I’m not crazy

I wake up. I go to the bathroom, dazed still from my interrupted rest. I get ready. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter what I do because I still don’t think I’m good enough. I smile and go out.

When I’m at college I talk. I talk about myself too much. I’m not that interesting. Come on. Let the other person speak. But they don’t. I have to keep speaking. I have to. They don’t want to talk about themselves because they don’t want me to know anything about them. Yep. They think I’m weird. Here we go again.

“I… um… need to go,” they say. No. No. Don’t… don’t leave. I’m so sorry. I promise I will listen. I’m not weird. I’m just awkward… The most awkward person you’ve met.

“It’s okay,” I reply. I sit thinking about nothing. I take notes. My mind is blank. I’m trying to absorb all the information they’re giving me. It’s too much. I can’t do this. I want to leave. Mind blank.

I walk down the hall. I hear a voice saying my name softly next to my ear. I hear laughter; two voices I know very well. I hear a piano beautifully played so loud I my ears feel like they’re bleeding. I turn around. It’s all in my head. I breathe. Walk faster. Walk faster. Mind blank. White space white space all you see is white space.

I see my friends. They’re laughing. Too loud. Too loud. No. No. No. Too. Much. Noise. Too loud.

“Hey,” I whisper. They hear me, faces beaming.

“Oh my god, hi! How are you?” They greet me as if they’re happy to see me. Either they’re really good actors or they like me, I think but don’t quite believe either.

They seem to be joking about something I don’t really understand, but I muster a small smile to fit in. I don’t know if I don’t get it because I’m stupid or because I have no sense of humor. I talk. I don’t even know what I am saying before it’s out of my mouth. It… it didn’t sound weird in my head. But they think it’s funny and their joyous rumble startles me. I laugh with them; I still don’t get it. They’re laughing at me. Yes. They are. They are laughing at me because they think I’m stupid. They think I’m not good enough to be here. I need to go. I want to go. Let me go. No. I need to stay. I need to make friends. It’s not their fault I’m like this. I make my voice sound higher, and I make my smile even wider. I listen to them without saying much.

“I need to… um… do homework,” I say and speed off. The echoes of their laughter still resonating in my head. I write a message to my best friend saying I feel like I’m crazy and I can’t talk to people and I keep hearing voices and seeing things, saying I’ve been seeing people kill themselves when they’re not really there and how everyone gives me a mediocre explanation about how I’ve got a third eye or how God decided I can see “the beyond” or how I’m a medium… I’d like to tell them how I think it might be easy for them to make up all of these wonderful reasons why I’m crazy when they’re not the ones who keep questioning everything they do and feeling hands brush against their skin at night and they’re not the ones who feel afraid and sad and want to die all the time.

I go to the library and do homework. Sometimes I think I work so much because that’s when my mind goes blank much easier. So I work myself raw. I work until I’m so tired I can’t think of anything else. I work and when I finish up, I find more work to do because there’s always something else I can get started on. Do a little extra. It doesn’t hurt. You’ll have more free time later.

I look at my phone. I open up Instagram to see other people’s stories and then I review mine. Why would I say that? No wonder no one likes me. Delete it. Delete. Delete. No. I can’t delete it now. Too many people have seen it. Less people are seeing it now. They got bored. I’m boring. Why do I even post if no one cares? Even if I posted something interesting no one would care. I’m so useless. A failure. Why am I so awkward? Why do I always say the stupidest things? I put my phone down, but it vibrates and I see a message on the screen I don’t even open: I don’t believe you. For the first time I am on the edge of tears. I swallow and realize I haven’t eaten all day. I’m too fat anyway, I think and keep working even though I know I’ll eat twice what I’m supposed to later.

I smile through the rest of my day and when I get home I keep smiling. I smile and work until I only have exactly 5 hours of sleep. I tuck myself in. I close my eyes and feel like the whole world is talking at the same time. The room starts spinning. It won’t stop. Faster. My feet jerk because I feel like I’m about to fall. I hear someone call my name. There’s no one there. I won’t open my eyes. The whirlwind in my head feels endless and, I can’t breathe anymore.

what does a raven have in common with a writing desk.

What does a raven have in common with a writing desk?

WHAT DOES A RAVEN. HAVE. IN COMMON WITH. A. WRITING. DESK?!

Edgar Allen Poe, of course.

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Miedo

Al principio tenía miedo
De irme al infierno.

Después tuve miedo de perder mi oportunidad,
Pero igual la perdí.

Tuve miedo, entonces,
Del vacío.
Hasta que aprendí que, en el principio,
Fue del vacío que se formó nuestra galaxia,
Que los átomos de helio se chocaron y dentro de todo el caos silencioso de luces y explosiones nació el universo.

