In writing, I have found so much more clarity and understanding of myself, and in its beauty, perhaps I can help you, a friend, a stranger in discovering themselves in expression. In my expressions, I find more peace, more contentment. Even if I thought to know the basic emotion I was feeling, I sought out the specifics, and the others behind it, and why, and more. I am to grow, and I need to allow myself to do so, to push myself when it’s harder, and write. I will always be unfinished, but there is more to say, and I will keep writing. Keep hurting, keep loving, keep contentment… and write.
Babysitter
Sit she would,
Upon me.
Rattled she did,
The baby.
Screams that cried,
She silenced.
A hand,
She gave.
And tears,
She let fall.
Chained, shaken, muffled, wet.
Like a picture,
She put (pinned) me up on the wall.
Framed,
Secrets held in.
Hung, nailed, trapped, stuck.
In my ear,
So I could hear.
(Loud but incoherent)
Close,
So I could see.
(Magnified but out of focus)
Personal space,
Shared.
(A relationship but no connection)
Questions,
Asked.
(A response but no answer)
la flor
(with Spanish to English translations)
One should think twice,
Por amor, (for love)
He must self-sacrifice
y proteger a la flor (and protect the flower)
Por amor (for love)
Hay que ser un peleador (one must be a fighter)
y proteger a la flor (and protect the flower)
del atormentador (from tormentor)
Para proteger a la flor (to protect the flower)
He must self-sacrifice
Por Amor (for love)
One should think twice.
Hungry Hands
He knows.
I don’t need to ask.
It doesn’t matter.
I think it’s for him.
Or perhaps he has been trained well
and I won’t know
unless I ask.
but I don’t think I will.
(I like the mystery)
(and I’ll wonder)
The way he holds me (ah, how cliché – but listen)
The way he wants to claw my back,
but restrains himself (yes, I’ve noticed)
and the way his hands hold my thighs,
as if he’s checking the weight (like meat on a pound scale)
trying to feel the contents within their packaging: my skin.
And the way the hands stop above the knees…
to deliberately saw through – imaginatively.
And the way he first bit my neck
with his teeth set in his jaw
but is now, more tender and hesitates (and it’s sweet)
and the way he enters my mouth,
tickles.
plays cat and mouse
with my tongue before he swallows it.
And then there’s the way he looks,
stares.
And admires my body in its entirety
and does not dismiss any part of it as ‘general’
but holds my arms with both of his hands
And sees them as if they were my breasts
and puts them in the light.
Then wraps them around him,
With him inside them.
In the way, maybe, he wants me to want him like he does with me.
Or maybe to restrain him, hide him…
But I don’t want him to hide.
For his wild,
raw,
nature is what fascinates me.
And I want more.
More of his hungry hands.
I Don’t Know
Often, I will say,
“I don’t know.”
and leave you with no answers.
Because I know.
I know that I am only but a child in this universe.
I know, despite in the moment, or how I feel… things change, and time is fleeting.
I know that knowledge is limitless, and I’ll never be able to know everything,
and if I ever thought such, I’d be closing myself – not letting anything else in.
So why should I assume?
Especially, besides the spoken words, silence on its own… can change so much.
That is why I wait
for the wind to blow,
and let the unknown settle in.
With an answer, another question arises.
But to ask again, it’s whether or not we are satisfied – if it is enough.
And while I might like to know more,
In more definite terms of my heart, my soul – the mind that rests there,
I’ve come to accept that my heart is wild,
And when it runs
I should too,
Go along
And be in every fleeting moment.
Live them, go on adventures,
And be like the wind
In its wild nature
And whether or not it settles, I’ll be okay.
So when you ask, if it is more than this moment,
I can almost always, inevitably, say “I don’t know.”
But maybe I’ll have a thought or two
And leave the rest to dreaming.
off the margins contributors are asked to respond to three questions that will be asked of all featured writers to further articulate a collective response to the question: How do we step off the margins of convention and enter the wild terrain of our writing?
In what way(s) do you identify yourself as a woman writer?
I am not sure how I particularly would define myself as a woman writer, perhaps vulnerability one could think? But we all have this. Perhaps of our experience another could say? And I guess, this, despite life being completely and absolutely coincidence in its random yet balanced order (“Contradiction is balance” – ABV) can be true in some sort of ways in some parts of the world in certain corners with certain people. Cultures varying. I suppose you could bring up patriarchy and the silencing of women’s voices, but we do not entirely live in that type of society anymore though some of us may and do still face this challenge, or still have this to learn internally, and I suppose as a woman, I am one of them, daring to continue that change and difference, in having my story and saying it as an equal. I suppose, to recognize a woman writer is to encourage ourselves and others to have strength in moving forward.
Though as women, there is a certain way of us that deems us just to be a bit different in our spirituality. And though I do not like to set apart myself any different with any gender particulars, I can admit this at the least, and this spirit, though can easily be just a writer’s, carries the birth of the first woman’s voice, inwards to all of us, and outward to be carried on. And as a writer, a woman writer, I am a part of the story. We’re all part of the story.
Whose voices have carried with you for creative strength in order to arrive at this point in your writing career?
My mother. My family of women. My loved ones. Acquaintances. Strangers. Writers.
And myself.
What do you want our readers to know about your process of becoming a writer that might be helpful in further articulating their own individual process and growth?
It can be really easy and it can be more than difficult all at once, opposing each other. My process follows my emotions, and my writing reacts in accordance to. The relationship is the process and like any, it can be really easy, coming naturally, then with a swift turn of events, it can be the hardest thing to accomplish. But the love is there, the need is there.
Since I was young, the ‘easy’ part that I refer to is how it has naturally been a part of me for the entirety of my life. It’s in my heart, in my mind and composed itself to become something like breathing – creating life as I write its pulse. Writing at one point or another should flow, and should be a part of you, a large one.
The hard part came when something came one summer and left a mark on me, a story I did not want to keep, but had become of me. First, I dared to rewrite it, to have control. But then writing became too hard, it was re-living and I wanted to stay away from it, the hurt. Despite how hard I tried to push through the bleeding, for the sake of writing as I needed to, for healing within it, I had to take my pause. Something had been taken away from me, along with my “pen.” And it hurt, not being able to write, as I slowly felt I was dying. But then, one day came, and upon prompt, I started writing again, and how happy I was in able to do so again and feared for the last day of class, for self-motivation, and love was needed to encourage it further. And it took a bit of time, too long, but part of the process, and I began writing again. I moved on to writing other stories, as I had more than one in me, and one was not to define my whole story and though I had the determination to finish the brutal story I wanted to write, I realized I didn’t need to finish it in that way anymore, I had written more than enough, and I am the story, I am always to be unfinished, more to say, always. To not write would be my only regret. I found compromise in living and – well, I am still struggling, but I work on this, and for my survival, an essential part of my living I can’t ignore, to write.
In writing, I have found so much more clarity and understanding of myself, and in its beauty, perhaps I can help you, a friend, a stranger in discovering themselves in expression. In my expressions, I find more peace, more contentment. Even if I thought to know the basic emotion I was feeling, I sought out the specifics, and the others behind it, and why, and more. I am to grow, and I need to allow myself to do so, to push myself when it’s harder, and write. I will always be unfinished, but there is more to say, and I will keep writing. Keep hurting, keep loving, keep contentment… and write.
off the margins 