03/27/18, 6:31pm


when I want to write poetry

when I feel like I should be able to write poetry

I can’t

and in a way, that’s analogous to saying:

sometimes I don’t feel things when I think I should

and I wonder if it’s the alcohol or the good day or the good people, or

maybe this is what it’s like to feel happy? maybe this is it, this feeling of

fine, just fine, no really, just so dandy, just

nothing; to be honest, it feels like nothing in the best way possible

I guess


I’m not as ecstatic as I thought I would be

but though I don’t particularly like this, really I do like it because I don’t dislike it

this is what it’s like, to not dislike a day, a feeling, but even so

it can’t last, this stableness — don’t expect it to last it only makes the next time worse


from a long time ago

But Blue is White Has always been
White Will possibly always be White.

But really, who dislikes Blue Blue is
blueberries sapphire
the objectively coolest butterflies
To be the default: Navy
Blue winters and Blue jeans We the people
of Black hair danced to Blue
satin sashes: the naturalized ode
to Americana Deceptive bliss Just
a third of the flag Just
half the country

Pluralities: bike rides into paintings of lagoons
Shots on the rocks Deep
dives Frenetic
jazzes Chilled

Blue: singular.

Despite it all To be:
O To be universal.

To be:
inescapable Sea



how did I go from:
flinching at his touch to:
enveloping him
because I finally made tears fall. I can see now
it is possible to comfort someone who has hurt
you and feel numb. to bring the hammer
down and instantly shush the wreckage back
into a whole; I have never seen him
as this: open mouth, desperate
eyes to the sky through monochrome
night — I take it back, I take it back —
you rock, squeeze, rock, breathe

squeeze your eyes, bury your face
into the tremble until it is absorbed
back into you and it is
better, it is
the same

this being: this ball of serotonin, the swaying
laugh: you’ll be ok. the next morning had
good lighting. it was sunny.
crying is manipulative, I say.
you nod.

03/08/18, 11:33pm: note from about a week ago

EDIT: After noticing that reading my journals seriously affects my state of mind, for the purposes of future me’s mental health, it’s necessary to preclude this with a note: this is NOT healthy. This is NOT ok. Furthermore, this poem is wallowing in self-pity, self-hatred, and is furthermore self-absorbed, and is perhaps even more damaging because it’s self-aware of itself: self-critical does not mean valid. Acknowledging and teasing out flaws and unhealthy thoughts just to let them sit there is not justification. Read this as a snapshot of a state of mind, not one to ever let yourself empathize  with again, or maybe: read this as a warning flag, if you ever empathize with it. Remember: empathy. Have empathy.

sorry not sorry, but really actually I’m so sorry.
I’m sorry that I turn every conversation into systemic discourse.
I’m sorry that I can’t see a movie without talking
about the depiction of poc and whatever else
shit that poops the party when
your white friends try to connect with me
by bringing up the tale of genji after I say the word

I don’t have the guts
to let a silence hang.

often I forget who I am
often forgetting is utterly impossible

you are everything I
couldn’t be 5 years ago and somehow
I like you
I love you
I might loathe
loave — shh, that’s an inside joke —

oh wait
how public is this supposed to be?
who do I write for anyway?

these are the questions I don’t want the answer to:
this is the place I choose to publish because I know you won’t ever read it.
this is where I go to hide from you
because after trying to pull you in I’m realizing that some places,
as I’ve always known, are inaccessible
I didn’t know they could be inaccessible to you
I’m glad I have something that is inaccessible to you
— shh, that’s the disgusting part of me —
— oops, did I just write that? —

but this place is on sale, discounted; that’s
the difference; my places
are always at a markdown; don’t tell me
otherwise, I won’t believe it. safe spaces are for
people who need to retreat, because
you never need to retreat —
— oh god, see what I do to you? what I make you? —

here’s what I can’t stand: that I have the ability to project infinite
privilege onto another human being. who cares
if I’m right some of the time?
who cares if I’m backed systemically,
theoretically, epistemologically, who
cares if I can rehearse the critique
and anti-critiques of in
until I’m blue, yellow, black, red, white,
white, white, Oops
I gave it away didn’t you know that you fell in love
with me only because I’ve spent my entire life trying to fade to white,
does that conflict with my daily ramblings, Oh Shit
this is something I never ever want
to think about: one-way internalized racism
can generate two-way love
that’s shockingly, beautifully, terrifyingly
real, well let’s be honest here 
deep down I hope it comes out to white
I still hope I come out to white
of course I think about this every day
the only thing I ever wanted was to write
my experience as beauty and not pity