Naked

the green is my sexy one
low-cut to reveal the soft, small bashful me
slit to the navel to dare anyone to say anything to me

the red is my confident one
not too ambitious in its lines
but bright enough to attract, to keep my head pointing skyward

the white is my humble one
modestly putting at ease all who come across it
making me the girl next door to everyone

the black is my power one
seductively showing my sleek independance
mysteriously shrouding my vulnerability

the blue is my melancholy one
subdued and wanting to be alone
brooding and deep in thought

to the unobservant outsider, they are just clothes
just material covering the top half of me
but to me it is the showcase of my sex, humility, confidence, power, melancholy

i'm telling you my sexuality is a raw and fierce green jungle, yet still not fully ripe.
i'm telling you my confidence is a passionate, penetrating red ruby, yet still unassuming.
i'm telling you my humility is a disarming, virgin-white dove, yet still familiar.
i'm telling you my power is a bold, rich coal mine, yet still mysterious.
i'm telling you my introspection is the calming, deep blue sea, yet still full of surprises.

These are the colors of me
And i wear them everyday
secretly telling you about me
without them i am left naked.

Afraid

Just watched a display that made me think. That made me think of the color black, But much deeper than just a mere shadow. I thought of the people black. Most times reduced to only a shadow. I am not going to cry the song black people, we have all heard it enough times to be able to recite it word for word and not really listen to said words.

Africa is my poison tonight. Not the continent. Africa the people. Africa the soul. It seems not to have been enough for them to hate us before even knowing us. But to add insult to injury they have made them hate us. The progeny of Africa’s lost. African Americans. Proud to be black? More like proud not to be African. Our own, ashamed and relieved not to have been born us. They walk around crying over the injustice. Falsely tsk tsk-ing the crime on humanity. But deep down can they really know? Can the really feel what I feel? Black pride. They quote and revere and emulate Nelson Mandela and Shaka Zulu. They postulate to the history of the Egyptians and clap fervently at any mention of their “heritage.” And who am I to ridicule that? But do they not see that their lack of sincerity only serves to tarnish the ever deceitful façade of concern and understanding? They throw their money at us and their rehearsed and meaningless platitudes. They make excuses and hide behind ignorance as if we are so foolish as not to be able to see through their façade.

I am not so foolish. I can see that you pity me simply for being who I am. Even without having to find out who that really is. They have hoodwinked you. They’ve turned you against me. Through your smiles I see the truth shining in your eyes. You loath me. You pity me and deride me. I embody everything you hate about yourself. From your lofty heights you look upon me with resentment and disdain. In your mind I am unclean and uncouth. Diseased and despairing. Poor and pathetic.

You laugh and jeer at me with your friends, yet when you see my children suffering and crying out, your heart softens for the moment. You feel good about yourself for feeding and clothing me, because God-forbid I continue to shame you with my hungry nakedness. But I wonder to myself, are we so different? Have we lost so much of each other that we now speak two different languages? Where is the link that connects me to you? I am black just as you are. My hair is coarse just as yours is. My skin is black gold and my eyes dark diamonds. My nose is a monument, strong and proud in the center of it all. My lips, forces to be reckoned with. I am just like you and you are just like me. But still they have made you hate me.

They know. They know my secret. They stripped me bare and have been doing all they can to keep me helpless because they know given the potential, I could be greater than they ever hoped or imagined to be. I am an African. Broken down and kept in despair and without hope. Almost unaware of how great I can truly be. But my soul is limitless. It is the soul of the African people. The soul whose ears are bleeding from the cries of the blood of those they stole away from me.

I am so tired of feeling lonely
so tired of these depressing, sad songs
I am so desperate for you to hold me
the man i have been waiting for for so long
I have kept myself pure for you, cuz u're worth it
I hope you also waited for me
I hope you are everything i have dreamt you to be
I hope you have been dreaming of me too.

I want to fall into your eyes
and never have to get up again
I want to drown in your embrace
and never come up for air
I want to float away with your kiss
and never have to come down
I want to crumble under the weight of your love
and stay down
I want to stay down for you.

A little girl remembers

Slipping through my fingers

like the sands of time

memories still linger

in this aching heart of mine

I wish I could have told you

just what i felt at heart

I guess i never really thought

someday we'd have to part.

Rest in Peace

watch over us and know that you were loved

Rest in Peace

and keep on sending love from above

Rest in Peace

and may you live eternally

Rest in Peace and watch over me

But now you're gone

you've left me here

to think of you and weep

i know that's not what

you'd want from me

but these tears i cannot keep

A husband, father, child and man

an uncle and a friend

you brought so much into our lives

a love that'll never end

Rest in Peace.

