halfmoon-sunglasses-blog

[halfmoon-sunglasses-blog]

To Grow Up with You

Lucy and Maeve met at a birthday party in the fourth grade, paired up by the tyrannical birthday girl herself.  “Let’s play London Bridge!” Halle announced, “everyone, pair up on the floor, lie down and put your feet against someone else’s.” Panic set in. Maeve has overly sensitive sweat glands, not only triggering an insane amount of Niagara Falls cosplay in her armpits but it affects her feet and hands too. Her shoes remain on at all times, the smell of prepubescent sweaty feet did not need to stink up a kid’s room. She faked her way into making everyone believe she was a germaphobe and didn’t let anyone touch her hand (paddy cake was off the table and the beloved game of slide was something to be admired and dreamed of from afar). Lauren went with Halle, Reign with Jasmine, Blake with Emily, which left Lucy and Maeve to awkwardly stare at each other. Maeve assumed the position. “EW! I’m not gonna be paired with Maeve, I don’t know where her shoes have been!” Lucy looked around the room as a last-ditch effort to switch partners. Maeve’s cheeks burned and she was sure as hell sweating even more now, sweating through her black jacket, fading the fabric and marking it with her perspiring shame. 

“Um…” Maeve let out a breathless laugh and shed her shoes. She knew they were sweaty, and shut her eyes in fear for the usual quip: why are they wet? Lucy didn’t say anything until later on while the two of them were brushing their teeth, “My mom’s feet sometimes get like that. I see her scrub them with salt. I can bring you some if you want?” She flashed a foamy white smile, so big toothpaste dripped from the sides of her mouth.  That night started a life-changing friendship: weekend sleepovers, pizza nights under a makeshift fort of old sheets, baking cookies, reading fanfiction and debating on which OTP they shipped harder. It was an entanglement, a connection, an extension of confusion as to where one began and the other stopped. At school they were asked if they were related, it always made Maeve smile knowing she could be compared and related to someone as pretty as Lucy. Envious of her straight hair, gliding slightly above her lower back, naturally long and curled lashes with eyes that could really only be described as Bambi doe eyes. It was easy to have her as a friend, Maeve told her about moving from Utah to California, the miserable boys who sprayed her with ketchup and called her a pig, the girls who called her fat and uninvited her to birthday parties, how her best friend was Ms. Bug, a student aid for June, the autistic girl in her class who liked grapes and word puzzles. Maeve and Lucy often look back on this time fondly and wonder if that pure oblivion into happiness is attainable again. (Maeve has concluded it can’t be duplicated while Lucy believes in the power of manifesting and good energy —Maeve thought it was all bullshit.) 

~

Maeve would be lying if she said things didn’t change the summer Lucy lost her virginity and spent every minute with Sam. It had always been a unit of two, no other person could tolerate the two of them together for more than a few hours at a time. They were loud, noisy, and directly linked to one another sharing the same body language; able to communicate with the roll of an eye or wiggle of an eyebrow. Their days were spent driving around in Lucy’s car, going to Maeve’s and holing themselves up in her room, watching true crime documentaries, listening to music, planning for big trips they’d never go on, worrying about what life after high school meant, truly wasting the days away was the greatest with Lucy by her side. Not many people understood her the way she did, there was no judgment and the free abandonment to express herself was a place of safety and stability.  It was simple and part of a new routine, for most it was boring and predictable, for Maeve and Lucy it was the most real and purest friendship. Before Sam there was Jonah, Maeve never met him, and Lucy didn’t speak about him much to her. She had new friends now; social and experienced. Lucy gravitated toward the spontaneity and excitement. With her well-manicured hands, freshly blown-out hair with the beaming confidence to get anything, and the smile to make anyone feel special; she was in a different stratosphere, and Maeve wasn’t that stupid to not recognize the difference between the two. It was at this time Maeve decided to say yes to Eric: a stumpy man 20 years her senior, dressed strictly in anime graphic tees and oversized baggy chino shorts. Standing at 5’5” 280 pounds packed with stout and rage, the most miserable person she had ever met, but the only sober person who liked her as much as Lucy. Maybe this would bring them closer together, this could be a new bond, a new conversation topic. She prayed and secretly begged this would mean she could get a text back or night of cookies and shitty movies again. Maybe, hopefully, please. 

~

Maeve found a note she thought she threw out. Nestled in the plastic red toolbox she’s had since she was 6. A place where she stored secrets, her furtive red box of handwritten journal entries, the retellings of reality that marred the static lines of nightmares and folklore. She was embarrassed to admit at 26 she was still using the same coping mechanisms she did when she was a kid. The letter was written last May at 8:32 p.m. 

 If you’re reading this, Maeve, you’re a senseless, brainless, stupid bitch who needs to get kicked in the goddamn head. He did it once and he clearly did it again. You’re spineless and you really are a dumb bitch, Maeve.  DUMP. HIS. ASS.

She took little comfort in the fact that past Maeve had been spot on and present-day Maeve was an idiot, because, duh, he did do it again. She could still feel the soft erratic thump of his portly stomach slapping against her back and his chubby fingers caressing her skin. His hot breath heavily whispering between each thrust, “It’s all a dream baby, go back to sleep.” Maeve twitches when she thinks about the way his hand gripped her neck, his rough tongue licking an incoherent pattern on her chest. The pressure weighing and suffocating her. “I wanted to see if I could put it in your ass without you knowing,” his words biting her spine, his body hovering over her while she pretended to sleep hoping this time it was a dream and maybe she could finally turn the night light off. She took a shower to wash off the grime from the night before and looked in the mirror to notice Eric’s handprint on her ass, looks more like a rat paw, she thought. Well, what the hell is she going to do now? She can’t leave him, who wants a fat depressed girl with low self-esteem? This was something she thought about regularly and then immediately wanted to kick herself in the head for being the exact opposite of what mama taught her. This is the point in the day where she begins her guilt trip and remembers all the ways she’s fucked up her life and brought shame onto the family.  

~

“What’s the plan for tonight?” Lucy asked, uninterested, really. 

“Don’t know. Chinese I guess?” Sam licks his fingers, collecting the Cheeto dust.

“K, well, I didn’t really drive all the way here for some shitty Chinese and sit in this room watching you game all day…” 

The pause hung there. The sound of the smacking fingers against dry lips being the only ice breaker. 