Entonces ya no se sentía como vacío,
Se sentía como un ciclo completado,
Volver a mi origen, a mi hogar.

Y ya no tuve miedo.

No tuve miedo hasta que me dijeron que si lo hacía,

Iban a llorar
Iban a extrañarme
Iba a dejar un vacío que nunca se volvería a llenar

Que no imaginaban un mundo sin mí
Que el mundo merecía leerme
Que no podía dejarlos
Que suicidarse es un crimen y que si sobrevivía, me iban a mandar a la cárcel.

Y entonces tuve miedo.
Y no lo hice.
Y fui miserable hasta la raíz.

Hasta que ella intentó hacerlo.
Se me adelantó.
Le dije que no sabía por qué lo había hecho,
Pero yo sabía

Comprendí que no valía la pena.
Que vivir porque otros quieren que vivas no es vida.
Que ser mártir por que a otros se les dio la gana no tiene sentido.

Por eso decidí hacerlo.
Pero decidí esperar un rato,
Esperar a que ella estuviera bien,
A que ellos estuvieran bien,
A que se olvidaran de lo que había sucedido.

Y en mi espera descubrí
Cómo perderme en tus brazos,
Cómo sentir el calor de mi perrito cuando duerme junto a mí,
Cómo tomar fotos estúpidas sin composición ni enfoque.
Cómo escribir para mí y no para ti.

Y es que la verdad aún no encuentro una razón para seguir viviendo
Porque sé que la muerte me ha perseguido desde que nací
Y que no está lejos.

Ya no le tengo miedo.

Quizás eso es lo que más me aterra,
El no tener miedo,
Porque a veces pienso antes no sabía qué era vivir,

Vivir libre:
Ser fotógrafa un día
Y escritora el otro
Maquillista en dos semanas
Y pintora en tiempo libre
Pintarme el pelo rosa
Y que me valga lo que piensan los demás
Gritarle al mundo quién yo soy
En lo que descubro más de mí.

Quizás por lo que nunca valoré la vida
Es porque no sabía qué era vivir.

Quiero ser tuya,
para ti
pero no de ti.

Pararme bajo la lluvia

desnuda

desnuda contigo.
Desnuda y mojada.

Irme a tus brazos
después.
A tu cama.

desnuda.

desnuda contigo.
Desnuda y caliente.

Reirme en tu pecho
hasta que mi voz rechine.

desnuda.

desnuda contigo.
Desnuda y gimiendo.

 

Guatemala

Guatemala que no es mía
Guatemala que no es mi hogar
Esta Guatemala impía
Guatemala y su mar

Guatemala, ¿te enteraste?
Guatemala, ¿vos ya oistes?

De cómo cayeron gotas,
Gotas de rubíes.

De cómo fueron lanzas
que muy por dentro se metieron
en esas costillas santas
que los ignorantes hirieron.

Quiero que disfrutes mi presencia

Deseo ser el verano o el beso de un amado.
Deseo tener aquella voz de musa que llama a tu oído.
Deseo hacerte sentir como mariposa en el desierto.

Quiero que disfrutes estar a mi lado
Como yo disfruto estar contigo.

Quiero que disfrutes oír mi voz
Como disfruto yo oír la tuya.

Pero tú, lector preciado,
no sabes mi nombre.

Lo que un día construímos

Quiero tomarte de la mano y bailar contigo. Lo que un día construímos. Te doy una vuelta y te agarro de la cintura. Te doy un beso largo. Sonríes al final y me regalas tu risita dulce. Yo te sonrío de regreso y tú me besas en la nariz. Te paro de nuevo y te doy una vuelta de sorpresa. Un pequeño “¡oh!” escapa tu boca, pero tus pies se mueven con la gracia de una gacela. Tu vestido se mueve con el mío mientras nuestras caderas se mueven de un lado al otro, despacio. La canción ya va a terminar, pero yo no quiero separarme de ti. La canción ya va a terminar, pero aún no quiero despertar.

Writing

The last time I wrote in English, I wrote because I still held on to hope. I hoped that someday I would wake up on a college campus, happy to be doing what I love and surrounded by people who love and accept me for me. I don’t really hope for that anymore. Nowadays, I think I would rather be set free. Maybe that’s really all I wanted from the very beginning.

I remember writing all the time when I was in high school. It brought me some sort of comfort that I could get nowhere else. It was my safe place. I figured it was good that I wrote so much in English even if most of it was crappy. You’ll end up writing anyway. Thousands of useless poems are just practice. They’ll teach you how to truly write at college. Lies. That little voice inside my head that I believed for so long told me nothing but lies. And how hope is gone. I won’t wake up at Brown University after a fainting spell with all my friends by my side. That’s a dream, and if I’ve learned something is that dreams sometimes don’t come true. Even if you give it all you’ve got, sometimes it’s not enough.