In Your Kiss

You don't even have to say the words
I've already seen it in your eyes
Your smile tells chapters of the truth
In clear opposition to your one page lies

Wasn't the look of deception gleaming in your eyes
Or all the times we used to share that i missed
Wasn't the way your touch felt so distant but I
Knew it was gone, when I felt it in your kiss

You could've told a million lies
and I would've believed each one
You could've have broken my heart a thousand times
but back in your arms i would've run
you could have had anything you wanted, anything you wished
if it wasn't for the unspoken secrets
the pain of your bitter-sweet kiss

You'll never know the hurt i feel
or how i'm dying inside
excuses won't unbreak my heart
or wipe away the tears i've cried

Wasn't the way your "I love you's" became so hard to say
or how being around you was no longer pure bliss
wasn't how the trust faded away, day by day
it was the message that you sent me through your kiss.

Drifting. I'm drifting away from you
And it's all your fault 'cause you won't hold onto me
You make it so hard for me to cling to you
So now I'm drifting, drifting away from you

I'm scared because i'm drifting into the unknown
I'm scared because i feel so alone
I thought you said you would always stay with me
But now, even though you're here, you're drifting away from me.

Baggage

I started packing today. I know it was late, but then again procrastination is a way of life for me. I had a maximum of three hours to pack nineteen years of my life. It was that time again, the time that has come upon my family every four years for the last fifteen years. I was only allowed one suitcase. One. How do I pack away my whole life, the important things anyway, in one suitcase?
I packed the essentials, you know things like toiletries, jeans and shirts, shoes and combs. Things I can't live without. Things that could be replaced, but are still essential to my well being. I could not decide what to leave and what to pack, so I just packed everything. I packed seven sweaters. Seven. What does one need with seven sweaters when they have limited packing space? I suppose if read into, it could be my subconscious telling me I am paranoid and afraid of discomfort. Or it could mean I get cold easily. I also packed my keepsakes, you know things like CD's, pictures, momentos, books and jewelry. I had two hundred and sixty three CD's, and I couldn't live without any one of them. I had about a thousand pairs of earrings, hats, bandanas, scarves and belts. I wouldn't live without them. I had about a million random photographs. I shouldn't have to live without them.
I packed things I n=didn't even need. I packed my old notebooks from high school. You know, just in case. I packed the little rubber doll I got from our old maid in Romania when I was a little girl. I packed old address and phonebooks filled with names I didn't even remember. I packed my old journals that went back to fifth grade that I never even read anymore. I packed purses even though I never wore them. I packed old jeans and t-shirts I had sworn never to be caught dead in again. I packed stuff that wasn't even mine. I packed my brother's jacket that I always borrowed. I packed my sister's drawings that I had always just stuffed into my desk drawer. I packed my mother's perfume, she wouldn't know until it was too late. I packed my dad's baseball cap though I never wore caps. I unpacked and repacked, rearranging and stuffing, rolling and folding to make space to fit it all in that one little suitcase. And when I was finally satisfied that it was all done, I looked at my bulging suitcase filled with things I did not need but could not bear to leave behind.
And then it hit me. I had forgotten my baby blanket. I always took that blanket everywhere I went. I took it to Romania when I was four. I took it to Germany when I was seven, to Kenya when I was nine, Washington D.C. when I was eleven. I took it to Turkey, Bulgaria, Cyprus, Zimbabwe and South Africa. That blanket had seen the world with me. And now I was off again. But this time I was off to college and I was going by myself, far, far away for a really long time. And I had forgotten to pack it. My life was threatening to burst through the seams of my suitcase and there was no space to pack my baby blanket. So I stood there and cried. I cried because I was leaving my youth behind. I cried because the things I thought could sum up my life, could not. I could not pack away nineteen years of laughter, tears anger fear, frustration, pity, joy, excitement and love in just one suitcase. I could not carry it all with me. It was too heavy, and yet leaving it behind was unthinkable.
It is now twenty minutes before my flight leaves. My bag has been checked in, goodbyes have been said, tears shed have dried and good luck has been wished. And here I sit in the window seat of the plane destined to the rest of my life. I never did reopen my suitcase, it would have fallen apart. But I am sitting here with my coke and bag of peanuts, unopened in one hand. And my baby blanket in the other. The things I packed may not have any practical uses, but I am going to carry them with me anyway. I have never mastered the art of packing lightly, so I guess I will have to carry this baggage with me.