“All right,” he said, “What about Mexican then? You’re so fucking picky sometimes.”

Lucy couldn’t help but notice the way his tongue would flick out and curl around each finger he brought up to his mouth, the way his dry white tongue would slop up the powder. The noises identical to the ones he made with her between sheets late at night. “Yeah, sounds good. Love you.”

~

Maeve knew she was too attached to Lucy. Possessive, maybe. She was a loner and at times she felt Lucy was sticking around because the friendship had gone on for so long and she didn’t want to hurt Maeve’s feelings. She tried to push that thought far down but it jumped up like a Jack-in-the-Box, mocking her and reminding her of how unworthy she was of a good friend. It was embarrassing how reliant she was on Lucy’s approval, the desperation to keep her around and make her feel like what she gave Maeve was the most important and special gift she’s ever received and hopefully, Lucy felt the same. Lucy felt an unbelievable amount of responsibility and pressure not to crack. She knew Maeve was sensitive and alone and she wondered what happened to the girl in the forts who told fart jokes and turned everything into a musical, she worried maybe she would never get that girl back. She shouldn’t be responsible for someone else’s happiness, should she? Is it wrong to think of a friend as a bit of a burden sometimes? She shook away the thought immediately because it wasn’t true; Maeve is family, Lucy felt most comfortable and relaxed when she was around…she was her sounding board and confidant. The dinging notification of another text from Maeve cycled the feelings, the nagging anxiety of not paying enough attention to her and checking in. She thinks back to the night at the bar frequently and falls asleep with the thought running through her mind— did she do enough? 

~

She fell asleep listening to the rain splatter on her window, feeling a light splash of the droplets that seeped in through the cracked windowpane, Maeve was tucked in her grandpa’s down comforter, reminding her of nights like this where she would stay up with him watching whatever was on Lifetime and eating candied orange rinds. She woke up to the sound of mamá crying in the hallway and her dad’s voice shaking the house, “Don’t fucking talk over me, goddammit Teresa! Why don’t you ever listen?” Maeve shut her eyes and focused on the cooling touch of the comforter, transporting herself back with grandpa. She heard mamá scream followed by a thump, panicked, she, quietly moved out from under her safety blanket, wanting to see if mamá was okay, Maeve heard slapping, spitting, and choking… but never a thump loud enough to battle with her dad’s barking abuse. It was normal for her dad to lose his temper, it was expected for mamá to get the brunt of his insults and slew of spit that escaped through his gritted teeth, engulfed in the smell of old coffee and built-up plaque. She guessed it would make more sense if there was alcohol involved or if he was a crackhead and screaming for money and freedom. But he pushed her into the wall grabbing her delicate wrists because she didn’t give him a complete answer when he asked what time they were leaving for church the next morning. What she said: “If I wake up early maybe 7? If not, is 11 too late?” What he wanted her to say: ‘Definitely 7. The earlier the better, then we can go for breakfast afterward.’ The front door slammed, battling with the crash of thunder, the storm drowned out the slew of ‘fuck you’s’ and tears. She found mamá in her room on the bed clutching her rosary and rocking back and forth. Maeve wiped off her mother's tears and grabbed her hands. “Reza conmigo, mija,” mamá mustered a smile, still filled with the poise, courage, and elegance Maeve has always wanted. She kissed her hands and nimble wrists, looking at the red marks streaked across her lovely olive skin, “Padre nuestro, que estás en el cielo…” 

~

Maeve was twenty when she told her mom she was feeling ‘off.’ An undesirable and indescribable emptiness, the distance she created with Lucy because she was afraid of what would happen if she found out she was feeling this way even when she was with her. Maeve began noticing the lack of replies, infrequent hangouts, and the immeasurable pain of feeling abandoned. And then feeling ashamed of herself because these fucking pity parties are embarrassing. “I think there’s something wrong with me.” The steam coming from the pot of pozole filled the air, making her feel warm. “I think there’s something wrong with me,” she repeated. “I sometimes feel like I’m watching myself go through life like I’m going through the motions? Like autopilot you know?” she continued chopping the onions, mulling over what she was going to say next, “Do you hate me?” she tried to laugh to lighten the mood but she had to ask again, “Do you think I’m annoying...or like, a loser? Like are you embarrassed by me?” Maeve looked down at the cutting board afraid of the bewildered look her mom would shoot at her; the light touch on her shoulder jolted her out of the daze, they locked eyes. Her mom stared at her concerned and worried, she eventually said, “El diablo nunca duerme, mija.” She continued stirring the pot of soup, “I think you should go back to church, ever since you stopped going, I’ve noticed a change. Come with me on Wednesday, it will do you some good.” 

“Yeah, ok. Thanks, mamá.” She kissed her cheek and that was the last they spoke of it. 

~

10 unread messages. Lucy saw her phone light up, the messages of Maeve’s daily narration of mundane nothing’s rolling in and filling her inbox.�� She turned her phone upside down and crawled back into bed with Sam. She sat there solemnly thinking about what those messages entail. She felt bad leaving her best friend hanging, Maeve is always there for her why can’t she do the same? But she’s there when it counts, she thinks at least. Her glaze shifts pensively as she debated whether or not to unlock her phone. The loud groan and snap of fat fingers in her face shakes her. 

“Jesus Christ, does she have any other friends? Your phone won’t stop buzzing, she talks nonstop.”

“Shut up, she’s my best friend, I’ve known her for like nine years. I can’t ditch her now, can I?” Lucy let that statement hang in the air, regretting the phrasing, parsing each word in her head. 

“Well, she’s a pain in the ass,” Sam retorted.

“Oh don’t even start, you don’t know anything about having a friend. Maeve means well… we talk everyday,” her reasoning fell flat and she knew there was no real way of explaining the complexity of the situation. The layered nuances and overlapping emotional ties the two share, no one will ever understand. 

Sam scoffed, “ Wow, how enthusiastic. You seem like a great friend.” 

Lucy flipped her phone over, 1 new unread message from Maeve: Well let me know if you wanna hang out sometime this weekend there’s a lot going on and I miss you I kinda need a distraction 

:( Hope you’re okay. 

