’s a painful price to pay, but the treasure unearthed is beyond price. That golden nugget is the reminder of life’s purpose and remembering it is what creates the chill factor.

I may sound like a broken record at this point, if you’ve been following my letters. It’s the same truth I keep preaching over and over.

The purpose of this life is…

LOVE. Plain and simple. This reminder of committedly placing love at the center of all action, this daily practice of striving to be love’s loyal servant, this grounding through prayer and meditation are key ingredients that compose the tranquil tamale that I am. And much like a tamale, I’m full of spice, but I also remind one of home, mama’s meals. I’m simple in my composition, and yet, my disparate parts work together to unlock the best of each other. I’m conviction and calm intertwined in a beautiful dance.

Each one of us is made to be this way- our own signature recipes, slight variations here and there, but ultimately, designed to allow love to flow in and out of us as easily as the air we breathe. So, my dear reader, take a deep breath, take a step back to remember what most matters and allow yourself to become so chill, you might just be labeled a walking popsicle.

“You’re so chill, Mr. Weatherford.”
It’s a phrase I’ve heard countless times.
And it’s meant with love, a term of endearment,
Yet, it covers all manner of crimes.

I am indeed chill,
Cool, collected, and calm,
The term fits the bill,
With the exception of my one petty qualm.

I care to the depths of this heart that I’ve got.
My passion for people for no price can be bought.
With each rhyme that I weave, you’ll see that my heart’s burnin’ hot.
I’m ardent and fervent, always shootin’ my shot.

I’ve been smacked down by life, and these hard knocks they taught
Me to seize every chance to write my own plot.
They showed me my power lies in each little jot,
The words that I script -each tremendous thought-
Deliver so much, I can’t describe what they’ve brought.
They told me what I was seeking before I even knew that I sought.
These words brought me wind when I thought all was fraught.

So yes, I’m calm,
My words can soothe like a balm.
And yes, I drop wisdom without wind,
Like I’m composing a Psalm.
But don’t get it twisted,
That don’t mean I don’t care.
I pull in each breath, like I’m countin’ the air.
Accuse me of complacency? Oh no, don’t you dare!
My whole heart and soul are wrapped up in this affair.

When it comes to life and love, I literally couldn’t care less.
So, now, you know, you don’t have to guess.
Thanks for attending my Ted Talk- I digress,
It’s just that this label’s been causin’ me stress
Had to write up my feelings to get this weight offa my chest.
Now I will return to praying for you, me, and all that we’re blessed.
May we remember to honor love to stay chill amid life’s stress
May affection at the center lead to compassion and calm in every test.

You know the me that smiles and laughs.

You know the me that shows up and fights for herself.

You know the me that sits in the back, blending in with the crowd.

You know the me that holds it all together.

You know the me that is strong and independent.

You know the me that works hard and pushes through.

But do you really know me?

Do you know the me that cries and behind that smile is a hurting heart?

Do you know the me that is tired of fighting and wants to give up?

Do you know the me that is scared to fully be herself and that is why she sits in the back just hoping she won’t be noticed?

Do you know the me that can’t take on another thing because she will drop the ball on everything if she does?

Do you know the me that’s weak and feels like her world is falling apart?

Do you know the me that is tired and exhausted and just needs a moment to rest?

Do you know the real me?

Do you know the me that’s not perfect?

Do you know the me that needs a savior?

Do you know the real me?

You may not really know me and that’s okay, but there is one who does.

He sees my tears and collects each one.

He mends my broken heart.

He fights my battles when I can’t.

He sees me and fully looks at me in every state of life and in every emotion I carry.

He brings me rest, restores my soul, and brings peace over my mind.

He sees the innermost part of my soul and still loves all that is there

I was always the lover,
never the loved
Always a memory,
never the moment
Friction, but never movement
I know I was always viewed –
just never seen

I am always the touched,
but never held
The guided,
never the guide
Always the dreamer,
but never a dream come true
Needy, but never needed
I know I have always been the writer –
just never the muse

I am always a lesson,
but never the grade
The problem,
never the cause
Always a plot line,
but never the story
Asking, never asked
I know I am the waves for surf –
just never the ocean

I will likely die without anyone on this Earth
ever knowing who I truly was;
they only ever saw me for what I was not
or what I could have been instead

Because I was the friend,
but never the best friend
The itch,
never the tickle
Always worshipping,
never the worshipped
Remission, never recovery
I know I have always been listened to –
just never heard

I was always good, but never great,
always devoted, never devoted to,
admired, but never respected,
surviving, never living,
bitten, never biting
Going far, but never far enough,
wanting, never wanted,
healing, never healed,
the toad, never a frog
Never a truth, but never a lie,
loved, but never liked,
cute, never beautiful,
smart, never gifted,
a medicine, never a cure,
the muscle pain, but never the growth spurt