Gone

My reflection tells me that

you're gone, not coming back

I see it in my bloodshot eyes

Like broken windows

To an abandoned soul

I see it in my lips

Cracked and barren

Like a desert

Yearning, pleading, aching

For your rejuvenating kiss

I see it in my arms

Hanging limp and lifeless at my sides

Like the leaves of a weeping willow

Out of practice from not holding you

I see it in the heaving of my bosom blossom

Heavy and burdened

My heartbeat thudding through

My skin as if diseased

Ready to Die

Because there is nothing left to live for

You're gone

And my reflection won't let me forget it.

Never Again

Never Again
Never Again will i let myself fall
Fall into those eyes that
Pierce through me and draw out
A trust, a submission
That is blind to reason
And bright scarlet as quiet, trickling
Blood, so silent yet so deadly

Never Again
Never again will i give in to that charm
The charm that seems
To bind my heart in shackles
And leaves me with no reason
To believe that i can break free
That i am free to say no when
I please and not to stand defenseless

I promise not to do it again
Not to run to you with open arms
In hopes of getting that love returned to me
When in reality rejection slaps me across the face
Leaving nothing but the sting of confusion
For i was so certain you would catch me in your arms
But instead i hit a cold stone wall
Which stood as my only refuge, my only comfort
Against the wracking of a lonely, broken heart

Home On Time

Ironically the day had been going really well up until this point. School had been uncharacteristically fun today and the driver was actually on time for a change when he came to pick me up. I smiled to myself as i held firmly to my math folder which held the first A i had recieved on a test in the hated subject for the last two years. As if that was not reason enough to celebrate, Enrique had actually spoken to me today and i was prancing around in seventh heaven. I could not wait to get home and call Tabia and gloat over things actually going my way for a change. I should have known better. Thing were going a little too well all at once. It should have been a premonition that something bad was going to happen, but i was too far in my fantasy world to notice.
I walked in the house as usual, slamming the door behind me. The moment i stepped through the threshold, something felt different. I was frozen in time for a plit second, half knowing that something was amiss, but it was only for a split second. I walked into the kitchen as usual, and there was Teresa making dinner.
"Change your clothes," she said without even looking up. We constantly had a battle over getting me out of my school uniform before i got it dirty, and as always i pretended she was a figment of my imagination and went on to the fridge and got a soda and a piece of cake.
" It will ruin your dinner Claudia," we both said simultaneously, with me rolling my eyes dramatically. With my book bag still hung over one shoulder, i walked to the family room to find my obnoxious little brother catapulting himself from sofa to sofa while my baby sister sat her plump frame three inches from the television screen with a mass of melted chocolate on a apertowel between her tiny legs, mesmerised by some inane predicament the Rugrats had gotten themselves into. Her little face broke into a huge grin when she saw me walk in and she raised both hands and cluthced at me with her sticky fingers screaming "Puppy," her pet name for me. I crouched down long enough to kiss her chubby cheek and avoid her grubby fingers. I was in such a good mood that i reached over and patted my brother's head, to which he recoiled in horror.
"Relax, i was only going to pet you, you little rodent." His expression became one of defiance and he fixed his hair, stuck out his bottom lip and gave me the evil eye before he resumed his campaign against leather furniture. I walked down the hall to the stairs and bounded up, two steps at a time, to my room. I threw my bag on my bed, kicked off my shoes, switched on my CD player to blast Janet Jackson's latest, closed the door and plopped onto my bed. I was staring up at the poster of Will Smith and daydreaming when i suddenly remembered Enrique. I swtiched off the music and grabbed the phone in my room, ready to hit the speed dial button and fill my best friend in on my amazing luck. Before i could press the button though, i heard voices and put the receiver to my ear to see who was on the phone.
"So they all knew and were sitting there laughing at me. Everytime i went to that damn office, they all knew!" The agonized voice sounded vaguely familiar but i could not quite place it. I knew better than to listen in on a private conversation but there was something about that voice that held me transixed. I recognized the second voice as belonging to my Aunt J.
"Suze, how could they have told you? How do you tell someone something like that?" I knew that my Aunt J called my mom Suze for short but i could not believe that the wounded voice i had heard earlier belonged to my strong, assertive, happy mom, I listened in for a few more minutes until my mother broke down and began to cry. I had seen my mother cry only once before in my thirteen years of existance and that had been over a death in the family. But this wasn't a death, i had picked that much up. I did not know why she was crying but i did know that it made me very uncomfortable. I could not listen to it so i put the phone down, forgetting to lay it softly in it's cradle so they would not know i was listening in. Immediately i was scared. I knew they must have heard it and now mom was going to come into my room. I did not want to see her. I could not face her right now, not the way she was. I knew something bad had happened but i also knew i did not want to know. I did not want anything ruining my day, not now. Please.
I turned my music on even louder and lay down on my bed pretending to be asleep and trying to block everything out. After the third song ended, there was a knock on my door. I ignored it but she came in anyway. My heart began beating really fast and i felt smothered. She closed the door and i opened my eyes and sat up. She didn't have to speak, and neither did i. We both knew that i knew that something had happened that woudl affect me as much as it did her.
"Claude we have to talk." And she did. She told me why she was home earlier than usual. She told me why her eyes were swollen and red. She told me how alone she felt, how she was so angry. And then she began crying. Her tears weren't tears of loss as one would shed when a loved one died. They were not tears of superficial pain shed when one's fingers got smashed in the door. They were not the tears of fear like those i had shed when i was being wheeled into surgery last year. Young as I was, I recognized that these were tears of anguish and disillusionment. These were the tears of someone who had hit rock bottom. Someone whose world was not only violently turned upside down but also wrenched inside out. No, not just someone, but a woman. These were the tears of a woman's pain. The fact that my mother, my happy mother whose sole purpose it seemed was making everything ok, was shedding these tears caused something to snap inside me. I was torn between two people i loved more than life itself, to whom my loyalty was equal and complete. Yet, sitting there on my Lion King duvet with my mother looking so defeated and broken changed something within me. It was at that moment that i can truly say i felt i became a woman. It had nothing to do with physical changes, nor did it have to do with mentality. It was the connection to my mother's pain that transformed me into a thriteen year old woman. I identified with her hurt, her confusion and her fear. I felt what she felt. Her tears had cut deep within me and somewhere the floodgates had splashed open and given birth to that indescribable capacity of a woman to feel pain in its most extreme, and still survive it.
I wrapped my arms around my mother's shaking frame and held on tight. I was afraid, so very afraid of what would happen next. I was afraid for my mom and my tears told her that. She held onto me tight, with my head pressed against he violent heartbeat. She kissed my head and said she felt like i was her best friend in the world.
I would have never guessed that my perfect day could have become one of the worst in my life as i walked through the door that afternoon. Early for a change. Thoughts of Enrique had vanished and my math folder lay abandoned on the floor beside my bag. My CD player was still on and Janet was screaming the words, 'What about the times you lied to me? What about the times you said no one would want me? What about all the sh*t you done to me? What about that? What about that? What about the times you yelled at me? What about the times i cried, you wouldn't even hold me. What about those things? What about that? What about that?" The door was shut and we were both silent. I sat there in my mother's arms, feeling both like a lost child, and an enlightened woman and my heart bled for her. We sat there, listening to the venomous lyrics. And we cried.