~

Maeve was observant and she feared it was a bad thing, a catalyst to everything wrong that had ever happened in her life. Her time with Lucy felt limited; the grains of sand filtering down the hourglass are shooting down, reminding her of the inevitability of it all. Moments with Lucy were always filled with remembering the past: The way Mrs. Preston screamed at them in elementary school for not singing loud enough during the school’s choir concert; there was something about singing Bon Jovi’s “It’s My Life” to a bunch of bored and tired parents that made them uncomfortable and unwilling to participate. The nights they stayed up listening to British morning radio talk shows because they wanted to feel cultured and hear what the UK was interested in. Their days in cross country, jogging in the back of the pack theorizing the emotional and physical stress socks must suffer through during workouts when they switch from mud to pavement. It was nothing and everything. Maeve noticed her relationship with Lucy revolved around life back then, it was rare to ever talk about current events and even more rare to speak on their respective relationships. Partly because Maeve would feel jealous when Lucy had mentioned things about Sam. There were parts of her that were stung at the thought of her being happy with someone else when Maeve was sucked in a vacuum of misery and despair with Eric.  She tried to make things work with Eric, appeasing him by watching shitty anime shows and building collectible LEGO sets… keeping her eyes tightly shut when she felt his arm slink around her waist and his chubby fingers caress her legs. Maeve began to realize maybe they’re not those type of friends. A convenient friend, Lucy knew Maeve was lonely, she knew Maeve had no one else to turn to and it was easy to string her along. People don’t stay the same, the child at 11 isn’t the same adult at 26; people grow apart and that’s normal, it’s expected. No one stays close to their childhood friend when lives start to drift and ideals shift; priorities and responsibilities extend past forts, and love is something more than a friend who’s been around since before orthodontics and helps you floss between wires.  Maeve wished it was easy to let go--and she usually was very good at cutting people out of her life--but no matter how many times Lucy disappointed her and felt the tethering between them loosening and becoming untangled, and that’s when Maeve would prove herself loyal. She tried to make Lucy happy in ways Sam didn’t seem to: bringing her lunch to work, buying her a shirt ‘just because’, letting her know money wasn’t an issue when they went out, even though Maeve was 9k in debt excluding student loans. And it worked, it was the two of them again, blissfully unaware of the world around them, it was a sociopathic self-satisfying joy and Maeve knew it couldn’t last but right now it felt good; even if it lasted for a minute.  When the conversation would lull, she began to notice the urgency and happiness Lucy exuded when she was texting Sam, almost immediately. Quick to respond, ignoring the movie playing in the background, muffling Maeve’s commentary; floating in a bubble of cliched romantic bliss. The movie would play, and the room would eventually fill with silence, walls going black; turning their backs to each other and calling it a night. With Maeve trying to ignore Lucy’s soft laugher and the light coming off the screen held in her palms.

~

They were too drunk to know what was happening, too far gone to understand what was being said, too oblivious to understand what would happen next, “Sam would fuck you I know he would, bitch, I fucking know he would! He talks about it all the time when we fuck,” Lucy was slurring, the words being caught between each sip of her cocktail, the vodka becoming more prevalent than saliva, “He tells me all the time he wants to see me fuck someone else?! Like he wants to hate fuck me? I,” hiccup, “dunno. He says weird shit all the time.” She shrugged and took another sip. “What the fuck?” Maeve laughed, grinding her teeth on the thin black straw. Her body was swaying side to side, occasionally closing her eyes and lazily shooting a smile to the bartender. “I think Sam wants to kick my ass, he’s always so mean to me. He never says ‘hi’.” 

“He’s like that with everyone, though. Even my mom! He only talks to me.” 

“Eric is a piece of shit but at least says hi to my mom,” the word vomit was forming, the bile was coming. “Piece of shit?” Lucy’s quizzical expression was illuminated by the purple lights circulating the bar, dancing over her skin. Maeve couldn’t even stop, she was already there, the vomit is here, “He, uh, like kinda, um,” fuck, she thought the vomit was coming, “Um like, ya, he kinda, uh, raped me? I think?” the feeble laugh and confusing furl of her eyebrow were masked by the hue of smoke and green light color change. If it weren’t for the constant nudges of people passing by and the feel of sticky cocktail mix and whiskey stuck on her shoes, she would have thought she was hallucinating and talking to a wall. The silence was thicker than the smoke and heavier than her labored breaths she was hazily huffing out, the room felt like it was getting smaller and the noise was vibrating her entire body, the lack of response was going to make her actually vomit. This isn’t what they do, they don’t have these conversations, this is too personal, and no one really cares anyway when things could have been worse right? “At least it wasn’t a stranger, right? I mean is it even anything when it’s your boyfriend?” Maeve’s attempt at humor fell flat and she downed the remainder of her drink. It was then she noticed Lucy was crying, the tears meeting the sweat on her cheeks and dropping off her chin, her wobbling lip eventually broke, and she began heaving, her voice cracked barely above a whisper, “Me too,” she forced a laugh,

“Sam and Jonah...I’m--yeah.” she never looked up, but Maeve could see Lucy scrunching her face up in distaste—shame? panic? The spinning never stopped, Maeve’s ears were ringing, the burning of pandemonium fires, flashes of lightning striking quickly all over her body, the chaos of the room became suffocating and deranged. This was meant to happen to Maeve, this was destiny, every woman in her family had been abused, aunts stayed with uncles because of children, cousins remained close despite sexual abuse, and ties were maintained because that’s how it was. Maeve was destined to hate herself and let this happen, it was a family curse; a sick tradition that passed off like a burning torch. This wasn’t meant for Lucy, not sweet pure Lucy. The flashes of childhood spread across the bar: the sleepovers, the time Lucy laughed so hard apple juice squirted out and ruined her homework, the way her long brown hair would fly behind her on the swings like a cape, the moments in forts where they sincerely promised to do this at least once a month, the time she cried because she couldn’t go to a concert so Maeve’s mom surprised her with a ticket marking that night as the greatest moment—she thinks back to the way the stage lights hit Lucy’s eyes, making them lighter than ever before and the laugh she let out when she broke her bag from dancing and jumping around,—the night Lucy was scared her parents were getting divorced so Maeve brought over a plate of cookies and held her until the rattling of her tears subsided. This wasn’t supposed to happen to her. Maeve grabbed Lucy’s hands away from her face and wrapped her arms around her waist, her cheek resting on Lucy’s shoulder, tethered and tangled together. Lucy’s soothing hand trailed up and down Maeve’s back, erasing the touches he left behind— cocooned in one another, the tears creating dwells of pools, sliding down their cheeks, “I’m sorry,” Lucy whispered against Maeve’s skin, combing her fingers through her hair, “I’m sorry,” she repeated, hoping it would make the room stop spinning. 