I haven’t written anything since that poem. It was a sad night. It was also an embarrassing night. I’ve always been a bad poet. I don’t know why I show my poems to anyone. Maybe I’m better at prose. At least I’d like to think so. It doesn’t really matter anyway.

Why is it so hard for me to write? I honestly wonder. Maybe it’s not that writing is hard. It has pretty much always been easy for me to write out my feelings, but it’s been hard lately. My therapist said it was because writing became synonymous with pain. Maybe she’s right. It was easier to start writing in Spanish because I’ve never felt attached to anything I’ve written in that language. Sure, I’ve been proud. I’ve published my writing so that others can read it, but I’m not mesmerized by Spanish as I am by English. Heck! I don’t even know how to say “mesmerized” in Spanish. Maybe it’s because I’ve never read in Spanish, not as much as I’m reading now. I didn’t have time to build up vocabulary.

Spanish… It’s a language. But it never feels like my language. It feels like a foreign tongue I’m never able to fully understand. Even though they say it’s mine. Even though it’s supposed to be. Spanish is a feral cat. It comes every so often to my door and wraps its tail around my leg. It licks my hand and purrs when I pet it. Then it leaves. Because it’s not mine. It only wants to be fed. It sees the gestures as a needed courtesy rather than a demonstration of love. It will not stay inside my house. Often I see many people with kittens looking out their windows. They look at my visitor. They shame me without a word. It’s not their intention. It’s nature.

English, on the other hand, is a puppy. It’s the puppy you see when you walk by a store on a summer afternoon. You go in, happy and excited. It might just be yours. But it’s not. You can’t afford to bring it home. It looks at you so innocent from the little cage, but all you see is your reflection on the window. It isn’t yours. It isn’t mine. No one believes it ever was or will be. They think that the puppy is made up, that what I really want is to be American and that don’t appreciate where I’ve been born. That’s not it, but I won’t try to convince you. I’m sure I can’t.

I walk around wondering why I pursue this career when I’ve got everything to lose. All odds are against me. I conquer not one tool to help me. I craft stories that fall apart like a house of cards so painstakingly built but that withers when blown by the unforgiving breeze. I cry often. I tear myself apart. Many have told me to quit; they don’t understand what it’s like. Writing is like eating. Skip a meal, skip a day but you can’t simply walk away. Not unless you want to die, of course.

I wish

I wish I could tell you, but I can’t.

It’s midnight. Cold is creeping through my window as I sit on an old, forgotten stool in a corner of an empty room. And I wish. I wish for many things lately, but it is all in vain.

I’m trying to handle a lot of things, and I want to tell you everything. I want to tell you about the fantasies I have about you and me and the memories I constantly recall trying to keep myself together on car rides. When I’m alone, but not alone enough. There are people around me, but they are not with me. And I guess I’d rather be just alone all the time now. It’s not that I don’t love you anymore, believe me… I do. It’s just that it takes too much energy, and you have so little patience. I just take it in.

Breathe in.
Breathe out.

See? It’s not that hard. But it is.

And I don’t tell you about anything because it’s just too much work. It used to be easy. You were my first choice when I wanted to talk to people, but now I go to Blah Therapy to talk to strangers who don’t really care. It’s not that I don’t trust you. It’s just that trusting you has taken a toll on my heart. I feel sick even saying it.

I feel sick all the time. I feel nauseated by life. (I’m listening to the 1-800-something song by Logic that I told you to hear. It makes me feel nice and warm inside when I’m sad. That’s the most I do when I’m feeling like I’m feeling now. It feels like a hot cup of chocolate on a snowy winter.)

I don’t tell you about the little things because then you’ll want to talk about it. You aren’t mindless like Pinterest posts, mind-numbing like watching Netflix, distracting like reading the Harry Potter books or hopeful like Tumblr. But there it is. I didn’t even tell you about that. I created a Tumblr to make myself more known as a writer. It’s secret, of course. It has to be. But you would say congratulations, and then be smart about it. That’s just it. You’re smart. You’re a problem solver. You’re a planner. I’m not. I want mindless, mind-numbing, distracting and hopeful conversations. I want to imagine and not worry.

But it’s time to worry. It’s time to plan. It’s time to problem-solve. It’s time to be smart. And you embody everything that I’ve been avoiding for many years. You are what I want to become but am scared of becoming.

I guess what I want to say is… “I’ll burn that bridge when I get to it”.