She thought that,
If she loved others,
She wouldn’t have to love herself.
When she was little,
She used to think that
The girl she saw
In the mirror
Was just a girl
To always be there
She'd smile at her own reflection,
To thank her for appearing
In the mirror's glass
But she never smiled
And Fear's shadows,
And Sadness's tears,
And Anxiety’s turmoil,
And Pain's wounds
Entered her life,
And she didn't smile
At the girl
In the mirror.
In which she didn't smile at all,
And that was ok.
And days passed
Comfort's warmth enveloped her,
Happiness's sparks illuminated her,
Joy's rays shone on her,
Laughter's cackle filled her.
And the girl
In the mirror
Was always there
To mimic her.
The girl in the mirror
Always understood her;
And the girl in the mirror
Was always there
I stare out towards the dark above. The winds don't understand me, but perhaps the stars will (1: stardust). I feel the warm summer air wrapping me, a steamy world that insists to envelop me in its greedy arms. One by one, I feel the molecules of air thrust themselves upon me, forming a dense atmosphere around my body (2: thickness). The crickets formed a choir some time ago and seemed to want to persist for the duration of eternity, but they had long ceased when I arrived here, surrendering to the competition of distant city noises and breeze whistling in the tall grass (3: cacophony). The moon has disappeared tonight, allowing the stars more room to glow upon the earth and impeding any young, hopeful poet to stare out of their window and contemplate some silvery moonlight (4: challenge). The world is slowly rotating around itself, a spin that causes my mind to whirl and...
The wind scream as if it had been deeply injured by the bight of a vicious beast. Perhaps it had.
My question lingers in the air and stays there, shivering from the cold as I was. Tom looks me in the eye and sighs. He rolls up the few inches of his sleeves as if he were feeling incredibly hot. As if there were a scorching sun that cooks some soft sand beneath him instead of a white blaze in the sky that did nothing but match the snow.
He nods his head towards the barn subtly and turns away. He walks speedily through the field, and I briskly follow him.
The old barn door opens slowly. It was heavy, I remembered. Incredibly so. It was old wood that you would have expected to have broken and cracked, that you would have expected to become light after being worn for so long. But it hadn't. As soon as I walk...
Who doesn't love to dig into a savory taco, meticulously roll spaghetti around their forks, or finally close their mouths around a steaming dumpling? The global cuisine is composed of delicacies from all around the world, and food has always had its way of globe-trotting from one mouth to another. Since the times of the Silk Route between the Roman Empire and Asia, humans have been in search of new ingredients and plates to fill their hungry stomachs. Wether we speak of Columbus searching for spices in what he believed to be India or an American driving to a pizza place, we can be sure that the conquest and spread of new flavors has always been an important characteristic of human civilization.
When one stops to ponder the origins of the great variety of dishes we have at our fingertips today, one fact emerges: the creation of different plates, like scientific discoveries, is a manifestation of human development. In fact,...
I listen carefully for a sound in the grass (he loved his fields), the crash of tools (he was always so clumsy), the madly tingly sound of his voice (hight pitched and soft)... I'm afraid of what I might here. I shiver in the cold air. I look around, strands of my hair whip my pale face. I look out towards the distance.
I remembered little things about him, insignificant, silly memories that invade my brain and poke at my ears.
He always brought me a bag of stale potato chips. I forget if it was an inside joke or not (most likely not).
He would rant about PopTart ads while casually tossing one into the microwave.
He enjoyed teasing me about my hair (I didn't mind).
He rarely complimented me, and, when he did so, it would sound incredibly cliché and exaggerated... never sincere.
He often disappeared for days, and I would worry sick to know where he was. ...
in the sun
and a dark past.
It buries cries of children
who fell and opened their eyes
to a wound in their tender skin
cut by ice.
It holds laughs of children
Snow angels long buried
in a cover of white innocence.
taken by that
and never willing to return them.
The cold air bashes against my face, and I look squinting up into the sky. Too bright. The sun is hiding behind a thin cloud, but the entire atmosphere is glowing today. Too much for my delicate eyes. The sun is to sharp for my skin. I look away. I look ahead of me, and I see the bus stop I've been walking towards. Cold. I head towards it, I see the ice stuck on the poles of it, a little bench is underneath a broken little roof that had been constructed by wooden planks. Probably against the snow. It wouldn't stay in its place anymore, the wind had made it battered enough. I sit down on the metal bench. Cold seeps through my pants. What a dreadful day. I wait for the bus to arrive, sitting there for some time, freezing. The bus comes. I get on, looking into the bus driver's empty eyes and handing him my ticket....
The cold air bashes against my face, and I look squinting up into the sky. Too bright. The sun is hiding behind a thin cloud, but the entire atmosphere is glowing today. Too much for my delicate eyes. The sun is to sharp for my skin. I look away. I squint ahead of me, and I see the bus stop I've been walking towards. Cold. I head towards it, I see the ice stuck on the poles of it, a little bench is underneath a broken little roof that had been constructed by wooden planks. Probably against the snow. It wouldn't stay in its place anymore, the wind had made it battered enough. I sit down on the metal bench. Cold seeps through my pants. What a dreadful day. I wait for the bus to arrive. I sit there for some time. I look into my backpack and find what I expect to: a candy bar, a water bottle. I...
