Sorrow and Comfort

When my body was focused into puberty,

I became aware of sorrow,

And how my tears are my comfort.

I remember the sorrow I felt about my changing body.

I didn’t want to be an adult and wear a bra at 

The age of ten.

However, I was focused into it.

I cried as I was fitted into my first training bra.

A bra that I will wear for years since my breast barely grew.

I remember the sorrow I felt after my first heartbreak.

The tears I cried could have filled the four oceans.

The pain I felt follows me to this day.

I still cry for the lost love I gave.

I remember the sorrow I felt after every fling and relationship I’ve experienced.

Despite me being an unhinged, disturbed being,

I am still capable of giving ample love and time to the men who could care less about my well-being.

There is countless examples of my sorrow,

this is only a short list. 

I am a human that is often subjected to pain.

From my life experiences to my own dreams,

I am haunted and tortured.

How does my body produce so much sorrow?

I wish I knew.

How does my eyes fill with buckets of tears? 

I wish I had an answer.

My being begs to be expelled from my body 

If this pain continues.

Maybe I will let it free one day.

But until then,

I write about my pain and monstrous thoughts and daydreams with you, 

My dearest reader.

So I do

I didn’t ask to be a woman.
I didn’t plan it beforehand,
And my parents didn’t plan it.
If I knew how this world treats women,
I would’ve definitely been born a boy,
Or not been born at all.

But I’m here.
I’m here 
Where people are debating about my womb,
Judging my curvy body,
Criticizing my skin color
And fetishizing my ‘erotic’ nature.

It’s a cruel joke.
I didn’t ask for any of this.
I don’t want this reality.
I feel betrayed by my eyes whenever they open
And bring me back to my hopeless reality.
I feel wronged every time by heart beats on rhythm.

But I’m here.
And I have no choice, but to make the most of it. 
I want to have fun
And make people miserable.
The natural evilness within me is fueled by my own hatred and dismay.
She is impulsive, cruel, sharp-tongued and motived.

Every time I try to be sweet and good, 
She reminds me how nobody, but her, cares about my being
And all I have been through due to me being sweet and kind.
She tells me,
“This world has and will always be cruel to you,
why don’t you return it?” 

And so,
I do
as she says.

Home

In times of embarrassment,
In times of hopelessness,
And in times of loneliness,
All I want to do is go home.

I want to go home.
I want to be in my mother’s arms,
In her womb.
In her strong embrace,
In front of her strong face,
Telling me,
“You don’t have to be perfect.”

I want to go home.
I want to be in my father’s arms,
Like a child holding their delicate dolls.
In his strong arms,
With his protective logic,
Telling me,
“You’re ok, baby.”

I want to be home.
I want to be in my siblings’ company,
However, the age difference is a big factor.
With hard-headedness,
And their stubborn attitudes,
Telling me,
“Mini, you got this. Don’t cry.”

When I’m away,
And I feel scared and alone,
Desperate for help,
All I can say is
“I want to go home.”

Worship

I’m sitting on my throne,
My legs in the air, a mirror in front of me,
As my favorite sex toy leads me to my climax.

Pink Moscato and Kim Crawford chills in my fridge.
A glass nearby,
waiting to be filled.

My climax is reaching its height.
I’m smiling in the mirror,
At the girl within it.

She has perky C cup breast,
With a tattoo in between them
And jewelry through the brown nipples.

Her thighs are big and brown.
And anklet falls at the left ankle 
And her toes are painted a shade of pink.

Movies by Ashanti is playing in the background.
I feel like a goddess.
I feel like I’m the most beautiful woman in this world.

My climax arrives 
And slowly goes,
As it drips down from my fingers and my throne.

The song ends,
And a smile grows back on my face.
Should I do it again?

Old Friend

Dear Old Friend,

I miss you.
I miss you with every fiber in my being.
I loved our friendship and I loved you
From the moment I met you
To now.

We are,
We were,
One in the same.
Different people who had the same soul, 
But different experiences.

I was always there for you.
I always had time and space for you.
I had real, unearthly love for you.
I cared for you as if we knew each other since we were mere infants.

I wish you could’ve apologized.
The situation wasn’t even that deep.
I needed your apology to forgive you.
Now, I must be cold to you and forget you.