[halfmoon-sunglasses-blog]

8:20 in July

It was the tug on my shoulder that jolted me away from the haven I succumbed to The electrifying instruments, the roar of the crowd, the muck of whiskey stuck on my soles The purple walls casting a shadow, Beckoning, luring, tempting

Electricity thumped through me that night, pulsating in my veins ringing in my ears

that ringing was my only keepsake

I should have known it was going to end this way; the day was looming with confusion and all too convenient escapes Mom said I could leave and breathe easy

But it was the tug on my shoulder that told me otherwise She promised me with a hopeful smile and glimmering confidence— Oxygen pumping, heart beating on time, the smell of bait and tackle roaming the hallways

She was using morse code but I hadn’t listened close enough

He died, she said. the fervent noise taking over my body was now obsolete the ringing was still there.

The walls narrowed; air thick with smoke, the whiskey-turned-glue held me hostage

The peep of fluorescent off in the distance became my escape Shutting my eyes and only opening when I felt safe

But it was the ringing that reminded me of my reality I should have known it was going to end this way

[halfmoon-sunglasses-blog]

Modernisms Objects

Modernist literature glorifies and represents the melodic, dramatic, romanticized, and downright heartbreaking relationship people— hopeless romantics, war veterans, and mirror obsessed neurotics; share with these said objects and shed light on how the life of an object can and will symbolize a moment, thought, expression or idea. With an empathetic slope, Sigfried Sassoon, William Butler Yeats, and Arthur Symmons advocate for the understanding and emotional vindication; and the palpitating respect they each hold for the objects.

           Sigfried Sassoon's poem, "The Rear Guard," depict war linear through the characteristics of objects soldiers bring from home. Sassoon tells the story of objects and how they have become uprooted from the life of safety and warmth and how they are now in a war zone; forgotten, dirty, brushed off to the side because they are not used; they are merely a glimpse into what was, the objects that have been brought from home are now part of an origin story—repurposed to tell another tale of what life was like in hidden in the dirt and debriSassoonoon harps on the darkness, "Tins, boxes, bottles, shapes, and too vague to know;/A mirror smashed the mattress from a bed" (4-5). The darkness keeps him away from knowing the identity and story behind the faded object. Still, he refers to them as if he knows they belong somewhere else, he gives them a life past what he can barely see, the mattress comes from a bed, it does not remain an old worn bed tossed away; it something that has held onto something much deeper than that. He is engaging with these shapes, knowing they have come from home and seeing them in a place where they do not belong yet safely and delicately acknowledging they are there, and they are essential. No matter the condition of the objects, no matter the scenery, riddled with despair, these objects are an l; they engage with the world that seems so long forgotten, even when look seems as if there is nothing left and entering the depths of apocalyptic beginnings shroud; there is a piece of home, comforting and consoling.

Similarly, William Butler Yeats's "The Circus Animals Desertion" shows how powerful an object and the story it carries, he lists tired discarded things—far too irrelevant to be labeled as objects, for that holds something of more power and understanding—"Old kettles, old bottles, and a broken can, /Old iron, old bones, old rags, that raving slut” (4-6). He looks on to these items, not with an eye of disdain or litter but something of admiration and acceptance; accepting that there is more to this than what is seen, he creates an embossment of ideas of the symbol; the glory and excitement of an object. He refers to them at the beginning of the poem as, "Those masterful images because complete/Grew in pure mind, but out of what began?" (1-2). He has fallen in love with the emblems, the idea, mannerisms, if you will, of what these objects hold— the mystery and romance with a simple can. The objects, like the ladder mentioned, can move you up and down; they have the power to contort your emotions and evoke something greater, create a spark, make you feel something more extensive than what was initially anticipated.

           As Sassoon and Yeats romantically and eagerly assess the objects they are surrounded with, Arthur Symons speaks about a mirror; ominous, mysterious, and calculating, all-knowing in a sense. Symons suffocates the reader, feverishly, frantically, writing about a mirror that has "sucked your face/Into its secret deep of deeps" (5-6). Mirrors, a simple object, reflective; showcases and highlights a person's appearance, another set of eyes in a way. The old saying goes, 'the eyes are the window of the soul,' and Symmons understands that very notion. So, the mirror; objects, in general, are retaining experiences; through us, the consumer, we give these objects life. We are allowing mirrors, cans, shoddy mattresses, a look into our lives. A secret inside tale of who we are, what we do, and how we express ourselves, these stationary objects are alchemists, fervently burrowing themselves in ourselves. 'We are no longer the point; we give life to objects through the 'eyes' in which they hold. When Symmons says, "Will rise, a ghost of a memory, if/ Ever again my handkerchief/Is scented with White Heliotrope" (14-16), he is speaking on the mystery of what this mirror can hold, will the mirror remember him? Will he remember the mirror and the evocation of sentiment and satisfaction it once brought? The relationship with the object and the mirror at hand is so extensive and personal it has Symmons questioning the validity of the pairing, anxiously anticipating what will happen next and if what has happened so far will be enough to make an impact for years or a lifetime to come.

           Modernist literature is saturated with high concept ideas of what it means to be an object and the relationship between person and object. Sassoon's war-stricken objects, Yeats' street-filled garbage, and Symons' mirror are all romanticized versions and live in a hyper-realistic fantasy of what an object means. They project love, storytelling, hope, secrecy, devotion; they give a perception of the world— objects hold memories for us, and when you encounter them again, they will bring you back to that memory and fill you with emotions only that particular object can give. The sentimental, irrational, overly sensitive idealism of the importance of allowing objects to become a safe space of memories and welcome the insanity of emotional baggage—to become transportation, a pathway from here to accept the gift of becoming then, and freely one with something as minuscule as a mirror or a dirty rag.