Seeing a little girl walk by with her mother, I think about what that means to her. Whether that moment outside, for her, means freedom or a moment of odd melancholy and nostalgia. Whether it fills her with some sort of dread or an endless love. If we will remember this moment fondly in a book years later as Those little perfect moments outside with mommy or think of it with rage and sadness. I do not know what she will feel. I do not know the cause of her walking outside. But she may feel fear as she walks or have be the care-free little girl that fills stories with smiles and laughs.
Or perhaps she will forget of this. Her mind may disperse this in the folds of her memories, it will be eclipsed by more important moments.
For the little moments of life are the most significant... or the least.
And if they say
something to hurt you,
something to diminish you,
something to make you feel like less,
I will turn my strength
into the coldest stare.
̶I̶ ̶n̶e̶v̶e̶r̶ ̶k̶n̶o̶w̶ ̶i̶f̶
̶I̶'̶l̶l̶ ̶b̶e̶ ̶g̶o̶o̶d̶ ̶e̶n̶o̶u̶g̶h̶,̶
̶t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶I̶'̶l̶l̶ ̶b̶e̶ ̶f̶i̶n̶e̶ ̶e̶n̶o̶u̶g̶h̶,̶
̶s̶o̶ ̶I̶ ̶c̶r̶o̶s̶s̶ ̶o̶u̶t̶
̶c̶r̶o̶s̶s̶ ̶o̶u̶t̶ ̶m̶y̶ ̶h̶e̶a̶r̶t̶,̶
̶c̶r̶o̶s̶s̶ ̶o̶u̶t̶ ̶m̶y̶ ̶s̶a̶d̶n̶e̶s̶s̶,̶
̶c̶r̶o̶s̶s̶ ̶o̶u̶t̶ ̶m̶y̶ ̶f̶e̶e̶l̶i̶n̶g̶s̶,̶
let it all wash over me.
I find no words to describe the feeling you transmit to me when I sit by you. Sitting beneath the city lights, staring at the twinkling stars that compete with the lights of cars and skyscrapers for the dominance of illumination. The sunny afternoons wasted laughing at precisely the opposite moments at videos we found, sitting next to each other on the couch with a laptop snuggled between my knees and yours on a cozy (and fuzzy) blanket. Daring each other at a restaurant to tell the waiter, "I'll have the chicken," because it was an inside joke that no one outside of us would ever understand and laugh at (the waiter would stare at us oddly, as we bended over our tablecloths with mouths open and no sound coming out from how hard we were laughing, then slowly say, "Very well, then- which sauce?" and making us laugh even harder). I love your obsession with reaching over...
and soft grass
even if it's harsh
even if you don't want to hear it
something you refuse to accept
even though statistics can be cold
even though perhaps you don't want to know
the small things
but we already knew that,
because laughs will never stop being among the best things in life.
In a friend's year,
with a giggle,
with a blush,
with a laugh,
in a rush,
with time to waste,
with only haste,
a question mark at the end.
In the warm
In the cold
In the tepid spring
In the fresh autumn
Off a cliff,
towards a mountain,
In the sea,
meant to hearten,
Out a window,
in a tree,
raising pitch at the end.
Towards the skies,
into the ground,
will it ever be found?
that's a question,
I don't know exactly why I entered the shop and headed instinctively towards the cosmetic aisle after school today, but I just can't help looking onto the shelves of lipstick, blush, eyeliner.... So here I am, standing under the large smiling face of a woman wearing these cosmetics on a large poster on the wall.
The pinks, reds, fuxias, and purples line the white rows, looking so aesthetically perfect that I am tempted to take one and purchase it. Of course, I cannot. It would be awkward, strange, abnormal, even. At least the cashier would certainly think so.
Yet I can't help looking at the perfectly matching colors, wondering which one would look best on me, reading the names assigned to each lipstick: Bubble Gum Pink, Power Red, Brilliant Fuxia, Majesty Purple.
I've always adored reading the names of the items in the make-up aisle, when I came here with my mother to shop on...
Holding their hand
like a monster with
sharp teeth and a greedy heart.
It never ends
its treacherous quest
to penetrate in.
It clutches my heart and
and it catches my breath
with a trembling hand.
It obscures all light,
holding me tighter,
I try to get free,
turning and grasping
for something outside,
but it has enveloped me.
Light only comes
when I've found something long
heard something long
and then it is all.
It penetrates slowly, parting the hands
of the monster, who grows feeble.
It casts its glow on my face,
shining light on the dark figure,
wrapping my heart in its warm beam,
returning it to me.
what others say
about your looks,
it's what's inside
If I really am
why are you reminding me?
If I really am
why do you need to encourage me?
If I really am
why are you telling me this instead of me telling you?
If it's really what's inside that counts,
why are you telling me I'm beautiful?