Category: Poetry

I do not care if you call me shallow. So what? You made me this way.

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It is not my fault that I spend a longer time than I should in front of the mirror every day.

I am very aware of the precious seconds that I waste, that I could be using instead to do so many other things, so many other ”groundbreaking, life-changing things” 

I know that if I collected each minute that I have spent worrying, fidgeting, and wondering about my appearance, maybe just maybe I could be inventing the next ingenious machinery or whatever.

I know that if I counted all the money that I have “wasted” purchasing make-up to cover up all my assigned insecurities that, I could damn near be a millionaire. 

Oh imagine how inspirational I would be if I did not take all those selfies, if I did not pose provocatively on my social media. Imagine how much more respect I would receive. 

I am shallow. I am superficial. I lack depth. And it is entirely your fault. Not mine. 

I would not stand in front of the mirror if you hadn’t handed me the mirror in the first place.

I would not use it as a tool to pick myself apart, If you hadn’t told me that that was what it was for. 

I do not care if you judge me. I am not doing this for you. 

Not anymore. 

There is voice, there has always been a voice. This voice would remind me that I could be better, that I could look better. The voice never talked about anything else. It followed me, reminding me, every day. This voice and his message would be spoken through my peers and the world around me. “You could be skinnier, you could fix this and change that.” It haunted me.

I would see it in the movies I watched, in the music I listened to, In the people I met. In the way I was treated, in the way that I was received and, in the way that I would feel, once I was alone. 

I could be better, or rather, I am not enough. 

So guess what? I did what I needed to do to be accepted, to be humanized. I became shallow, superficial surface-Level.

I did all this because you told me to. Because I did not have any other option. 

Because if I didn’t then I would be subjected to something far worse than being shallow and lacking depth. I would be discarded. I would be unacknowledged. I would be treated like I wasn’t flesh and bones, like I was not something that was living, something that can be injured, something that can at a given point stop breathing. 

So you tell me, would you rather be shallow or nothing? are these options? 

Call me shallow. So what? I was born to be this way.

i am the pool you never stepped in because you knew it was too deep and you couldn’t swim.

about pressure, my unwelcome guest 

michelleLeave a comment

Pressure

Pressure

I can feel every second 

I can see each minute float away

My heart beats, we look at each other. She is tired, she beats all day. 

What’s wrong?

I look around for the problem, I can’t find it. I search for words, there are none.

It feels so dark, but I’m still blinded by flashing lights. This makes no sense. A sharp, high-pitched sound clouds my mind. Who is screaming? 

I think I would know if it was me. Right?

Pressure.

Pressure.

I don’t say stop. I don’t say enough. 

I don’t deserve it. 

I can’t move. I am stuck. 

I am alone. There is no one in here but me. But then again, who else could access my thoughts? Who else could access my mind?

Besides, Pressure. My uninvited guest. My captor. Trapping me inside my mind. 

I can’t smell the roses anymore. I don’t want to.

Pausing is a privilege granted to those who deserve it. Pressure reminds me. Do you deserve it ?– they question me.

Taunting me

Laughing as I beg. I reason I try to escape my solitary confinement.

I look for distractions. I look for short obstacles, I want to keep them happy, I want to be myself. I need to learn what that even looks like. 

Pressure.

It chips pieces of me from myself. Now I walk around feeling exposed, I walk with my head down, my eyes say too much. 

I walk alone, but I’m begging for a shadow. I am begging for a shoulder. 

I do not want to be alone. 

But the only way that you will find people is if you are something and do something. 

This is not enough. You are not enough. 

Pressure is harsh. My wounds are not healing. Excessive friction. Everything is out of sync. 

I am spiraling. While the minutes continue to float away, I circle down the drain. 

Finally, I am free. I think I am. Hours can’t haunt me anymore. Time is finished with me.

But Pressure remains. It becomes the soundtrack of my life, whispering and reminding me. My wounds never heal.