[halfmoon-sunglasses-blog]

   “Ay, no chinges!” I nudged Juan’s head off my shoulder, feeling his drool make a wet path down my arm. “I’m just so tired,” he yawned, “between work, the kid’s and Marisol nagging me everyday: do this, don’t do that, be careful. I’m beat.” Juan sighed, as he laid his head back on my shoulder. “Nope! Not happening today,” I exclaimed shaking his head off my damp arm, “you’re not using me like a pillow, I don’t want your drool all over me…makes me look like I’ve been walking around the city in 100 degree weather,” annoyed, I looked around hoping no one would look at the patches he already left behind. But no one seemed to notice or care we were having a minor quarrel in the back of the bus. “Ah man. What happened to my sweet baby brother Jaime,” he cooed, echoing mamá’s sugary voice, “who would do anything for me? Mi niño tan hermoso!” he flashed an over the top smile and blew kisses—I couldn’t help but laugh and roll my eyes. But then his words registered with me and a spout of frustration ran through,  “What do you call this then?!” throwing my hands up quizzically; motioning to the dirty old bus we were in, “I don’t want to be here, you dragged me here. It’s always because of you!”  “You’re here ‘cause you’re a good brother, mijo,” Juan said sweetly, still acting like mamá. “Yeah, yeah. I know,” defeated, I know I could never say no to him, “you’re lucky we’re brothers. If this was anyone else, I would have left their ass on this bus a long time ago.”     Smugly Juan replied, “Yeah. Well, what are brothers for?” He nudged my elbow with his, giving the same mischievous smile he did when he was younger. In the small millisecond of a moment where silence sat between us, he looked different. Serious, almost— his eyes looked much softer, calm. He took a breath as if he had something to say. I stayed quiet, intrigued with what was going to happen next. But just as fast as the mood changed, it went back to normal. “Tú te vas ir al cielo, hijo!” Juan exclaimed in the same sing-song voice mamá has. Laughing, I pushed him away and told him to quit it already. He’s the funny one in the family. Always making mamá and all our Tía’s laugh so hard tears would form whenever he does his Ranchero version of Juan Gabriel to deflect attention away from whatever he did previously that could really get him in trouble. But that’s my brother, always getting into trouble because he would much rather do things his way than follow behind anyone else. And even though he did get in trouble no one could stay mad at him for that long— too charismatic, goofy, ridiculous, maybe even too irritating to leave in time out because he’d be pestering you about when he could leave his room. It was annoying when we were growing up, it still is now, kinda. But not even I could stay mad at him for long. There is something so inviting and whimsical about him, he was loud and said whatever was on his mind but he would do anything for his family; family first. Whatever Juan is doing, wherever he is at, you want to be there too, you want to hear his stories about his travels, you want to see what stupid thing he does next, you want to be his best friend. I’m lucky he’s mine and that’s the way it’s been my whole life. The bus ride is taking a lot out of me, but I can tell it’s affecting Juan even more, he looks terrible. Wiping the sweat off his neck, his antsy legs are bouncing up and down, his breathing is labored and although everything seems frantic as his body is working overtime; Juan’s movements are stuck in slow motion. He’s trapped on two different speeds. I hate it. “What’s up with you?” I asked, nonchalantly, breaking him out of his daze. “Nothing, man. Just tired, why? ” he breathes out a sad excuse of a chuckle. He looks terrible. “Ay no manches, cabrón!” I hate when he lies to me. It takes all my will not to punch that fake smile off his face, “Enough! You can pull that shit with anyone else,” I say between my teeth, “but not me. You don’t lie to me… if you won’t listen to mama or Marisol, at least listen to me.” What I intended to be a powerful delivery ended up a weak plea. I could’t even look at him, I didn’t want to see another struggled breath or watch his pale skin glisten with sweat. It’s why I avoided coming here in the first place, I didn’t want to piss him off, or make mama worry, I didn’t want to make things worse than they already are. I’m here because of him and I hate it. I hear Juan sigh, softly he speaks, “It’s just hard, y’know? Some days I’m really good and I can hide how I’m feeling. Other days I can barely walk or have the energy to do anything.” He lightly nudges my elbow to get my attention. It’s then that I see his face and how broken he truly is. Eyes sunken in, the sweat has matted his hair, lips chapped. Juan looks at me the same way he did earlier: calm. I just nod, hoping he reads this as a green light for him to continue. “I don’t know why you’re always lecturing me thinking you’re all high and mighty,” Juan deflected, annoyed that the topic of conversation was back on him. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “You’re always giving people advice and shit but you don’t do nothing with your life,” it was stated as matter-of-fact. No anger or hostility, “You gave up on art because some pendejos said it wasn’t good enough? And now you’re making me feel bad because I gave up?” “No seas mamón, por favor! It’s not the same thing. I gave up on a hobby. You’re destroying your whole life and wasting everyone’s time for no reason!” “If it’s my time to go, then so be it. I’m not gonna start fighting with God!” Juan threw his hands up and moved his shoulders up and down, as if signaling he has truly given up. I looked at him with disgust, rage, frustration— I wish I could slap him, rip his hair out, scream at him, let him know how pathetic his logic is… but I couldn’t. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t. It’s as if a stronger force took hold of me and stole my anger with it; bottling it so far away I couldn’t find it, or even be bothered with the quest. I ran my hands through my hair and let my head rest in my palms. I was just as defeated as Juan was. Juan’s damp hand patted my back, “Hey,” he spoke so faintly I almost missed it. “Mírame,” he said authoritatively, “I’m sorry. Ok? I’m sorry.” he laid his head over my curled shoulders, his breathing erratic and out of sync, his forehead leaving a bigger pool than his drool ever could. Squeezing my eyes shut in that odd moment I felt serenity wash over me. I was seeing snapshots of our greatest adventures: visiting the museums in Guanajuato, going to the city for El Día de los Muertos, making tamales with mamá on Christmas Eve, creating our own little world in the backyard with scorpions and random lego pieces we found, breaking a window in Abuela’s house when we wrestled on the bed; I was seeing a video reel of everything all at once. Glimmers of happiness floating all around me, encapsulating the memories I cherish. “But you know what you gotta do now, right?” Juan mumbled, lifting his head off my back, we both sat up straight. He looked better now: color in his cheeks, his hair was gelled back no longer matted with sweat, he carried that mischievous smile; smug yet charming. He looked at ease. “What?” I said, mesmerized by his sudden turn-around. “Keep drawing. Keep writing. Mamá loves that. She loves how happy it makes you.” “I don’t know. I-” before I could finish my pessimistic thought Juan cut me off. “No empieces, güey! You’re good. Really good. It makes you happy, it makes mamá happy, and you know I love everything you do!” he poked my ribs, “Mi estrella! Mi lindo niño, corazon de mi vida!” there he went again, that ridiculous impersonation of mamá that never failed to make me cringe and laugh all at once. “Stop worrying about what other people will think, do what you love. Make people happy… who knows you could make it into one of the Guanajuato museums,” he winked and wiggled his eyebrows. The thought alone made me feel proud, I flash my best over the top Juan inspired smile. “Cómo eres mamón,” he laughs, lightly pushing my head away. I see Juan’s mouth move, his facial expressions, bold and dramatic, he looks excited. I can’t hear anything. I see his happiness I feel his emotion but I hear nothing. “What? I can’t hear you!” Silence. “Juan! I can’t hear you!” Silence. Off in the distance I hear an unfamiliar voice. Gritty and bothered, “Orale muchacho, ya llegamos!” I’m startled. Jolted, as if someone had been trying to shake me out of a coma. I look to my left, already anticipating to find Juan the culprit of my sudden burst . But there’s no one sitting beside me. “Estas bien hombre? Ya llegamos,” the random voice speaks again. I look up to find the bus driver, annoyed and unamused with me being the last one left. “Perdon, lo siento señor.” I reply, embarrassed and confused. I walk out of the bus and immediately get hit with a sudden slap of reality. Panteón Valle De Los Cedros  the rusted metal sign reads. I sigh, making the somber walk to the familiar headstone. “I miss you Juan,” is all I can muster to say.