I wish it wasn’t that way.
We both know it shouldn’t be this way.
You accepted me for who I am.
And I accepted you for who you were.

I love you, Old Friend.
I always think about you, Old Friend.
I dream about you, Old Friend. 
And I cry puddles for our short-lived friendship.

Take care, Old Friend.
Don’t be so naïve, Old Friend. 

Stuck In This Mind

In the most recent parts of my life, 

I began to realize that I am apart of this reality.

I could be sitting in class,

Sitting at my desk,

Hanging out with friends,

When I become hyper-aware.

I become aware that I have a mother, who will suffer to give me her last,

A father, who is a horrible, disappoint of a man.

I have a sick mind and I am a mess with no sense on how to change it.

I become aware that I am required to live this life,

To suffer, to love, to desire, to procreate,

And live into my 40s, 50s and 60s.

And it terrifies me.

Why me?
Why us?
Why are things the way it is?

How can I change it?
Why am I like
This?

And it is the most frightening realization.

Being Ari

To be Ari is to be soft spoken.

To be naked and admire my natural shape and curves.

To always have a necklace around my tan neck.

To smell like shea butter and lilies.

To have fresh pink roses on my desk.

To need aftercare and comfort after sex.

To own several floral and fruity perfumes.

To be love and be loved unconditionally.

To buy and read classic novels.

To speak fluent Latin.

To be hyper-feminine.

To be soft, in every way possible.

Is This Happiness?

Sometimes, 
I wonder what true happiness is.
When I am in a position when I am not actively suffering,
I take myself out of reality and reflect.

As I write this,
I am sitting in one of the dorms of a popular, well-respected university in the United States.
Eating corn chips with hummus while Billy Joel plays in the background.
My only thought is whether I should make coffee or tea 
While I read Frankenstein for one of my English classes.

I am no longer in a toxic relationship, questioning their love for me.
I no longer seek out men or women for validation.
I have a good relationship with my mother.
I haven’t cried due to sadness in a while.

I have friends who truly care and love me.
My obsessive behavior is getting under control. 
I am learning how to control my emotions in stressful situations.
I am no longer an imposter in my own body.

However, I don’t know if this is happiness.
Are the moments where I am not questioning my life choices or myself
The moments where I am happy?

Am I 
Finally happy?
Is this what happiness truly is within human beings?

My Darkness Cannot Be Tamed

My darkness cannot be tamed.
It slips out of me when I speak,
Cutting people and making the conversation unpleasant.

It takes form in my writing,
My written words always seem to have hints of terror
And taboo.

My darkness follows into my wardrobe and style.
Black and flattering is my go-to.
I don’t own too many bright items.

It drives my relationships.
My partners are usually dark and wounded.
They are almost as sick as I am.

It takes over during sex.
It makes sadism and cruel
And it can make me submissive and craving abuse.

It defines my way of life.
Darkness is everywhere, we, as humans, just prefer to not see it.
But I embrace it.

It is my home,
My comfort,
And it is all that I know. 

Letter To My Momma

Dear momma,

I don’t know if I should love you or hate you.

But I love you regardless.

You are the woman who protected me from everything, causing me to be naive as I entered adulthood.

You were the woman who drilled perfection into me.

I still remember your voice telling me “it has to be perfect.”

Now, I break down whenever something is a little off or isn’t “perfect.”

You are the woman who I go to when I’m in need. 

I call you everyday and when things are wrong.

You were the woman who told me you should’ve aborted me.

I still remember that and I wish you did. 

You were my enemy before you were my mother.

Momma, 

I wish you could’ve been better. 

I was a sensitive child and now I’m an asshole who is cruel to everyone just so I don’t get hurt again. 

I don’t even know how to open up to you about my personal life because I’m used to keeping it from you.

I still crave to be under you, in your warmth, just like when I was a baby, a child, a teenager and even now.

I want to hate you, but I can’t.

My inner child wants revenge for everything you did to me and how I am now. 

But I can’t help, but to love you.

I love you momma and I can’t imagine my life without you. 

You are my security net, but I’m scared of getting hurt again. 

I don’t want to be hurt again, momma.

I love you, momma, I love you more than I love myself.

I don’t know how can I forgive you for everything you put me through as a child

Just please don’t hurt me anymore.

-Love, Mini