Pressure

them

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We hurt together.

She hurts. I watch 

But I am not welcome as a viewer,

My presence is not enough. 

I, too, must join

I ask to help carry it instead,

But that is not enough.

Helping is not enough

Nothing is enough. 

The pain becomes an infection, 

It is vicious and consuming. 

But I can’t carry it, and I can’t view it,

I must become it as well.

I am frozen. Unknowingly so, I begin to hurt.

And so we sit in it 

And her pain becomes ours 

And nobody watches because nobody knows. 

And no one asks to carry it and nobody wants to.

And we remain 

Hurt. Together.

whose shame?

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His shadow, her truth 

His blurred face, her exposed breasts. 

Her face, his secret.

They know so much, but who do you talk about when you say they?

They entertain. They cater. They serve.

They meet you at your darkness. They listen to your needs.

They are closer to you than you think. They know more about your promise than you think.

In the darkness, they offer freedom, a refuge from sudden urges, an itch, and intense desire.

Your freedom in exchange for their safety, a price – compensation.

And despite their safety, despite their kindness. They are sentenced to the dark. An embodiment of others’ shame, they are outcasted. Their stories are written for them, and their duty is seen as a disservice, a setback for all. But I ask, when the sun goes down, who seeks them? Who needs them? 

Your neighbor, a stranger on the bus, your best friend, your lover. Forced to abide by standards set by their own, forced to cast their perceived shortcomings to those undeserving. 

But who do we shame? Who do we mock? Why?

Is it because we know? We recognize their necessity? A crucial piece in a broken machine, a flawed system using secrets to remain afloat. 

And when others march, do they march for them? Are their needs considered needs? Who is the judge, who gets to decide?

And as you fix your nose upwards, as you pash your judgment, as you use them as examples for your cautionary tales.

Do you wonder why something deemed so shameful still exists, why they prevail, and why they never go away?

Do you wonder who ensures they, too, can rest their head and see another day? 

They know more than you think. They are closer to you than you want to admit. Sentenced to represent shadows although their truth could light up others lives.

But who do you talk about when you say they?

Pretty people die, too.

michelleLeave a comment

Did you know that? That pretty people died, too?

We live in a society. A society hellbent on dividing but not conquering. We live in a time where the perceived sum total of a person is based on what category they fit into and what box they tick. There is an emphasis on all this separation and identification even though, at the very end, no one is exempt from the hand of life and, ultimately, death.

These man-made pedestals do much for the living and nothing for the dead.

And even the most powerful, influential, and beautiful, they, too, remain at the mercy of life itself.

In a world that thrives off on separation and distinction. In a world with occupants that continuously seek to push an agenda that ties our worth, our dignity, and the importance of life itself, based on its ability to meet criteria. Criteria that those who perpetuate don’t and can’t meet themselves,

I urge you to remind yourself that pretty people die, too.

And a statement like this can imply a wealth of ignorance. I am here to inform you that I know the world that we live in (- or at least I am starting to). I see how these categories and divisions create a perceived sense of power and ability to determine another’s worth. This is why many march, many demand, and some ultimately have to beg that other person someone can see beyond the division, beyond the categories. 

It is why empathy is reserved for those who can actualize it as opposed to a universally taught standard.

Despite this, despite all of this, pretty people still die, too. 

Everyone does. A moment, a second, a decision can be the only line separating the living and the dead. We know this, but we can and probably will ignore it. Ignore how simple and how fragile, how precious, human life is.

And so, we continue to polish the pedestals, rejecting those that do not meet the requirements of the pedestal. While others will dehumanize those standing on the pedestals, subjecting them to fates, few understand and speak about. 

A few will fight against the pedestals, and fewer will see actual change.

And the train will keep going. And everyone, including the pretty people, will die. And we will all wonder what the point was and why the pedestals even existed,

And then, slowly but surely, the cycle will continue. 

And when another pretty person dies, we will stand in shock because we will be reminded that pretty people die, too.

