Life’s funny like that

The first day I really met you was when you knocked on my door. When I opened you had a confused face, a notebook, and your planner. You didn’t wait until I said hello. Instead you ducked under my arm and sat down on my floor. “Help me plan my life. Also pick 5 clubs to go to with me.”

At this point I had met you briefly downstairs in the laundry room and ran into you once in the common area.

But I did as you said. We spent 3 hours sorting through papers and coming up with your life plan. You wrote sticky notes of times I should meet you for clubs and lunch. At one point you cried about the pressures of college. I just told you it would be okay and held your hand.

Life is weird like that.

Fast forward 2 years. You have your own apartment and I come over to study. The two weeks finals hit we were inseparable. We studied together, made gigantic plates of nachos, and slept together. In between sleepless nights we danced to our favorite songs and made art projects.

One night we were so sleep deprived you knelt next to my chair and refused to stop staring at me until I walked you to bed. You fell asleep in my arms that night and every night after during those finals.

Fast forward another 2 years and we are in grad school. We got apartments close to each other. We spent what time we could with each other. You left college for a job and forgot to leave your new number.

Life is funny like that.


The weirdest part of growing up that no one ever talks about is this constant pressure to be happy.

This constant threat that if you are not completely put together in your later 20s that you are a failure.

The thought that your mental health should be perfect. You should have a perfect diet. With a perfect exercise routine. A perfect job. Traveling schedule. Perfect conscious.

Its exhausting always trying to be perfect. To be sane. To be this image.

I don’t know a single person that has it figured out.

We are all spinning around on this planet wondering what we are doing wrong. Exhausted.

The weirdest thing is not being allowed to say “there are times I am not OK.”

We just don’t have to be.

My life

For the longest time I thought I needed something, someone, anything.

I keep searching for something, anything, to make me feel at peace.

Like this life means something.

And sometimes it does. Sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes life is just pain and thats okay.

I will continue searching for myself and my own peace in this world.

I didn’t have that growing up and I clung to whatever gave me peace.

Without realizing I don’t have to explain myself to anyone. I don’t have to downplay the pain I feel. The love I didn’t receive. And maybe that’s why I love myself so much.

I have myself always. I always held myself in the absence of others. And I will continue to do so.

This body is so strong. These eyes have seen so much. This blood has carried me further than anyone ever could.

I am my own best friend, my own referee, my own cheerleader. And I’ll never stop believing in myself.

I am enough. No matter how many times I have to remind myself.

I am always enough.


I was breed in chaos. But I will not let it take me.

I have a lot of anxiety about life. It’s not the anxiety surrounding money, jobs, career path, house, etc.

It’s small things. Like floor boards creaking at night. The sound of someone clearing their throat. Someone quietly eating dinner without looking up. The sound of yelling. The dark.

It’s a shock to my system. A shiver down my spine.

It’s the language of chaos. The language of the unheard.

Abused children speak a langauge you can never learn. It stays with them years after the trauma has been ripped away.

If you want to heal your children, don’t put them in chaos to begin with.

Artist and their Creations

Paint me in, paint me strong. Paint me like the St. Peter’s Basilica. Michelangelo show them. The world forgot what beauty is. How it is carved into the skin by the man that holds his knife and judgments so close to the medium.

Picasso paint me into your blue scenes so I can finally understand how it feels to be shut off, to be cold, and to only live in one color.

Monet, paint me that same sunrise from 1872. You must have longed to see the sun be brought up to that ocean.

Donatello, make me into a burning David, but this time remove the hat, open my eyes, and bleed with me. I want water pouring out of my pores. I want fluid movements that earn for a pull from the tourists that seem to think I am but a precious metal. Make my hands lonely, make them reach out, and make them unfulfilled like every man and woman still searching for their worth in this world.

Neruda, paint me wordless into your poetry. Create me into the forest of your lost love and read to me of your sweet sorrows.

Rembrandt make me into the storm of 1633 in the Sea of Galilee, because I know all too well the pain of being destructive to others and most importantly to myself.

Munch, create the same shocked face of the Scream onto ever man and woman who screams for everyone to love them only to realize that they do not love themselves.

Vermeer, I appreciate your work on the pearl in the girl’s ear. But the mere idea that the pearl was worth more than her body ever was, makes me shutter. Who are we? We have always been awful.

Da Vinci, I admire your work creating the vocal point of compassion, love, and understanding into your work of the last supper. It astounds me that you gave your life to represent a selfless being only to have the followers fall apart at the seam because we cannot get over judging people by the color of their beliefs, outward appearance, and lack of social class. We do not lend a hand because we are afraid of the disease we can catch from others who are not like us. Ugliness is not a disease you can catch that you do not already have. We are all filthy, just in different aspects.

And Van Gogh, paint me into the stars so I can look down on the world and finally understand why we move so fast. As if there is something we are moving closer to but never really touching.

Finally, mother, hold me. Hold me and speak slowly into these damaged ears. Tell me I am beautiful and worth something more than a wife. Tell me I am more than a lower half and promise me, promise me you will never leave. Because I can always go into the minds of artists but you are the greatest creator I have ever met. You never sold me to any museum and you never boasted I was the best child in the world. But you loved me endless and you told me I was one of your beautiful creations.