collection of my poetry and short stories

Posts in Reflection

There was no screaming, yelling, or apologies. I half expected us to have a shouting match but we looked at each other and nodded in appreciation. I'm sure the entire bar felt our reunion. I remember my friends telling me that whenever we were both in the room, everyone would feel our intensity. We would glow in each other's presence whether we were aware of it or not.

 I must admit, you brought out the best in me. I truly loved you even when my words stuttered in fear trying to express it or when I was too stubborn to return your kiss at the bookstore. The best thing about us was that we were so similar. Too carefree about details that needed to be completed and too stubborn to admit when we wanted to be loved more. We were both the same to the point that we stopped trying. 

You took up so much space in my head and heart. 

But it's been forever and all that space that I had for you I have created for someone else - myself. And it took some time because I didn't want to give you up. Typical Lisa. Stubborn and petty. Always trying to make every "no" to a "yes" without the consideration of reality. But I could honestly say that giving you up, I finally understood what all those stupid Drake songs meant and what people have been singing/writing about for the first time in forever. You reintroduced me to me and for that I am so thankful.

I am so proud to have loved you.  

You With Me?

"No one really cares. I'm not special. I'm not brave"

She just stared at me and I stared back at her, half hoping she'll dismiss me from the room or change the subject. My therapist looked at me for what seemed like forever and I said nothing after that. We both sat quietly in silence.

I was 18 when I entered therapy and hit my mental breaking point. To say I was exhausted is an understatement. I was physically and mentally depleted. I was defeated. I had finally lost myself. I think she knew because every week for an hour, she would see me retreat and dismiss every little thing a human found important in life. I could give a fuck. I could care less that I weighed nothing more than a 7th grader, my head of hair fell out in clumps, or that I could barely get up from bed. To me, I was nothing. But to her, I was more than the pile of rotting flesh that I often l felt. So much that she finally broke the silence.

"I think you're brave. You're one of the bravest people I think I met and I am very lucky for that. And I care a lot about you and I love you. Not because I pity you but because I want you to understand your worth. I want you to see yourself the way I see you every week. Cause you try so hard and I can see that somewhere deep inside you still care about yourself and the world. You decided to come here all by yourself. No one is forcing you - by law or guardian. You are here. And decide to come every week even when shit gets hard so please remember when I tell you this. You matter so much. You with me?"

So in times of despair much like what I've been facing the last few weeks, I think about her. Not so much her words but this very specific moment in which she presented me with myself. A rare moment in my life where I am able to look beyond sorrow and give myself the love I sought from others. The moment where I can stop grieving and self hating and let myself be vulnerable. Because the struggle lies more than just admitting your feelings out loud but remembering to give ourselves a break when shit doesn't go our way. I forget that I am loved and cared for constantly and this is the consequence of learning to be emotionally independent at a young age. I forget that people actually care more than I think and my absence much like my words have a profound effect. I'm human and I am more wrong than I am right. And despite my anxiety and depression, I am still Lisa Lei. I am still trying and that is enough. Everything is enough, always.

Pose 01

When I talk about intimacy I don't mean the hazy, lost in love gaze you give to your lover. The kind where writers yearn and reach for in their poses and measurements linked to nature, art, and the brief touching of lips. All of that is like the brief flash after a lightning storm - brief, dreamy, and untouchable by the human hands.

When I speak about intimacy I am talking about the moments you give to yourself at two in the morning, a sweaty summer day, and a lazy winter afternoon. The way your own gaze goes from your mouth to your eyes to that small scar you carry from your bike accident. I'm talking about your own fingers carving the insides of your body. That my dear, that's intimacy. The ability to feel your own power and not feel ashamed that someone else isn't inside you giving you that same feeling. That's love. The ability to not align yourself to a thousand year old tree, a girl with beautiful hair, a random boy who told you he loved you, or to a unknown person grasping for some human connection through words on a paper. All that is waste. It's a wasteland. A emotional gray wasteland for those who crave real intimacy but are too emotionally fucked to take a real stand to try the real thing. 

When I speak about intimacy I'm talking about things beyond the realm of sex. It goes beyond the notion that our bed must be warm at night with another body or how your breath lingers when you're touched the right way. I could care less. What matters more so is how we claim ourselves when no one else will. That's love. That's intimacy. The unbashful ability to make yourself come to terms with yourself without the need to have someone create it for you. Intimacy isn't created by two souls, it is given to the sole person who ignites the fire. The lone wolf in the desert. The first fallen meteor. The unblossomed flower in the forest. All must want it first. And if you want it, you got it.

Darling, you've won.

Instagram Free = A Better Human Being (At Least For Me)

As I'm sitting here in my apartment anticipating the drop of Drake's new album much like all the other soft ass bitches in the world, I realized its been a real minute since my little stubby fingers has strolled through the Instagram world. And to be honest I don't even miss it. I deleted the app earlier this year and have yet to have it back on my phone for this pure reason - I am a better human being for it

Instagram is bullshit and will continue to make people think and create even more bullshit in their lives. I stopped posting on my personal Instagram for that pretense because my mind was being cluttered with garbage that fucked me up all the time. I would find myself being the worst critic of anyone and anything that past through my feed and worst of all I was obsessing over bitches who have no type of impact on my life. 

Does it really matter that my ex liked this girl's picture? Or follows this person that I don't like? Better yet is it even remotely important that my side piece got a new pair of shoes and was stunting it for their 2,000 something followers? Nah. None of that shit matters and will continue to not matter when we pass on. And the only reason why any of us do it (including myself) is cause we have been ingrained to gain some sort of validation in tearing down and stalking these people we follow. But what the fuck are we really validating? Nothing but insecurities with ourselves and judgement towards others who are wandering the world just like us. 

So when I say I became a better person by dipping off Instagram I am basically saying in a nutshell that we need to stop caring about shit that isn't going to affect us in the long run. Cause everything is so temporary and life is a wonderful fleeting journey that should be spent doing things we love and not hovering over a phone screen. Let's not waste time comparing, obsessing, stalking, and scrolling through fragments of someone's edited life. I don't know y'all, maybe its time to grasp shit that's actually real like ourselves. 

Mother Of Mine

I'm afraid for her as much as I fear for myself. I fear that I will be plagued with these same battles my mom stubbornly refuses to let up. I fear that she would make me her commander in these long drawn fist fights that I refuse to fight. Cause I'm tired and worn out too. I'm tired of fighting the battles my mom has created for me at a young age. Battles that have left me so mentally fucked that sometimes I wonder how I'm still functioning. 

But that is what happens when your mother looks at you with disappointment and hope. The odd combination of "What did I do to make you turn out this way" and "You have the highest potential to be better than yourself". Those are the two parallels I've always fallen into and to be honest, shit is never going to be different. As the days go by and her face is worn from years of wisdom, I'm scared my mom will leave this physical world without confronting herself. Confronting the notion that she may be mentally ill and that her mind doesn't collapse once in a while when she thinks about what her life use to be. That is what I fear that my mom will one day, sooner rather than later won't be able to recognize herself and have closure.