Back and forth.
It starts with counting in threes. Three ice cubes for my coffee. Three steps behind other people. Three soft kisses.
Why do horses need horseshoes?
Open the fridge and close it again. I forgot what I was even looking for. Open it back again. Did it change at all? Close. Open again and pick something. Close.
What if I started making my own butter and bread?
Choose the same everyday shorts. Same everyday shoes. Everyday necklace. Until they get replaced by the new ones when they start falling apart. You have several pairs, but they are for special ocassions. Things need to be used for a specific purpose.
Are sharks smooth or rough skinned? Do they like to be pet?
Avoid eating with others, people who aren't safe. The sounds they make. The way they criticize what you eat. The loud clattering sounds of china and shriek.
What song would play at my funeral? I hope it's a fun one.
Touch every piece of clothing before you even consider putting it against your skin. Is it soft? Artificially so? Does it feel hot?
Put it back on the shelf, go see the pretty one you saw from the other one. No, not that one. It has the weird crease on the shoulder. Same as the sweater on the other shop. Next.
What do other people see as red?
T-rex arms are comfy. So is tapping my fingers together. Drumming on invisible heads, picturing the comfortable tap tap tap they make.
Is there a sound no one has ever made?
Look at the mirror but not at your eyes.
Is my face actually my face?
Stay up all night going through 21 different scenarios. Different songs. Different ways you could change your own life.
... Can I?
Describe Yourself (I’m Still Scared To Use Hinge)
Pretty bitch (when it’s three am and i’m looking at myself in the mirror and my ego is getting the better of me, otherwise i think my face is too ethnic—the ancient aztecs would’ve loved me though—and too white at the same time)
Compulsive—
I compulsively and impulsively do things
(do i have adhd? should probably get tested so people stop asking)
I am staring at my body
At the funhouse mirror in the county fair
All long hair and petite and wide hipped
(some white lady once told me i had ‘mexican hips’ and i should’ve clocked her if she wasn’t so old and i’m still not entirely sure what that means but that’s a weird thing to say to a latin girl when she’s nineteen, no?)
I feel observed,
In public
Like I am constantly being baited into social error
I crave and detest attention
I like to read
(and at night i will gaze upon such nonsense it makes me sick and i begin to hold a personal grudge against Garth Ennis)
I want things I can’t have, (like, i want lemonade but not this lemonade, the lemonade from two summers ago)
Would you still love me if I told you everything wrong with me? If I told you my fixation on religious imagery stems from—
I like to paint
(if i love you i’ll make something in your image and also i can’t really remember when i was eight years old and my favorite color is a green i’ve tried to find my entire life and will probably never be able to see again because it was the center of a lake on a roadtrip through the yukon when i was small)
I’m young and dumb
(but i feel so old it hurts—I blame this ⅖ on the expectations of the religious sect—cult??? jury’s still out—and all the guilt and the violence that came with it and the other ⅗ on bad blood and familial tradition)
Would you still love me if I was a worm?
Would you still love me if I told you I couldn’t sit with my back to doors? Or that if I don’t check behind the shower curtain, I am confident that I will be Psycho-ed? That I can’t stand loud noise in or outdoors? That I am a slut but only of the soul, because I want you to eat my mind or some other dumb shit I might confess on account of a sleep-deprived high?
Would you still love me if I said men scared the living hell out of me? On account of the reception of violence from them since I was just a baby? That I once crashed my bike while trying to get away from catcalling and rode home with gravel stuck to my bleeding knee?
I’m good with animals and small children and my roommate’s cat literally won’t leave me alone
Would you still love me if I told you I hated vulnerability? That if I said I loved you, I’d immediately ask you to take me out back and shoot me? That I feel like I present the illusion of it and so people always tell me everything because I'm just so goddamn trusting? Because all people want to be believed.
(And, like religion, i believe until it makes me sick.)
That,
my favorite songs are Ethel Cain’s unreleased, and AC/DC, and Gaga and just about everything except country (best friend gets in my car and is stunned by the rapid switch from Danzig to Pop Smoke to Dolly)
and every sibilant sound that my mind latches onto
and i also latch onto you
I really like trees and the beach
(please want me,
please like me)
Oh look, Puppies!
Hard to see the things that used to be so clear.
Where's my keys?
Where's the dog?
Where's my phone?
Where did my body go?
Where's the beef?
My shape has shifted.
Everything that was "up" is "down"!
My body shifted from large to super size without the fries!
From auburn to gray, boohoo.
Oh look, puppies!
What was I saying?
What was I doing?
Where was I going?
Who was I doing it with?
Don't say that!
Don't say this?
Don't give me that look!
Oh look puppies!
Nothing to see
The news today, like every day, is all about sacrifice, corruption, murder, and the wrath of human hearts. Can't focus on it though, for my ankles won't stop twitching. My grandmother, like my mother, had to deal with twitching ankles and passed down that responsibility to me. "It means that the weather is about to change”, I can hear both of their voices explaining.
