just to hear you say,

“Oh, honey,”

when the night comes,

and I can’t go on



There are times I find it hard to breathe. I lie in bed counting the inhalations and the exhalations, hoping that the lump in my throat will go away and not scratch and claw its way out of my mouth. I am trying to be quiet as my mind moves faster than it did the night before, or the one before that. One Google search after another leaving me with more questions than answers, although the, “No,” is heard above the noise in my head. No one wants me. I try to think of the least shameful way to make ends meet, the least embarrassing way to salvage some of my pride. I count the days until I see the face I love the most again, and the lump in my throat grows and moves closer to my gaping mouth. My legs won’t sit still until I rationalize things in my mind, and sometimes not even then. I make a plan for the next day and then the next, but it just seems like chaos in my mind. The harder I try to sort through the tangents, the more convoluted they become. If I could only find the center, the place where they become one. I eventually exhaust myself enough to sleep, only to dream of more, “No”s, other girls prettier and smarter, and accidents that strip me of my identity. Waking up the next day, finding that my plans are useless; I try to wake myself. “Today will be different,” I force my mind to tell itself as I shut my eyes in desperate hope of one more minute of fitful sleep. I’ve written down three different timelines and lists, but none of them go how I imagined, and not enough gets accomplished. I go and stop and go and stop until I once again lie in bed counting the inhalations and the exhalations, the lump in my throat getting in the way once more.


My life is slowly being placed in boxes, some things carefully wrapped, others thrown into boxes with intricate labels because there is no rhyme or reason to their contents. While nothing is set in stone, the plans I have made are incredible – plans to live near the people I love more than I’ll ever be able to express, plans to work passionately, plans to be my own person. I have waited for the day I would live on my own as an adult for as long as I can remember, and I know what they say: “Don’t wish away your time,” or “Adult life is not as fun as it seems.” I’m sure there’s truth to that, but I’m not drawn to the excitement of being on my own; I’m drawn to the mundane: the waking up, making coffee, rubbing my sleepy eyes as I pull clothes out of the dresser; the paying bills, which is proof of hard work and responsibility in my eyes; the cooking and washing of dishes, the scalding water pouring over my pale hands; the opening of my door and letting in friends and neighbors. I know that adult life will be different than what I have imagined over the past 22 years, but I think that it’s important to celebrate the excitement of challenges and decisions and work that all come with being a young adult. So for now, I’m still in limbo, quietly boxing up my life, knowing the celebration is coming.


reevaluating my hands,

seeing the proof of hard work and

attempts to better myself,

knowing they reach out to

show love in simple, quiet ways with

fingers that hope to hold future promises.


years of animosity

competition, and

(at times) even hatred

set aside for a time of need.

sitting down for a meal at the

end of a long day,

finally opening doors to

rooms that desperately need

airing out.

like Christmas

only better.

the early morning sounds of

bare feet on hollow floors,

tortillas frying, becoming my favorite food

one morning at a time,

sitting with my feet pulled up under me,

meeting your eyes every chance I get,

the hidden sun at the perfect angle and

you face lighting up,

welcoming me home for the first time.