I used to have writers block but I broke up with it.

Now I listen to sad music and upchuck ****.

I don't know where I am going or what I am saying.

But hello.

Beaches and windows.

I have never felt the sadness Mount Eerie has.

Aching bones and unsaid prose.

I was ***** last year.

He was a friend but in the end, he betrayed me.

I'm not nearly as broken as I could be.

When my hair is up, and when my hair is down I feel like
a different
person.

Closed capsules of promised happiness give me nightmares.

Medication is just another word for being sick.

Or is it.

I need medication to feel normal and even though it's been a year or so that still feels strange on my tongue.

I remember being utterly crazy and nothing could tame me. I was a beast in my own body.

Now I am, me again. I think.

I'm still not sure how anyone put up with me.

When spring comes around
I touch the flowers and they turn brown.

And that reminded me of the summer
my sister almost drowned.

Had I not been there to pull her
body from the water, it would have
got her.

Nostalgia drips like sweet lips and sunny
window sills.

Back when time would stand still and
promises were never broken.

Pinky swears and thumb wars,
basketball on the street in bare feet.

Popsicles and bubblegum.

I touch the plants after it rains,
and it feels the same as something
I've felt before.

Pictures of girls taped to closet doors.

Thank god I finally opened it.

Snowflakes feel like gentle cold kisses
like the calm after
Christmas but the excitement of
what's to come.

I used to do
something horrible
to myself.

I am sure you have heard of
self harm.

I've been good for as long as I've met my wife.

But for the first time in a while I feel like
dragging that blade across my skin again.

I have used a marker to mark where I would like to hit.

And so far it is not working.

Why is sickness as deep as it is.
Why do I still feel like slicing me flesh to feel something.

I would say everything is terrible but it's not.

I think I might have just forgotten to take my meds for a few days.

My aunt died last night.

A part of me is Trinidadian.

My aunt died last night.

I am half Trinidadian.

Her name was Aunty Rita.

It was a common,
family joke

to yell her name.

Like this,

RITAAAAAAAAAA.

And now I don't think I'll ever hear that again.

My mom is going to Trinidad for a week.
And I wish I could go too.

Is it ironic that I dreamt of Trinidad the night before.
Is it ironic that I dreamt that a dog died or almost died and I cared for it.

My aunt died last night.

Aunty Rita.

to still love the first love of my life.

Let me start by saying that I am a girl.

Who loves girls.

A lesbian.

So you say.

Am I allowed to feel sad about the
first girl
I ever loved.

Am I allowed to be mad that the first girl who ever loved me transitioned and became a man who only wanted to see me suffer unless he could make it better.

Wow.

The last few days have been weird.

I love one girl.

Her name is Vanessa

Yesterday I went into a store
where they were burning incense.

And, in an instance
I recognized the smell.

Sweet, sweet nostalgia filled my nostrils as I remembered
riding my bike so many summers ago,
down a road that at the time felt like I was riding
into a different plain
of existence.

It was quiet and the streets were paved with concrete
as opposed to the ashy asphalt that covered the rest
of the small town
I grew up in.

Something about the way the neighbourhood was lined with colorful bungalows and huge trees
where the wind danced and sang
as I peddled past.

I once longed to live in a place like that.