I wish I cried on the train.

michelleLeave a comment

I almost cried on the train today. I also almost cried at the bus stop. And I almost cried as I walked home.

I held it in, of course. I focused on something else

But throughout the day, the feeling followed me. A wave of unexpected sadness and a desperate need to release it. To feel it. But I held it in. I focused on something else.

Soon, I was no longer at the bus stop, I wasn’t on the train, and I had finally reached home.

Every step and every push forward was backed by the promise that I would grant myself a moment, a time to cry. “Just not now.” I believed myself. I trusted that I would give myself a chance to feel and an opportunity to express myself. I always trust myself because if I did not, then who can I trust. Who else would let me cry?

But I never did. And the feeling left. At least, I thought so. 

Because I have been wanting to cry, I have been feeling the feeling of wanting to cry. But every time it comes, every time I finally allow it to come, it doesn’t. And I am left here with feelings I can’t express and a weight I can’t let go off. 

And I hope eventually I will cry. And as I hope, I also fear for the moment because I am not sure if I will ever stop once I start. And, instead of being the girl that never cried, I will become the girl that never stopped.

I wish I cried on the train. And at the bus stop and, as I walked home. I wish I cried because that would release me from being anything. It would release me from being the girl who cried or never cried. 

It would release me because I would be feeling. I would be feeling instead of wondering what type of girl I was. Because I would be present, and I would be just a girl who is crying on the train, at the bus stop, and on her way home. 

I wish I cried so that I could just be the girl who cried when she needed to. 

On remembering and Not remembering

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I am still recovering. 

I am still working on it. I am still feeling it. 

Still dealing with it.

There are moments when I am fine. Moments when I don’t remember. I don’t remember the hurt, the embarrassment, the feeling of instant regret. There are days when I forget that I ever experienced any of that. 

Then, there are days when I remember. 

The days when I stay inside. The days when I get consumed in the hating, and the pulling myself apart, the days when the self-doubt takes over.  On those days, hoping feels a little sillier and a little hopeless. 

So, I try my best not to remember,

I put them away, distract myself, and instead, I imagine: I set the scene, and you are placed right in the middle. The best seat in the house.

In my theatre

Here you cannot miss this show. You cannot miss a second, a turn, a smile. I stand before you. This time, I am prepared. This time, I know your game.

This time, it is a fair game

I see through your facade. I recognize the bullshit bluffing as your so-called confidence. The blurry image I once thought was mysterious has cleared up to be insecurity. 

This time, you can’t hurt me.

You can’t hurt me because while you can see me. And while you can hear me and feel my energy, my presence, my impact.

You cannot touch me. You cannot approach me. You are only a viewer in my show and you can only watch me because you cannot watch anything else

I am the show. And you are my audience. 

At this moment, I have control. I am in control, and you cannot hurt me. 

When I remember I go there, to this place. The place where I tell you who you are. The place where I confront you with your shame

The place where I hold the mirror, and instead of hurting me, you see yourself. Clearly. 

On the days when I don’t remember. 

I hope, I long, and I wish. I am once again just a girl who has feelings. The girl who may not have worn her heart on her sleeve but the girl who imagined the good. The girl who would daydream about the boy who handed her their sharpener, about the other boy who held the door open for her, and about the other boy whose laugh was a cure for any bad feelings in her mind.

The girl who didn’t even for a second, second guess intention, the girl who never doubted her worth of deserving love.

When I remember, I go to the place where I can tell you what you have done to me. 

The place where my scars are visible. Where my pain is universally understood. Accepted and not justified. 

When I remember, I speak clearly. 

I share my shame with you because it should belong to you.

I leave the stage and you, with the baggage you gave me. I leave the stage and realize what I have always known, what I needed you to know. I leave the stage, and finally, you know

You realize your loss. You realize your misfortune. I leave, and you curse the air and feel the feeling. The sensation, and it engulfs you 

I leave, and all you are left with is regret. 

