Blood&Bruises

These are some of the poems I'm submitting in my poetry workshop application. I'm posting them here because they're already public.

Blood & Bruises

I yearn for a skinned knee

Something to tell the world that I fell

That I am here now, after that fall

And not in some sort of pathetic “look, I got back on the horse”

Sorta thing

More to show that I lived

That I let myself fall

That I let my blood fall

And stain the cement

That I did not let myself get comfortable inside the shell of my body

of my room or my books or my friends or anything

That I intentionally broke myself to let some of myself go

Because it was holding me back anyway.

Blood & Bruises 2

Sex bruises are good bruises

Blood blossoming under the skin and under a violent kiss

Is a good thing

How else can we remember that something is inside us

Some sort of animal beast ripping to get out

If there is no darkening of the skin, aching at the touch,

Stabbing pain?

Bodies are soft soft things

And lust is hard and cruel and disciplining.

Sex bruises are best.

Blood & Bruises 3

My mother always told me not to scratch

At my scabs

Because scars, she said, are ugly things

And I will not tell you they are gorgeous

Not in any skewed definition or light

Are scars pretty, harmless things of beauty

But I love mine, and I stroke them soft and faded into my skin

Wounds burned and etched and weathered in

Between the particles of my body

So I scratch till they bleed again

And I stretch till they fall off and regain feeling

I want them forever, to adorn my body

With the pithy history of my falls and pains and moments of oblivion

For all the nights I never remembered, but which my clothes and head did

Do I keep these scars

So when I scratch and stretch can I feel

Them again.

i forgot

i forgot that i'm no longer capitalizing. sorry about that.

It's Not That I'm Going to Be Ok

It's that I am ok. There is currently nothing traumatic or life-altering or fantastic in my life at the moment. There never really was anything of the sort in my life ever. I've decided that I lead a pretty non-offensive and un-noteworthy life. As irreverential as I may be in real life, I'm not even a blip on someone's radar. But I'm ok with that, strangely enough.

I think it's in line with every nihilistic thought that has ever been crafted since the beginning of time, being alone and being unremarkable means I'm in control. And I'm in control without any real responsibility or obligation to anyone. This is freedom.

Mr. Sandman

I NEED SLEEP.

Long Time

it's been a really long time since i've written anything for this blog. it might be because i've been busy, or because i haven't had any inspiration, or because there are like two readers (i love you, iva). i think, though, it's really because i've been terrified of leaving any written mark, however infinitesimal, on the world. it's different when it's a journal that you can hide or brandish at will - that stuff's edgy and oh so private. this most definitely isn't.

despite my bitching, do you like the new look? i also think i'll stop capitalizing in the commentary - it feels much more audacious than i currently am.

A Sonnet, only not really, to my English lecture love:

Blue eyes, straw hair

I see you sitting there

Everyday

In your way

4 rows away.

If only you knew of the indecent thoughts going through my mind.

Summer Glare

So, it's been about four weeks since I've come home from school and I've done absolutely nothing of consequence. During the school year I told myself I'd do awesome and amazingly artsy things (which don't seem so incredible now, meh), and I'd read awesome and amazingly witty books and discover bands that were beyond-NPR unknown, all while maintaining incredibly fashionable-ness. So far I've succeeded in lounging about my tiny, confining, and Pledge-drenched house in sweats and going to the library every other day to stock up on Alan Moore comics. At least back at school, every night promised at least two streets full of glitzy shitshows. WHERE IS MY GLAMOUR, I ask you?! WHERE IS MY SUMMER FAERIE-DUST MAGIC brought to me on the wings of gyrating golden dust motes?! This is bullshit. And mostly I think it's just me not being imaginative enough to take advantage of all this downtime. Then I remember, Palo Alto is not meant for creative, intrepid acts of awesomeness. So I'm stuck. Deliver me.

P.S. My mom is currently offering me lessons in Panjabi cooking with a huge, silly grin - this is the peak of today's excitement.

I Am Neurotic

sometimes gravity sucks

I cannot lay flat on the ground facing the sky. I am terrified that somehow gravity will fail me and I will fall upwards into space.

http://iamneurotic.com/

Dr. Strange Loves, Or how I learned to stop worrying and love my 90s obsessions

ACK, sorry for the stupid stupid silence, one reader (love ya' Iva). To be fair this post is about what's been keeping me away from reaching across the state to you.

Did you know ALL of Joss Whedon's geeky goodness is on Netflix Instant? Chyeah. There have been many a silly college reading assignment forgotten in my rush. S'fine, they were dumb readings anyway.

"I hate that girl" - The Anointed/Annoying One

Franny Loves Zooey

I was never one of those kids who read Catcher in the Rye and immediately related to Holden. I pretended I was, though, because I loved the idea of afternoons at the Natural History Museum in New York and a red hunting hat. Also, it seemed edgy at the time. Nah. It was a while before I read Franny and Zooey, but it became a love that lasted through to now.

When I'm feeling particularly misanthropic, I imagine myself laying fully clothed in a bath, taking pathetic drags on a soggy cigarette, and staring upwards at an old New York apartment's bathroom ceiling. I can usually drown out the noise made by my floormates this way.

It's not even that I feel particularly connected to either one of the characters, but it's like I don't have to think anymore when I read and reread their dialogue; it all just seems like thoughts I had days ago but am only now remembering. So, when Salinger died, I wasn't sad or heartbroken or relieved or anything. It just sort of felt like the one person that understood the pain of being was finally gone and a part of history, where he belonged. I don't like it when people I admire are still alive, because it always feels like they're never actual people.

My Roommate

My roommate put up a sign on our window saying "DO NOT OPEN THIS WINDOW" because apparently it's hard to close. I try to respect her command with minimal grumbling but the other day, as a way to continue the mandating trend and alleviate tension, I put up my own sign "CAN I GET A FUCK YEAH?!" It was taken down the next day. Woe is I when it comes to living with strangers that don't understand me.

Love. Life. Hate. Read. King. Work. Hair. Move.

Dear you,

My name is I. I go to college somewhere, in some big city by the ocean, and I pass most of my time doing homework for whatever classes I take. My weekends are divided between reading for said classes, running through the campus, and wishing myself to the sea. Here is where I do the interesting things.

Love,

I