on women’s [mental] health.

Did I ever tell you reading Women’s Health makes me feel skinny? Like last month’s issue. I read it for the little facts. Like hummus being a natural abdomen tightener or how green tea helps you burn calories. I prefer men’s magazines to stay away from countless pieces on love and relationships and sex and how to improve yourself for men or the nice shoes and bags for fall. Fuck that. What about how to get my life together? How about some fucking reporter explain to me what it means when I feel this intangible sadness so powerful it feels tangible will not pass? Do you know any mags with that kind of information? You keep a lot of magazines in your bathroom. I’m running out of time and I know, jumping around. Back to WH. I did read an article on love and crushes. Don’t judge me. I didn’t say I didn’t read these kinds of pieces, I said I like to stay away. The article listed the reasons you like someone. Closed the book at – you want to be like him.

Of course I didn’t know that was the reason why I avoid his existence. Out of sight out of mind, right? No. I wouldn’t be writing. I need your help. You’re the doctor here. Do shock treatments make you forget heartache? Heartbreak? Bad sex? A sad childhood? Can you keep some stuff in? Like your goals or your siblings? You’re the doctor and my friend. Can you get me out of here? I want the same meds when I leave. And shock treatment. Or shock therapy? What is it called? Does it only happen on TV? All the women in my unit need it. Ah, that was a joke. I like being really quiet when we have social events. Because the ladies here, they’re much sadder than me.

our dreams and to dos and right nows are unfolding.

A Thank-You Note to Men

To you, whom it may concern:

Manly creature, who smells good even when you don’t, you wake up too slowly, with fuzzy, vertical hair and a slightly lost look on your face as though you are seven or seventy-five; you can fix my front door, my sink, and open most jars; you, who lose a cuff link and have to settle for a safety pin, you have promised to slay unfortunate interlopers and dragons with your Phillips head or Montblanc; to you, because you will notice a woman with a healthy chunk of years or pounds on her and let out a wolf whistle under your breath and mean it; because you think either rug will be fine, really it will; you seem to walk down the street a little taller than me, a little more aware but with a purpose still; to you who codifies, conjugates, slams a puck, baits a hook, builds a decent cabinet or the perfect sandwich; you who gives a twenty to the kids selling Hershey’s bars and waits at baggage claim for three hours in your flannel shirt; you, sir, you take my order, my pulse, my bullshit; you who soaps me in the shower, soaks with me in the tub; to you, boy grown-up, the gentleman, soldier, professor, or caveman, the fancy man with initials on your towels and salt on your chocolates, to you and to that guy at the concession stand; thank you for the tour of the vineyard, the fire station, the sound booth, thank you for the kaleidoscope, the Horsehead Nebula, the painting, the truth; to you who carries me across the parking lot, up the stairs, to the ER, to roll-away or rice mat; to you who shows up every so often only to confuse and torment, and you who stays in orbit, always, to my left and steady, you stood up for me, I won’t forget that; to you, the one who can’t figure it out and never will, and you who lost the remote, the dog, or your way altogether; to you, wizard, you sang in my ear and brought me back from the dead, you tell me things, make me shiver; to the ones who destroyed me, even if for a minute, and to the ones who grew me, consumed me, gave me my heart back times ten; to most everything that deserves to call itself a man: How I do love thee, with your skill to light fires that keep me warm, light me up.

by Mary Louise Parker, via Checks, via Esquire

Purple

I hope I look better than you tonight, she said as I stood in front of her in a short Grecian designer dress. I took it as a compliment. Her envy eyes glared at me with a smile, as she helped with one last curl that needed some pinning up. You won’t, I whispered. After an hour of standing in the mirror, curling hair and applying makeup, we were anxious to get to this birthday party.

My older sister and I haven’t partied together before. I’ve been partying for almost eight years, with friends, family, wealthy and poor – but never my sister. Took great pride in touching her breasts, moving them around for the perfect fit in a black strapless dress I picked out. Against my desire to drive to the party, she insisted we ride with a couple of guys.

I’ve worn this dress before, but everything feels new. Ex lovers everywhere. A whisper in my ear, a touch of my hips. Some angered, others understanding. After several drinks, it’s starting to feel like Manhattan. Gracefully making my way across the room, across the dance floor. They’re all watching. They’re always watching. The women, the men. I should keep my drinking at minimum.

I meet up with my sister after the party in front of the driver’s house. She told me about him days ago. Said I need to meet him, said he’s nice. Doesn’t smoke, doesn’t drink. He signals for me to get out the car and accompany him inside.

Nice room. Did you paint yourself? I asked.
No my brother remodeled the entire house.
Are these all your sneakers?
I have more downstairs.
Do you mind if I sit on your bed?
Of course you can sit on my bed. He smiled.

I’m watching him, he’s careful. Zip loc bag here. Zip loc bag there. Reminds me of relatives. Of all the boys growing up. I want to go to sleep. I want the company of hard working creative men. I want the company of hard working creative women. I want to go back to the place that made me forget what home was like.

STILL APPROPRIATE

Have a Good Day

When I open my eyes
I see the world around me
like trees, flower, people. and me
If I believe in myself
I know just what to do and say
Life is good
to me and you

poem by Kyla Barbosa
**Kyla is my 8 year old sister. She is, pretty much, just like me.

“I’m excited for the days where I imagine the book, the school, the love, the man, the universe. All joined together for a meal I’ve prepared.”

in case you’re wondering.

I mean that I write what I see, what’s told to me that I feel very deeply, or what happened to me that I can’t forget, but also what happened to others I love, or what strangers have told me happened to them, or what I read happened to others. I take all of this and cut and paste it together to make a story, because in real life a story doesn’t have shape, and it’s the writer that gives it a beginning, a middle, and an end.

Of course, I cannot borrow anyone else’s story unless I have lived a similar emotion. That is why I say all the emotions in my work, good and bad, are autobiographical. Does that make sense? For how could I write about a broken heart if my own heart hadn’t been parted in two like an apple? -Sandra Cisneros

Not Summer of Love

I think I love someone. For the past two days I’ve been suffocating that idea. Hands hold a firm grip. Die. For if you return. I will kill again. I can be unlovable or not. And you. The other one. With the different kind of love given on top of me. I decided not to suffocate my feelings for you. But drive them off the road into the water, so I can watch them drown. Like the way you did between my legs. Fuck love.

Summer of Love

Crush by Ada Limón

Maybe my limbs are made
mostly for decoration,
like the way I feel about
persimmons. You can’t
really eat them. Or you
wouldn’t want to. If you grab
the soft skin with your fist
it somehow feels funny,
like you’ve been here
before and uncomfortable,
too, like you’d rather
squish it between your teeth
impatiently, before spitting
the soft parts back up
to linger on the tongue like
burnt sugar or guilt.
For starters, it was all
an accident, you cut
the right branch
and a sort of light
woke up underneath,
and the inedible fruit
grew dark and needy.
Think crucial hanging.
Think crayon orange.
There is one low, leaning
heart-shaped globe left
and dearest, can you
tell, I am trying
to love you less.