That’s the part that’s left. The reason why the memory of you still lingers. The reason why I remember and don’t remember. My curiosity keeps me, making me revisit you and the memory and the time. It makes me think about you, unable to forget you. I wonder to myself, I wonder if you feel it.

Do you have any remorse? Regret? 

I wonder if there is a split second or moment in your day where you pause and wonder. Long for a moment. A time when you could be on the stage. A moment when I sit across in the best seat in the house. Right in the middle because I cannot miss a thing. Because you need me to hear from you

To see you.

A moment when you say how you felt, how the shame was too much.How the shame, the embarrassment, the instant regret was the spillage from the overflowing pool of emotions you carry on your chest. You tell me that the isolation was a gift, a moment of compassion and protection from the mess that encompasses your self-hatred and anger and that your unresolved troubled childhood trauma was the sole reason. That I was just an unlucky casualty in your war against yourself.

That way, I would see your pain—all of it.

I would see the shame. 

You would get to tell me who you really are. 

You would tell me about the days when you remember. Days when you can’t choose not to remember. You would tell how on the days when you remember how you go to this place. You would go to this stage, and you would say to me how you remember.

You would then do the most unexpected thing. 

You would ask me how I felt.

And you would tell me how seeing my shock and confusion after that question would pain you. 

You would tell me how you never realized that that was the first time you had asked me this, the first time you paused and considered me, my story, and my feelings.

And then I would tell you what I do on the days that I don’t remember and on the days that I do. 

My Glass Bowl

michelleLeave a comment

When I start to like someone, I get scared.

scared to admit it and scared to fall.

I walk around with my heart in my hands,

I carry it like a delicate glass bowl.

I am careful not to drop it.

My glass bowl.

The glass bowl I carefully carried and protected has been shattered. again.

Once again, I am left to pick up the pieces.

I am careful, of course

the only person at risk of getting cut by the jagged pieces is me. Only me.

and I do not want to get cut cleaning up a mess that I did not make.

Yet that is how the game works these days,

they come in, examine my glass bowl – some even say that it is beautiful, that they have never seen anything like it!

and then, they break it.

by “accident”, of course.

And so I work to clean it up. I make sure not to create more of a mess. I make sure not to get cut by the jagged pieces. Because I do not want to get cut cleaning up a mess that I did not make.

sometimes, they come back and admire my work; they say well done! good for you!

and then they move on to another exhibit. Another glass bowl.

and I am left to reinvent my glass bowl once again. Forced to find and showcase the beauty of a once broken and now put-together glass bowl.

a glass bowl that I did not break.

my glass bowl. my heart.

about the revolutionary girl

michelleLeave a comment

Believe it or not, as a woman, loving yourself can often feel like a revolutionary act.

Being alone and being okay with that feels almost ground-breaking.

Eating out, buying something nice, or dancing alone at a party can be indisputably described as insurgent. Revolutionary.

This is because, it is. Unfortunately.

Growing up, I imagined myself going to university and finding the love of my life. It was planned out perfectly. All I needed to do was be in the right place at the right time so that the right boy would see me – like, really see me. Come over and sweep me off my feet. Happily ever after.

Done, simple.

Now, a few situationships, 5 years of education, a complete journal of unsent letters, hopes, and desires, and, importantly, 2 years of celibacy later, I would like to report that maybe if I wanted to experience a movie-like romance, I would need to find and hire and write my male soulmate. Unfortunately for me, I can’t really task all my hopes onto fate.

The revolutionary girl.

One day, after I spent my morning crying over a guy, I saw a post on Pinterest describing a girl who wasn’t afraid to enjoy life alone. I am not joking; that was the first pin on my “for you” page.

The post described this act as revolutionary because, as we know, society hates to see a girl that is young, fun,and happy – and also alone. The quote was uplifting and encouraging, yet it only made me angry. I am happy, and I am alone. These are not mutually exclusive. However, it seems like these are often placed on opposing teams, and when a woman chooses both, she is seen as revolutionary.

but when will it okay to also admit that I want love? can I ever admit it?