[halfmoon-sunglasses-blog]

sandy mind

when the waves bring a shell To me I know Buried in the soft studded sand, It’s     You

You rage in the slosh Lost in the ebb and flow And I wonder why The broken brown and marred pale Remind me of         You 

It’s the same, honey the same pearling the same pain It’s     You

Shattered within the sea The lost parts no one could gather; Fragments of      You

And just as the waves crash, You’re gone

[halfmoon-sunglasses-blog]

The Lemon Cake She Used  to Make

The smells of yesterday, tomorrow, and today

blending, mixing, fading

I miss her

I know.

Restless hands aching and anxious

the fabric etched with dissipation

I have to help her

I know.

Brown eyes full of hope

the cinnamon oak that shielded me

loved me

taught me

I have to help her

I know.

Todo esta bien, mija

Todo esta bien.

I’ll be here

The words lost in the aroma

of  worry

But as I sit here

carrying her reflection

smile

faith

compassion

and the warm scents;

trapped in the walls

I miss her

I know.

[halfmoon-sunglasses-blog]

seven thirty-one and how it goes

Yesterday when I said you have done this more than once, you were confused. What I meant to say was: you’ve made me feel less than more than once. You’ve made me feel like an object of your desire on multiple occasions and I shouldn’t be surprised seeing as that’s how this relationship started. When you met me you said I would be your ideal girl if I dressed better and wore make up. When you became more comfortable (?) with me you began talking about other women and vocally telling me what you liked about them, mainly their big ass or tits. Around this time you were a blink away from cumming when you were telling me about the prostitute. How you lied to me before then and said nothing happened. After I felt abused and objectified from you yet again, I took you back because you said you were sorry. Stupid me, I believed you. Shortly after this I found your slew of Instagram porn and realized you hadn’t changed at all. It was around here where you violated me in the worst way possible. You raped me. You took advantage of me at my weakest and most innocent time. And you laughed. And you came. You enjoyed it. It wasn’t until you heard me cry did you stop and see the bigger picture. You told me you were sick and needed my help. Like the stupid girl I am, I believed you and took you back. Here is when I found out you took advantage of me periodically when I sleep and stick your hard cock between my butt cheeks. You would take pictures and get your precum on my buttocks while I was sleeping. Hurt, disgusted, and feeling like a used rag doll, I brushed it off because you said you love me and didn’t mean any harm. Stupid little girl. I had thought it changed. Thought that if you saw the hurt and self loathing I carried within my being you would understand how precious I am. Although I slap a brave face on I’m still that lost 8 year old afraid of what’s to come. Afraid of rejection. Afraid of my body. And praying to get the confidence of everyone around me. Stupid me. You betrayed me again and kept hidden files of women who I would never look like. These fantasies that make your cock hard. Images you save tucked away for your most private times. Uncomfortable with my own body, self conscious of my cellulite, acne scars, hair, freckles, kinky hair; I still send you pictures no matter how uncomfortable I am. Because I want to please you. YOU. The person who has made me feel no more special than the woman you paid to fuck the sadness out of you. No more special than the women you choose to revisit and jack off too. Fantasizing about THEM. You and them together. People who aren’t me. Women who I will never live up to be. The small glimmer of confidence I ever had always gets trumped by them. Your ideals of sex, erotica, and worth. I’m worth more than your pity ejaculation and empty promises. I’m too good for you and yet like the foolish girl I am I always fall for your words. If you want to keep me, then be a real man. Not a 13 year old boy who has all his hormones raging and doesn’t know the difference between fetish and love. Be a man and not a slimy boy who finds satisfaction from knocking women down. You have seen the tears in my eyes. You’ve seen the worry and fear in me. And you still don’t understand. Show me what it means to be loved, cherished, and devoted. Show me that this real. Prove to me I’m more than a fantasy come to life. Prove to me you can actually give me what I deserve. I feel liberated writing this. I feel power and strong. I feel empowered, and I haven’t felt that way in a long time.

[halfmoon-sunglasses-blog]

For, You

                                                      1

An idiotic title for a pretentiously idiotic tale, I suppose. A typical brooding cliche to somehow ease the lump in my throat as I remember how it all fell apart. I never understood why nobody talks about friendships ending as a break-up. Because that is what it is, is it not? Someone you feel so wholeheartedly connected to you’re positive this is your best friend for life; your friendship soulmate, the end all be all of all friendships . The quintessential model so perfectly formed John Green weeps on his Macbook taking notes on how well you work together-- how you are the embodiment of the word and its complicated meaning. So when it ends slowly, painfully, like having a bandaid ripped off  one adhesive hair at a time there’s nothing to feel but helpless. This is your best friend the one you are supposed to have by your side at all times, stuff like this does not happen. Feelings like this don't emerge, it doesn’t add up.