They won’t know what to inscribe on my tomb,
this is the legacy I am destined to leave behind:
Always understanding,
but never once in my life understood

I don’t really talk that much
Unless I’m excited about something
I’m usually too busy listening
Listening to the people in front of me
And listening to the words in my head
It’s a lot to process

And then there’s the anxiety
The generally low hum of shakiness in my body
I got myself to stop overthinking as much
But the feeling remains
Especially when I talk

I usually seem so calm cool and collected
But inside I’m scared
Scared people will get tired of me
Scared I’m too annoying
Scared to take up space in my large body

I’m working on it though
I’m trying to put myself out there more
I’m trying to be more confident
I think I used to be confident
But then some people disappointed me
And I got depressed
And now I’m trying to find myself again
Since I’m finally happy

I’m not the same person
And it sucks ‘cause she was cool
I miss her
But this new version of me
She’ll be even better

As the world turns
My soul yearns
To be reunited
After consistently
Being slighted
I would be
Lying
If I tried
To deny it
There was once hope
A hope
That I poured
Everything into
A hope slowly
Fading
A fact
That I cannot
Seem to cope
With
Wounded healer
Searching for
The Balm in Gilead
To use as concealer
My eyes water
The tears do not
Fall
I do not
Want to scream
But I want to
Make sure
That you hear
My call

My cousin gave me her bikini to wear for the evening. It’s royal blue, like my claw clip with the jewels. I changed into it in her bathroom and I looked up at the mirror.

“You look just like your mom!!”

No, I don’t. My mom is beautiful. I look like the prototype of her. The failed first experiment.

I tugged at my waist and stomach, areas I despise. Back in high school: Stretching my arms overhead would reveal my ribs. I remember not liking that either. 

What’s so wrong with me?

“You’re getting to be a bit chubby.”

They don’t mean it like that. After I was so thin for so long, they’re happy to see I got meat on my bones. But after my ex called me fat for just enjoying making dinner every night, it stings. When you weigh 90 lbs and you can see the shape of your ribs when you raise your arms and still think you’re chubby… I missed enjoying eating for a long time. 

I imagine pulling my skin back like elastic, like a dress that’s a little too large. My mom was so beautiful when she was my age. Thin, athletic, large beautiful eyes and a cute nose and thick dark hair. Today, as I was getting dressed, I pulled at my face in the mirror. Pulled my skin back to tighten the flaws. 

Why am I not pretty?

“You’re as beautiful as you are funny,” my boyfriend whispered in my ear.

I didn’t know what to say. What was I supposed to say? Thank you?

When someone sees you, really sees you, what are you supposed to say? When someone looks at you and all the things you don’t like, and still loves you anyway, what are you supposed to do?

My mother walked in not long after and I greeted her warmly. I went to hug her, and she walked past me. Looked through me. It took a couple hours for her to warm up to me, like I was a stranger.

What’s wrong with me?

We talked a little more and laughed. We drank some shots, and I talked about school. I felt so small but like things were mending. We sat and talked about moths. I used to feel like a moth, a bug accidentally let inside. Just waiting for someone to put me in a cup and put me outside or stomp on me til I’m nothing.

I drank and drank and drank a little more. I can smell a storm brewing in the air. I sobered up while we talked. Everyone else passed around some reefer. We talked about my grandfather, and how, if he lived that long, that he would’ve loved teenaged me. We would’ve smoked pot and listened to C.C.R, and watched the Miami Dolphins on the tube t.v while the rest of the family ate in the room next door. 

We talked about my aunt. How she would’ve loved the plays I was acting in. The Moors and The Thanksgiving Play and Julius Caesar. How we would’ve sat in my car talking about God and poetry and how excited she would’ve been to know I wrote anything.

Did all the people that could’ve loved me as I am die?

Sometimes I feel like I’m inside a bubble. I can’t reach out to the people I love because the keeps me trapped. I can’t pop it. It’s more sturdy than it looks. Those I love can’t reach in because there’s a wall there that neither of us can break. My visage is contorted and oblong as the bubble warps me. But I am not a soapy, malformed creature! I am in here! I am a human being, and I am trapped in here!

Can’t you see me?

My cousin said my mother has issues with control. Even when they were young, she tried to control Nikki and they fought. Mama was older than Nikki and instead of a guide she would grab her by the shoulders and shove her in a direction. My cousin said I was too smart to be manipulated any longer, that I was confident and strong and sweet and too good to not fight with her.

I don’t wanna be good anymore

What is so wrong with me?