Twenty

Twenty.
I am Twenty years old.
I have inhabited this Earth for 7,305 days.

I cannot look back onto my life without crying.
I have been through some shit
And I will continue to go through shit.
I still vividly remember crying and hoping for things to be better,
For things to change.
And It has.

As I write this, with tears in my eyes,
I am sitting on my black couch,
In my little apartment.
My cats, Logan and Lacy,
Are laying next to me,
Watching the show I have on my tv.

I still wish to reside within my mother’s womb so I can be protected from the harsh world.
I still wish several things could be different.
I still wish I could change the past and fix my mistakes.
But it helped me get to this point in my life.

This past year,
I have realized my potential.
I am capable of great, outstanding things,
I am capable of ruining everything around me with no remorse.
I enjoy my own company.
I enjoy losing my absolute mind and picking myself back up.
I enjoy chao, but I am starting to like peace.

As I start this new decade and enter my twenties,
I realize I am actively changing and developing.
I am taking the steps to take care of myself and those around me.
I can say that I do love myself and those around me.

Living is an art
And I plan to create a masterpiece.

The moment my dad told me he didn’t love me

The moment my dad told me he didn’t love me

Wasn’t very shocking.

It was disturbing, 

But also confirming.

Days before this happened,

I already had thoughts about how my dad didn’t love me or show me much affection and attention as a child.

He didn’t show up to any of my concerts,

He always backed out of taking me somewhere,

And he even showed up after my high school graduation.

It was bad to the point my teachers thought my mom was a single mom. 

There were good moments and memories,

But he still wasn’t really there. 

The moment my dad told me he didn’t love me

I couldn’t focus on his comments for too long.

I had to clean up my apartment,

Take care of my kittens,

Prepare dinner,

And go to work.

“That’s what grown people do.”

Mind you, 

I’m not even in my twenties. 

My dad prioritized his job before he would prioritize his wife and daughter.

My dad would make sexist remarks and told me I would never marry because I’m not submissive.

Mind you,

I am very submissive and motherly to the men I am dealing with. 

But I am not going to be submissive to my dad.

My dad never saw me as his equal

Or his daughter.

So the moment my dad told me he didn’t love me

Was an weird moment,

But comforting.

The Woman

As a child, 

I would prefer to spend a lot of time alone.

My parents thought it was quiet odd 

And would often check on me.

Unknown to them,

I was never alone.


The woman in the corner would be there,

Watching.

It scared me at first,

But over time,

I began to accept her presence.

She would stroke my hair

While I was asleep.

She would wipe my tears 

While I cried about a worthless boy.

She would listen to my pleas 

While I cried and begged for death.


She was there

During my loneliest moments

In youth. 

And she’s here

During my proudest moments

In adulthood.

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.