Dinner At My House

Dinnertime at my house was a lot different from this. I don’t know these people. They’re family, but I don’t know them. I don’t know where I am supposed to sit. At my house I always sat to my dad’s immediate left, no matter where we were. My sister sat right next to me to my mother’s right and my brother across from us in the middle, the way it always worked out for him in life. I had to sit next to my sister because my brother and I could not be trusted within two feet of each other, and it was easier to kick each other from across the table. My sister was the baby and sat next to our mother, so she could get away with murder, supervised. My brother sat closer to my mother because she doted on him and made him feel that middle was the best place to be. I sat near my dad because I was daddy’s girl, and we could share jokes just between us. And in my mind I always thought my dad was omniscient, and the closer I got, the more I would know. As I grew older I gained a new respect for my mother and realized she probably knew a whole lot more than my dad, but my seat has never changed.
Dinner at my house was a family affair. Mom and I cooked, the way our culture says it should be. My brother and sister set the table, the way western influence suggested it should be. And my father came to the table, the way we all accepted it. Once dinner was on the table, my dad would praise the cooks, my siblings would whine at the sight of a hated dish, and mom and I would sit in silent modesty. As if on cue, someone would announce, “Let us pray,” and whoever’s turn it was to say grace would lead us in prayer. Mom always said a long impromptu prayer which we all prayed would not fall on a day when we were starving. Dad and I recited the same prayer whenever it was our turn. My sister followed the methods she learned in preschool or whatever grade she happened to be in, and my bother recited the prayer he was taught at school. Eating anything before prayer was sacrilege.
Finally dinner would commence with forks clanging against plates and glasses. In accordance with our culture, the adults always served themselves first before the children were allowed to, but my siblings and I were raised in western lands where we picked up western habits, so my mother had to always remind us to be respectful. My dad, the diabetic, always ate healthy, moderate helpings. My mother, forever dieting, followed the same trend. My bother, the bottomless pit, ate anything within reach, and my skinny sister picked at her food and snacked on air. We talked of the day’s events, religious issues, politics, and my dad would crack endless corny jokes that had me spewing my soda across the table. We would sit at the table for hours after we had finished eating, just talking. It was the only time we spent together as a family without the interference of work, school and TV. It is where all my most precious memories lay, memories I am now forced to call up every night now that I am away at college.
Now I sit here with my extended family, my aunt and uncle and my two cousins. And though the number of people is right, my cousin and I don’t have the love-hate relationship my brother and I had, and now I’m the baby who eats air sandwiches. And though my uncle is very smart, his corny humor barely makes me crack a smile. And my aunt doesn’t need help in the kitchen. I am thousands of miles away from the dinner table I sat at for twenty years and I don’t know where I am supposed to sit. Dinnertime now is just dinner, and can not compare to dinner at my house.