                                                      2

And It hurts. It was a deep rooted flame in which encompassed my whole body; ignited so much so not even my pathetic tears could ease the flickering wrath. It stung. It hurt to know you had moved on. It hurt to know someone else has memorized your different quirks. The simple, sweet, subtle grin you make when you’re completely at peace. To read the signs of your body and adhere to its every beck and call. To know you inside and out. To have them give you all of their love and comfort you like I couldn’t do.

                                                           3

It hurts to know that what we had can never be duplicated. That full force all consuming hold your breath and never let go commitment can never be recreated.

It hurts to know you lied. It hurts to know you didn’t even bother to try. Mistakes were made, apologies exchanged but we both knew things would never be the same. It hurts now to know that even though time has passed I still remember every detail as if it were brand new. It hurts to know you’ve moved on. It hurts to know you shattered what could have been. It hurts to know you broke your promise; you said we had forever yet all you did was pollute the air with empty words. It hurts to know that I have been blinded and confused and things went wrong right from the get-go.

                                                      4

It’s not fair that I’m the one always apologizing when all you do is ignore me and laugh at me behind my back. It’s not fair that I’m stuck here waiting for you want me back while you’re already so far gone it’s hard to imagine you were ever here at all. It isn’t fair that you do is treat me like shit and yet all I do is make excuses for you because this isn’t fair at all that I love you so much and all I want to do is say sorry and hope you see that I mean it. And then you’ll say it too, for once. It isn’t fair that none of that will ever happen. It isn’t fair that I will always love you and the sting of it all will never stop burning my veins. It isn’t fair, but I miss you so much it hurts to smile when you’re not around. It isn’t fair that you haven’t realized I’ve been gone.

                                                        5

Pretty crazy how the one person I thought was going to be in my life forever now means nothing to me. I can’t even say you were a good memory to look back on because it feels like you were never in my life to begin with. You came into my life full force; dry humor, loud laugh, boisterous outlook on life, caring and kind, gentle and thoughtful, in the most disgustingly cliche way possible you understood me. Accepted it all. If I try hard enough I can almost hear your laugh and delude myself into thinking it’s for me. For my ears only; selfish greedy little ears. Had I known things were going to change I would have said thank you more. Appreciated you for capturing my life in your enthralling one. I should have thanked you for throwing me into a 10 year cloud of a dream. Confusing and nonsensical, chaotic and bizarre: uniquely ours. And maybe I should thank you for being one of the best dreams I could ever wake up from.

[halfmoon-sunglasses-blog]

WJ

Somewhere between a panic attack and crying over the slightest sign of an altercation did I realize my issues were larger than I had initially thought. I constantly found myself suffocating in other people’s stress; absorbed in the anguish it caused them and not wanting them to have to deal with it because if I did then it was my fault and I was the horrible friend.        It was somewhere between me having to deal with depression alone and being judged for being “distant” did I realize these relationships I thought I had made were only of mere connivence. I had become a key part of peoples lives but not for the sole reason they were mine; I was a place mark for someone better. A reliable back-up for when things got bad, when they were lonely and knew I was awake, riddled with my own psychological struggles.

 It was somewhere between me wanting to take an entire bottle of my mother’s pain killers and being called “selfish” for not replying fast enough to a text that I realized I was a pliable piece of scrap metal; a junk yard find. Something to be pocketed and refurbished and toyed with until they were satisfied with it and then left to collect dust when a newer shiner object was available.

It was somewhere between me crying myself to sleep clawing at my sheets in desperation that they too would find me insufferable and being left behind yet again with not so much as a goodbye or explanation that I realized for the first time in my life; I would have to deal with my own suffocation. No longer in a choke hold of manipulated fear and twisted truths… I was set free of a burden that made me feel less and less like a person and more like a tattered diary.

It was somewhere between me wanting to get help and being too scared that I realized these are the years that count. From here on out I was living for me; not the voices scratching at my ears and stealthily crawling over my body, not for those who took advantage, not the pill bottle screaming at me every time I pass by it… it was time I made my life what i wanted it to be. What it deserves to be.

It was somewhere between a crashing reality and a sobering slap to the face did I realize I’m worth more than someone’s pick me up diary. I’m not a notebook you can revisit whenever you're sad or desperate or alone or overwhelmed. I’m not a keepsake you keep tucked away in the back of the closet and brought out on shattering occasions. I’m not a dark secret tightly locked away. I’m not a thing. I’m not a thing I'm not a thing I'm not. 

[halfmoon-sunglasses-blog]

3 AM Confessional

It hurt. It was a deep rooted flame in which encompassed my whole body; ignited so much so not even my pathetic tears could ease the flickering wrath. It stung. It hurt to know you had moved on. It hurt to know someone else has memorized your different quirks. The simple, sweet, subtle grin you make when you’re completely at peace. To read the signs of your body and adhere to its every beck and call. To know you inside and out. To have them give you all of their love and comfort you like I couldn’t do.

It hurts to know that what we had can never be duplicated. That full force all consuming hold your breath and never let go commitment can never be recreated. 

It hurts to know you lied. It hurts to know you didn’t even bother to try. Mistakes were made, apologies exchanged but we both knew things would never be the same.

It hurts now to know that even though time has passed I still remember every detail as if it were brand new. It hurts to know you’ve moved on. It hurts to know you shattered what could have been. It hurts to know you broke your promise; you said we had forever yet all you did was pollute the air with empty words. It hurts to know that I have been blinded and confused and things went wrong right from the get-go. 

[halfmoon-sunglasses-blog]

Reflection Deflection

It’s weird when you rethink to when you were younger and you have all expectations for when you reach this point in your life. and as I sit and wonder how horrified my 9 year old self would be if she knew that that  had been the peak of her life. That all her stupidly entertaining MySpace days and constant stalking of wannabe LA rock royalty was going to be far more riveting and impacting than flip flopping between a marathon of House Hunters with her parents or an equally dull mall haul. When you realize you’ve accomplished fuck all in 10 years, it really starts to screw with your head. I remember loads of things from when I was 9 and they were, for the most part amazing. 9 is when I had a clear idea of who I was and what i wanted to get out of life and looking back at it now I wish so badly I could have told like frizzy haired kid not to get her hopes up. Because 10 years from then, she won’t be able to list off any of her favorite things to do and present it all with bright eyes and a smile so big you too couldn’t help but debut your own matching grin and feel a sense of pride for her quirky interests. I wish I could tell that 9 year old that in 10 years time “What do you do for fun?”  is such an overwhelming question; a question that swallows her whole and gnaws on her mind for hours, festering into a dooming saliva bath of crippling realizations that she’s not ready for whats ahead. I wish someone would have told that dreamer of a 9 year old that growing up is way worse than she ever could have imagined and maybe she shouldn’t have been in such a hurry to rush into 10 frantically failed years of attempts and regrets.