It almost feels as if I am being forced to be okay with independence, and any indication that I feel the opposite would be setting back women 500 years. It is complex. I saved the quote. I agree with it, but for a moment, I had to ask myself if a world exists in which women can be strong and independent and have our independence not solely judged and compared to men and love.

takes a deep breath. You can be a strong, independent woman who wants a man.

To me, a revolutionary girl can still dance around to music in her room; she can still have ownership and autonomy for herself and her body. But (and scandalously), she can also express the desire to be loved. It’s okay, it’s an emotion.

I am tired of being an evolutionary woman. I want to just be a woman. I have no desire to break the status quo. I do not desire to be asked “how I make it work.” I am gentle. I want help. I want love, and I want care.

To admit this desire is revolutionary to me

  • idk this should be a journal entry

On starting again

michelle1 Comment

Back again!

It only took me four years, lol.

I recently graduated from university. I did the thing, I put in the work, and sure enough, I walked across a stage and got my (very much deserved) 5 minutes of fame. And while I am incredibly proud and grateful that I was able to achieve such an achievement, the end of my undergrad journey was filled with the underlying feeling of unfulfillment, confusion, and frustration.

This trifecta of bad vibes was because what I had imagined I would feel at the end of this journey versus my reality was completely different. I had envisioned myself being more grounded and secure, energized for the next chapter. Instead, I had a liberal arts degree and zero clue about where and how to begin the next step. One thing I did know was that I was exhausted and burnt out to a crisp.

In conclusion, I felt deceived. I did the work! There were countless sleepless nights, overconsumption and reliance on coffee, emails … oh, all the emails begging class instructors for extensions, clarifications, and mercy. I happily found myself on my knees because I was motivated because this was necessary. It was a degrading means to a prideful end.

Yet here I was, confused as ever my only companion being the burning question: What is next?

Now, this was three months ago. I have since spent all my available energy on relaxing and regrouping. No one ever said how difficult it is to relax, you know. I have had to force myself to be okay with not having plans, reminding myself that the difference between me and the bummy men that my friends and I make fun of is that I am me, and they are them. Simple. This period of rest was not only so so deserved but also a moment in which I allowed myself to really just think. Think about what I wanted and where I wanted to be.

This was the beginning of me opening my Pandora’s box (I hope I am using that term correctly).

It’s shocking, really, how when you decide to dedicate time to pursuing your hobbies and finding your purpose, that is when you discover that you really have zero idea who you are.

In these past few months, I have learned so much about myself. Not even in a deep, Oprah Winfrey crying type of way, but in an interesting non-psychoanalytical way! It’s been fun! But I will say that before it was fun, it was lonely and depressing.

It did take me being so stressed out that both my eyes would twitch uncontrollably, a serious lack of emotional regulation, and almost breaking down because I missed a bus to get here. After I had a sit-down moment with myself and realized all this was doing more harm than good, I decided to take the time and just … be.

On starting again.

I wish I could say life has been just dandy since I made this choice, however we live in a society, and life will do what life does. But it has become more bearable and dare I say it – enjoyable?

I came to the conclusion that in order for me to begin this journey of the what is next, I needed to accept my current reality. The truth was that I did not know. I knew what I did not want, but ultimately I did not know anything else. I was starting from scratch and I that meant I needed to be okay with that. I needed to be okay with that because I needed to be okay with all that comes with starting again.

The vulnerability of learning. Of not knowing. Being taught, making mistakes, and trying again.

Starting again.

And so I am here. Back again! I learned that in all the moments that I have been through in life, one thing has always stayed the same, I am a writer. I love it. My mind and body exist to write and tell stories. I am more comfortable with a pen, but I could get used to typing. So here we are, with a self-promise to remain consistent. Granting myself a space to express and grow. Enjoy the ride