Nothing but change.

You told me not to change
and I said yes.
Sorry I lied,
I lost the thing I once had.

It’s like a heart-attack,
sirens, flashes, warning signs.
I guess my brain can’t decide,
to win or just to survive.

So it’s the middle road,
can’t see the sun,
can’t rest at night.
Sorry for the people I disappointed.

Sorry for the ones I still blame,
especially myself & I.
Want to be alive,
just to keep myself alive.

It’s a battle with no win or lose,
it’s the outside that’s inside.
I keep hearing people say “rise, rise”!
Have they learned their lessons? Not I.

I guess I was sorta insane.
The spark you saw
was all part of a dream.
I was there but somewhere also.

Do you know what I mean?

I’m sorry I’ve changed.
I’m sorry I’m the same.
You said it long ago,
but did you really know

what any of this means?

All I have.

I have someone else’s lips.
I have someone else’s nose.

I have my mother’s forehead
and her cheekbones.
I have my father’s eyes,
not my mother’s that look like a cat’s.
Looking into his is like looking into mine own.
While hers are like stranger’s,
but still pretty to look at.

I have my father’s torso.
I have my mother’s bosoms.
I have athlete’s foot like she does
and the full head of hair too
that’s not turning grey
like when she’s my age.
Must be my father’s gift.

I have god knows whose’ eyebrows.
I may have grandfather’s selfishness.
I may have a touch of grandmother’s madness.
I suffered mother’s iron will.
I marveled & pitied father’s intellect.
I’m quick to withdrawn when being beaten back.
I yearn like them for something they never had.

Are we a tree? More like a twig.
You said my name’s not gonna be on that list.
So then why should I give a shit?
All them pretty things to look at,
just as well cause they’re made to be wiped.
If this’s a game I will hold my line.
I have my mother’s & my father’s tears.

I don’t want to pass it on if that’s all I have.

Girls’ night out.

Girls’ night out, yo,
got myself a little bell.
Girls’ night out,
clink, clash, pow!

Girls’ night out, yo,
if you don’t see me about.
It’s girls’ night out,
girls’ night out.

Girls gotta have fun now,
it runs in the family.
Let you be reminded,
why we ain’t smiling.

It’s fun time, girls’ high time,
Grab a friend time, forget the past time.

It’s all us girls now,
never been anyone else.
Let me give you the hashtag,
it’s #girlsdontgiveashit.

Don’t ask if you don’t wanna listen,
we ain’t got time & you ain’t our guest.
Better hurry up & get outta dodge,
otherwise your ass’ going in the trunk.

It’s girls’ night out, it’s not garbage night.
It’s been awhile so wear that skunk red.
Got no worries with guns in the purse.
Think I’m drunk? You better ask first.

It’s girls’, girls’, girls’ night out.
It’s cooing, mewing, howling in the crowd.
There’s no contest who can be really loud.
Ask the sherif, she’s been here awhile.

It’s girls’ night out, women’s night out, grandmas’ last night out.
No cookies, cakes, or roasted birds for you just now.
Hurry up & get out of our house.
It’s our night, all night, ain’t a thing but girls’ night.

Whiskey Bottom.


I live a half life, yo,
that I’m always guilty for.
Sorry I was born.
Sorry I was a girl.
Sorry they almost divorced.
Sorry they stayed together.

I learned to compromise
and call nowhere home.
No directions, no set belief.
So what am I guilty for?
Sorry I was never young.
Sorry I don’t like people.

Sorry I lie because
I don’t want to talk
to convince you something
I can’t wrap my head around.
Sorry I change my mind.
Sorry I walk you into a trap.

I remember what I said at seven
to convince my parents.
I remember the moment
I discovered a tape
that turned my care-free
into bone-deep suspicion.

I’m sorry that I’m sorry.
I feel guilty feeling this.
Am I supposed to grow up?
Why does it feel like death?
What do I have to adjust
to feel like a well-adjusted person?

I say “sorry” to myself.
I’ve let myself down.
Not owning my differences,
still not cutting it.
Maybe just a little space,
a breath, at whiskey bottom.

Jesus, my star.

(Half inspired by choir music, half by a headache.)

Jesus, my star,
have you traveled far.
Give me the courage to follow
through the desert & swamp.

We are hand in hand,
in spirit & in flesh.
All around us, the world
makes us believe in you.

Oh, my dove,
fly my spirit away,
to your father’s kingdom,
to my resting place.

If you are dead, then
I know I’m saved.
If you’re alive,
then I rest my faith.

We are hand in hand,
in spirit & in flesh,
to your father’s kingdom,
to my resting place.

Oh, my dove,
fly my spirit away.
We are hand in hand,
to my resting place.

Period Talk – September Edition.

According to a certain politician, we are all offsprings of rapes and incests. What struck me is that it seems to imply men are doing the majority of the work of propagating to ensure that there are enough babies to go around, and women just have to make the best of it. Gosh, no wonder women are taught to be calm and peaceful, and more responsible, kinder, stay at home, loving, available. Turns out it’s our place to just lay there and wait, then deal with it. Does that sound about right though? What if the page is flipped, and let’s say, women are the hunters, they are the ones who are keeping an eye out for the next viable vessel solely for her own goals? Does that sound vaguely evil now? It does, doesn’t it? And yet, the ones doing the alleged rapes and incests are the ones proliferating. What does that tell you?

But this post is about the period, the other humbling experience every woman must experience. Did we sign up for it? No. Were we prepared for it? For the majority of us, no. Are there any studies done on its impact on young women’s psyche? I haven’t seen any. But I can tell you how it affected me. I believe self-trust is one of the foundations for self-esteem. I was a carefree child, a tomboy, a prodigy even who was preparing for a mathematics contest when my first period occurred. I wasn’t prepared. I didn’t know what was happening. It was a public humiliation. I think I still live with that shock. What’s worse, I was keenly aware that my body was not my own. Things happen to it, my brain’s no longer under my control. I was lost in self-doubt and self-hate. And that was just the beginning of the price to pay for being a woman.

“For what’s a woman, what has she got? If not herself, then she has naught.” I learned it the hard way, or maybe, the only way there was: to claim that person for yourself again, to channel the frustrations, to discern the misdirections, to safe-guard that spark that makes you, you. For now, I’m a cruel and un-usual human being, and I’m flowing with it.