[halfmoon-sunglasses-blog]

In Which I Relapse

It’s a numbness I can’t control. A numbness I can’t describe. An all encompassing pang of defeat and self loathing. A full throttle bullet of nothingness. I don't even realize I've been hit until I lay still, motionless; gasping for air, calling for help… pleading for someone to be the stitches I need to help patch up my wounds. Laying… waiting for the moment someone notices the masked suffering I have lodged in my system is slowly seeping out; bleeding right through me, staining my skin. I wish someone would notice. Someone to help me wash away the stains. For someone to help me feel again.

[halfmoon-sunglasses-blog]

The Bloodline

           My redundant tossing and fidgeting with worn bed sheets was interrupted when my mom, worried and wide-eyed, stumbled in my room at five in the morning on a particularly quiet and gloomy July morning. She stood there completely still for a few moments; as I was about to question her whereabouts she let out a shaky breath and faintly mumbled, “Its Angie…”            She let my sister’s name hang in the air while the cogs in my mind were trying to piece together what on earth my sister could be up to that was urgent news so early in the morning. My mom finally continued on and informed me that my sister had been arrested for domestic assault. Suddenly, I too took on the same expression as my frenzied mom. In all my years I could not recall a time I had felt such an intense pang of dejection and outrage all at once. As if a lump had been lodged in my throat, trapping me from speaking, breathing, thinking; I was stunned.            It was not the first time I knew my sister had little patience and tolerance for an irritating situation, I just never thought a short temper and throwing objects could land you in a cold dingy cell with criminals and prostitutes. Although her irrational behavior could easily be linked back to our upbringing, it should not have been a shock for me to hear she was finally snapped into place.  Growing up in a household where problems were not completely resolved, more like, addressed and abandoned with the raise of your voice and an endless loop of a mindless counterargument, it was hard to stray away from the family curse and not allow yourself to partake in a few loquacious spats. I remember vividly being surrounded by constant amounts of love and equal part verbally aggressive arguments. Being the youngest of four and having an age gap of eight years between me and Angie,  there wasn’t much we had in common besides the fact that we could equally yell at the top of our lungs and brazenly speak our minds and bicker with our parents.            It was when I found myself face to face with the clouded misty grey building in Downtown LA where I wanted to sob and blubber on about the severity and frightening truth of the situation. Angie was no longer my boisterous sister who got sent to her room or had her phone taken away when she acted up; no, she was a mere number in a computer system, locked in a dingy cinder block room, filled to the brim with an eccentric collection of women. Only allowed one visitor per day for a short fifteen minutes, I was the first person to see her in her sad pale blue jumpsuit. With sweaty palms and a wobbly bottom lip, I waited for my sister’s name to blare out of the squeaky speaker system. Shocked with the misleading guidelines movies had put out for me, I was let down yet again when I saw my own stall of nothingness. There was no thick, scratched and smudged Plexiglas marred with fingertips of fear and desperation, no old faded beige phone with a curled extension. I was met with a dull blocked off stall, grey and obsolete like the situation itself, and a tinted mirror in front of me.  Before I could examine the booth any further, an odd distressed visual of my sister appeared on the tinted mirror; a sad distant hologram like version of her, at least.            Her usual well-kept oak brown ringlets of curls were now disheveled and matted. Her olive skin once bright and healthy now lay as a splotchy tear stained canvas. The eyes I knew so well—jovial and welcoming— brimmed red and sunken in; the side effects of her incessant sobs and sleepless nights. She tried to muster up enough energy to smile, but failed when her tight lipped gimmick resulted in a crumpled face, furrowed eyebrows and even more tears.            “Annie,” she started, “I’m so sorry…I-I don’t know why…why did I do this? I’m sorry.” Her frantic apology was what hard to understand due to her uncontrollable emotions, but I nodded rapidly with the intent of calming her down. Telling her time and time again she was going to be okay, this will all blow over soon. I hoped she believed me, but I saw in her puffy watery eyes she was beyond the point of repetitive consolations. She continued spitting out her apologies, and sprinkled in some information of how she was even there in the first place. She had gotten into a fight with her boyfriend and threw numerous objects both to him and outside the window; that was the short tearful version she told me. In the middle of her ramblings, the screen shut off. I was completely confused in the eerily silent stall; “1 minute remaining,” a robotic voice spoke; wondering how fourteen minutes could feel like a nanosecond, my sister reappeared even more frantic than before. On edge and in the middle of a time crunch, she was cut off mid-sentence in the midst of saying her goodbye and one final apology. It was strange seeing her but not physically being able to really see the depth of worry and fear she had etched on her face, and how quickly time can go. I was left wanting more time, but I suppose that was the case with everyone in here; they all just need more time to explain themselves, more time to apologize, more time to express their love, more time to fix the error of their ways.            In the car on my way home that afternoon I found myself reflecting on the entirety of what was happening around me. I was suddenly acutely aware of how potent this so-called “family curse” was. Seeing my sister so broken and afraid, pleading for me to forgive her and still love her, I was exposed to the raw truth of it all. How my words and actions and the thoughtful pent up aggression can lead up and burst when least expected, turning my life upside-down. Scattered in tiny pieces caused by my own wrong doings, by my carelessness, I knew it was time the angry berated cycle needed to come to an end.            Three days later when my sister was finally released, I overheard my father choking over his own words, fumbling to tell my sister how this had been partially his fault and how he never wished this thick bloodline of sullen tyrants was ever passed on. My father, a tough and stern man, let his shoulders sag and eyebrows frown as he let her know just how awful he felt. How he never took into account just how traumatic constant bickering and aggression could really alter a growing child’s life.  And just like my own real life episode of Beyond Scared Straight, the horror of any prospect of jail time shooed me away quickly and eagerly introduced me to less aggressive, less impulsive, more practical conclusions to any given situation, that... and the fact baby blue had never really been my color.