The horrific news ends and the weather forecast begins. "Gloomy and rainy days are coming to an end", says the polite young forecaster. "Thanks man, I already knew that", - I point to my ankles, but the gentleman on the little television doesn't acknowledge my discomfort. Do you think he has a happy life? I ponder. I hate talking to myself, but there's no one better to talk to. The forecaster only wants to talk weather. Do people in Ethiopia or Iran ever see snow? My cat plops on the carpet and shows off her ginger underbelly, demanding I pet it. “You're the smartest gal I know, you know that?”. The cat slowly and deliberately blinks, leaving me suspicious. Maybe you do really speak English? English! What an ugly language to speak. And it's everywhere - I don't know if it ever snows in Iran and Ethiopia, but I bet you they've heard of English. It makes sense that such a disappointing world like this one would pick a language so unpleasant to be the popular one. I hate myself for never having anything important to say.
The handsome man on the news wishes me a happy evening; same time tomorrow then, old friend. Do you think he has a happy life? I turn off the little box and now I can see a reflection peeking out in the black mirror. I look at it deeply, but even after all these years, I can't decide what exactly am I supposed to see. The person on the black TV screen starts massaging their ankles. The same feeling of discomfort brings us together and I remember who I'm looking at. Do you have a happy life? No one answers.
A compilation of shower thoughts
deadlines and due dates warp my days
(i won't finish i won't finish i won't finish i won't-)
imagination aches to be shared
(what if octopi are spiders?)
i don't think i'm ready
(what if i died tomorrow?)
i like this song, it reminds me of you
(i miss my brother every day)
a story bubbles inside me
(a fae falls in love with a mortal)
there are too many words i did not say
(hireath - i never thought i'd relate to a word so much)
confusion and apathy
(i'm not straight, but do i care enough to figure out what i am?)
happiness and laughter
(you laughed today, and it was beautiful)
i hate being alive
(i love being alive)
Morning Lecture
I knew her like the back of my hand—perhaps even better. Our morning routine was nearly choreographed: she showered while I shaved in our small bathroom. I swear I could read her mind with all the rambling she did in there. Sometimes I’d say something, sometimes I’d just smile and nod, but she wanted me there, listening, until she was finished and gave over the restroom. And let me tell you, with that bathroom heat, it was like a sauna inside!
Ah, her quirks. Oh yes, she wanted me right there, in the heat of hell, hated even a crack in the door in case a gust of cold air snuck in. Said it gave her chills. You know what I call it? Quirks. What was she talking about in there? What wasn’t she talking about, really? Planning her day, pondering what to eat, even mumbling crazy ideas for her stories, all in this perfectly chaotic symphony that, I guess, she understood.
Singing? I would have liked that, but no, she talked and talked, in a monologue of mental notes, oh yes, I have to do this before that, ah, I almost forgot what I left unfinished yesterday. And don’t you dare touch her towels, all neatly arranged in their designated spot and the bathrobe ready to slip into upon exiting. Of course, more quirks, an inch further and she couldn’t reach it from the shower, as if extending her hand a bit more bothered her.
As she left, I entered. Any affectionate words? Nah, her mental notes continued, occasionally extending towards me; remember to do this or that. A “yes, dear” or a nod would suffice, assuming her attention casually drifted towards me at some point. She’d take a good twenty minutes, insisting that washing her hair was a process, but I’d argue that shampooing and rinsing couldn’t possibly take that long. But hey, that’s just another one of her quirks. That time in the shower was her way of mentally prepping for the day ahead, even if it meant sacrificing a chunk of my time.
Meanwhile, as I bathed, she’d methodically dry herself off with her perfectly organized towels, all while listening to some online tech news or AI updates. And let me tell you, those themes always heated her up; whether it was about job security or the future of humanity, she’d express her dissatisfaction loud and clear, even above the sound of flowing water. Despite all of the criticisms, she’d be the first to join the bandwagon and replace me with the first intelligent android robot to be released.
When I stepped out of the shower, she was nowhere to be found. If I had asked her to wait for me while I showered, she would’ve probably rolled her eyes. Yes, folks, when I finally emerged, she had already devoured breakfast and was eagerly waiting for me to finish so she could brush her teeth. “Sorry for taking five minutes, darling,” I said sheepishly. But that day, when I emerged, there she was, waiting for me with a mischievous grin. It was my birthday, yes, that must have been it, she remembered. “No milk left, hun. Did you drink it all yesterday?” she quipped sarcastically. “Yes, guilty as charged. I chugged it all down, all the way, just like you drain my patience every morning.” But I love it. She treats me so candidly, showing all her quirky stuff and vulnerabilities. And that, my friends, that’s love. Or so I hope.