No time to be sick.

Seriously.  Why does the body get so tired when one is sick?  Is it because it’s busy fighting off bacteria and viruses that it renders legs weak, arms flabby, and brain to mush?  There’s so much I need to do and I don’t have time to be sick, dammit.  Oh, maybe that’s it.

I remember reading about how students who get stressed are more prone to getting sick because their immune systems are lowered.  But I’m not stressed.  I could hardly care less about this term!  No, I think I just have bad luck when it comes to contracting yucky things.  My family certainly thinks so (“You’re sick again?!”).

Uh oh.

How can I be sick when I just got over a cold??  Damn you, antibodies!

I’m sick.

I think.  Maybe I can trick myself into believing I’m not.  Either way, I hate being sick.  Ugh.

I hate you, germs.  In other news, Happy Pride!

Quand on est malade…

pour moi, c’est le plus mauvaise chose qu’on peut etre.

I hate being sick.  It’s mostly when I get a sore throat that I can’t stand.  I hate swallowing and feeling like my throat is grinding and then I get all conscious about it so I keep swallowing and never get any sleep.  Then there’s also thinking super slowly and having no energy to do anything.  But this isn’t going to turn into a rant about feeling sick.

On second thought, why don’t I just end this here.  Gonna make myself some hot lemon-honey water and sleeeeeeeep….

Leaves

I wrote this about 5 minutes ago, so apologies if it’s bad.

Leaves

Skeleton leaves, tossed around on bare
stony, concrete.
They started out as life wrapped in shells,
before breaking out from the warmth.
Clawing their way to the light, for hands to pull their tired feet from the ground.
Though covered in white jackets,
or losing their hair every year,
the minutes, seconds add up to
thicker skin, rougher.

But my skin remains uncalloused,
exposed to meteors of needles and strings.

Even with my face against the window blowing shivers through my body,
the trees know me, more than you’ll ever
because they are here, and in your place are cold leaves on concrete.

Untitled

Back in 2007, I took part in Project Stitch, a project organized by local youth in preparation for World AIDS Day on December 1st. There were different activities divided amongst us and since I was into creative writing, I joined the Slam Poetry folks (which really consisted of me and two other girls). During my time there, I wrote this poem to express how I felt about people.

My bones remain broken,
My bruises visible.
The damage of deception, betrayal, and blistering words have cut
these canyons in my heart.
So I feebly kneel before the pieces, attempting to begin building these shards
But
Here comes an invited guest,
Loading up on trust,
Before walking away.
Followed by a mother,
And a lover,
Several others,
All taking a bite of what I’ve too freely handed out.
It’s not long till I’m left with my heart,
Stale as a rubber tire.

Without question, I leave my heart in the cold,
Until it is coated with frost and suspicion.

Without doubt, I construct and fortify layers of walls,
Of stone and insecurity.

Without hesitation, I put up frigid, heavy chains,
Melded from iron and isolation.

Every ending has its lessons:

My bones still remain broken,
But my bruises lay unseen,
Beneath this vast, desolate, empty entity
That I used to call “me”.

Winter

Something I wrote during a creative writing class back in high school… so lower your expectations! This is something I came across just not that made me realize how far I’ve come as a writer. Thank god.

Winter

As the snow falls,
I’m reminded that another year is almost over.
I sit by the window,
watching as each individual flake
falls outside.
The weatherman says it’ll snow quite a bit
I think about winter,
about not having school;
We are like snowflakes; each different
from all the rest, floating freely in
the air. We land on the ground and
then poof!… we melt. We’re dead.
To me, winter reminds me
that our time is almost done.