Why I Will Not Get Out Of Bed

Getting out of bed means getting out of my shell
it means facing all the things i am scared to face
another day of trying to figure things out
another day of pretending to be happy when i'm not

i don't want to have to face the world
don't want to have to be the object of anyone's attention
don't want to have them all look at me
and wonder if there is something wrong with me

if i get out of bed i'll have to face myself
figure out who it is i am going to be today
i will not enjoy the safety of my comfort zone
i'll be cast out and expected to be somebody

but how can i be anybody
if i don't know how to be myself?
how can i be confident in myself
when i cling to insecurity like a safety blanket?

i'm scared to get out of bed
because i am scared to face the reality of me
scared that i will be misunderstood
scared that they won't like me

so why can't i just stay in bed
and be whoever i want to be
and not have to work at being accepted
and not have to be afraid of the world?

Four

There is this girl. Passionate. Too passionate for her own good. She is passionate about her home. About her people. Misunderstood and never taken seriously. Pitied and never really respected. Sure they get on her nerves sometimes, and she is even embarassed by them and pretends she is not one of them sometimes. But the love she has for her people overpowers her and she has dreams of one day being the savior of her people. Fixing all the problems that plague her nation. Teaching the world that her people are intelligent, witty and funny, beautiful, kind hearted people. Making people envious and proud and awe-struck by her people. Pulling them from the bottom and allowing them to grace the thrones of greatness. She dreams of wooing the world with her words and thus shining a much needed light on the great talents of her people. In her mind, she carries the burden of her entire nation on her shoulders. Because her passion to present it to the world, refuses to let her fail. Her passion is her all-consuming fire.

Three

There is this girl. Scared. Too scared for her own good. She met this boy. A meeting their souls had planned a lifetime before their bodies realised each other. He fell in love with her. His looks were laughable, but she adored him. And he her. He wrote her songs and love letters. He held innocent lust in his eyes when he looked at her. She knew he loved her and that maybe, one day she would too. But she was too scared to let herself or to let him in. She kept her heart boxed up inside her and let the boy think she did not love him. And after a long while he gave up. She moved to a distant land and willed herself to be practical. She told herself it was for the best. But ever since, she has felt incomplete. She has met many boys. Thought she was in love once again, but wasn't really. And now she is contemplating giving herself to one of these boys. He means nothing to her, but she pines for the boy she wouldn't give her heart to and the vacuum inside her is demanding her to fill it. The funny irony of it is that she did not love that boy from her youth, in her homeland. But she regrets never having given him and her heart a chance. And now she's afraid she's trained her heart to hide. And her body to give without questions. She's afraid of love and thus has learned to abuse it. Scared.

Two

There is this girl. Skinny. Too skinny for her own good. Overweight people resent her and scoff behind her back, yet to her face they smile and say how they wished they were her size and ask 'what are you? A size zero?!" trying to play off malice as unabashed envy. They nickname her 'Skinny Marinky' and 'Barbie' thinking they have just made her day but little do they realise that she too resents and hates Barbie. She doesn't look as much like Barbie as everyone thinks. She isn't tall, doesn't have big, perky breasts....or any for that matter. Her thighs are a symmetrical oddity and her acne is cause for many nights spent crying over the bathroom sink while the bathtub overflows to muffle the noise of her tears. But she wonders what the use of complaining would be. Everyone is preoccupied with 'understanding' and politically correctly protecting the fragile feelings of overwieght girls against the likes of vain skinny girls like her. Skinny girls don't deserve to cry. So she doesn't. Poor little skinny girl.