Quandary

penned May 2024.

missing the dopamine hits you supply

rethinking the meaning of chemistry

I'm down bad, but at least I'm honest

I'm craving the heat of proximity

suspended between two states of being

face to face with unwanted truth

I wish you would, but I know you can't

I know my place, and it's not with you

Asked and Answered

penned February 2024.

It’s needed because our skin was once considered cursed

Because our hair offends unless straightened into submission

It’s needed because people still see our bodies

And assume the capacity of our minds

It’s needed for car doors locked and bags clutched tighter

By those who see us as a threat for breathing

It’s needed for every tear shed as this nation was built

On backs that bore whips and burdens

It’s needed for crosses burned on countless lawns

And historical retellings that reek of denial

It’s needed because respectability doesn’t save lives

And “I don’t see color” isn’t an achievement

It’s needed because academia let us in

But seldom does it say “make yourself at home.”

It’s needed for comments that approximate mockery

And celebrations misconstrued and dismantled

We need it to lament our scars and laud our successes

And we’ll need it until “why” becomes a rhetorical question.

期待 (kitai, promises)

penned February 2024.

Have I constructed

Narratives with my own hands

And claimed God built them?

Goldilocks

penned December 2023.

one day I'll feel

Just Right

instead of

Too Much or

Not Enough

I'll stop asking for

permission to take up space

and never again feel sorry

for existing in totality

I neither want to

shrink myself

for your comfort

nor rely on

your approval

to expand

I want you to hold me

if and only if

you can value

my chaos and calm

and be ready

to handle my energy

willing to see me

at my worst

and able to hold me whole.

this time last year...

July 2021

I thought things were changing.

I thought possibilities were falling into place before my eyes.

That maybe, just maybe, we could try us on for size.

You spoke in decisions.

You wanted to see how our lives might move together.

Expressed good intentions as easy as breathing

Gave me no reason to not trust you.

But really it was blind narcissism wanting its ego stroked

Too aroused to tell me “never mind”

Too intoxicated to be honest

Too deliciously paralyzed to move my unsuspecting hand away.

Maybe I’m still mourning the wasted time and energy. 

Maybe I still hate myself for opening up so easily. 

Maybe I wish I was incapable of feeling anything unless it’s the right place, 

right time, 

my person. 

Maybe the bitter taste is still rolling around on my tongue. 

Maybe I still hear us saying things we never should’ve.

If I let myself ponder for even a second, these maybes melt into yeses.

I wish I could say that I’ve put my guard up. 

I’ve wanted to. 

But I’ve learned I’m incapable of doing so. 

Maybe I’ll always be the person who could envision so many “happily ever” avenues after just one interaction. 

If that’s the case, please know I didn’t choose it.

If it were up to me, that month would not exist. 

We’d just talk as friends like we did before, continue on like that after, and never take that detour to go There.

“There” ruined everything.

Body

penned July 2020.

I am sorry

For all the ways I cursed you for existing

The ways I refused to listen to what you needed

And insisted that you needed what I wanted

I tried to change you

Over and over and over

I focused on everything I thought was wrong

listened to outside messages

Look this way, eat like this, move like this

No exceptions, no others accepted

Caught up in a numbers game

I deprived you of life and free expression

In the name of a goal and misguided intentions

It’s no wonder that my efforts to whittle you down didn’t work

I see that now

Give me the chance to make it up to you

Let me learn how to nurture

How to hold you with no contempt

Show me how to look in the mirror and see “perfect as I am”

sick, MD

 I wrote this in April 2015 for a collection of original literary works about medical student/professionals' personal experiences with illness.  I can't remember if the anthology was ever completed.  It was supposed to be called "Sick, MD" hence the title of the post.

A 20-year-old female presents to a student health after-hours clinic with a sore throat, body aches, and a stuffy nose…

It sounds like a typical case—given age, gender, and a smattering of symptoms, diagnose, educate, treat…problem solved.  However, what seems simple in the textbook may prove complicated in reality.  This experience showed me first-hand how patients can affect outcomes of their own care.

That night in February 2012, I was feeling horrible.  So horrible, in fact, that when the care provider told me to take some cold medication and not go to class the next morning, I—a student who’d rarely missed lecture even as a college senior—followed the advice without much protest.

A few days later, I developed a wheezy cough. I’d struggled with asthma as a kid, and although I’d stopped carrying an inhaler after middle school, my symptoms had returned during my sophomore year of college when I got “swine flu.”  So this new development was an inconvenience more than a reason for alarm.  A couple of weeks, a new inhaler, and a breathing treatment later, that distinctive wheeze disappeared, but my overall condition worsened—and my frustration intensified.

By that time in my undergraduate career, I’d fully immersed myself in the culture of the place, been indoctrinated into the gospel of putting work, grades, and other obligations above personal wellness.  Even our conversations prioritized the same.  “How are you?” was often met with a rundown of upcoming deadlines instead of an actual answer to the question.  Sickness?  No excuse, this gospel preached; keep doing as many activities as you can manage, only slowing down when you’re too fatigued to leave the dorm.  But I can’t place all of the blame on the institution; even without that external pressure, I’ve always been the type of person who wants to follow through with every commitment I make, regardless of the consequences.  Whether that stems from a sense of dedication to the activities I involve myself in or a fear of disappointing others is anyone’s guess.

In any case, even when intense chest pain and deep coughing made me feel my most miserable, I still went to dress rehearsals for a dance performance I’d signed up for the preceding semester; only after the final performance did I go back to the after-hours clinic.  It was then that I was given antibiotics to, as the healthcare provider on call termed it, “treat symptoms of walking pneumonia.”

At first, I didn’t believe I actually had pneumonia.  After all, I told myself, the healthcare provider on call never ordered a chest x-ray to confirm anything (clearly I knew nothing about lung crackles at the time).  I still took the antibiotics in the hope that I’d bounce back from whatever was going on inside my body.  Eventually, the deep cough went away, and my friends stopped joking that I had tuberculosis.  However, my chest still hurt when I stretched or moved abruptly.

I went home for Spring Break and told my then-PCP about the issues I was having.  She postulated that the harsh coughing that I’d done while I was ill before had caused an injury.  She told me to put heat on the affected area, take pain medication, get plenty of sleep, and not exert myself.  Under the watchful eye of my family, I complied.  However, when my vacation was over, I once again succumbed to the desire to make the most of my final year in college.

One afternoon toward the end of March, I performed a spoken word piece at an outdoor rally.  Before I began, I was feeling fine.  But I wasn’t expecting to step up to the microphone and perform the piece as passionately as I did; I practically shouted the words over the noise of the passing cars, for all those gathered to hear.  The moment I rejoined my friends in the crowd, my chest exploded with pain.  Since my discomfort was so obvious, my friends urged me to go back to the clinic.  Once again, I was told not to exert myself too much, and once again, I all but ignored the suggestion.  Fortunately, the ache slowly started to subside for good; otherwise, my refusal to remove myself from more dance rehearsals and late-night outings in the following weeks might have left me even worse off than before.

In retrospect, it’s obvious how stubborn I’d been during the majority of the experience.  I was well aware that I needed to take better care of myself; I complained about my ailments, told my peers and concerned parties that I understood the importance of taking it easy, yet pushed myself to function as if I weren't ill.

In medical school, we do our best to memorize the typical presentations of common diagnoses but are cautioned that the patient “doesn’t always read the textbook” when it comes to presenting symptoms.  That caveat can also be applied to cases like this one, where prognosis relates to the patient’s level of compliance.  On the wards, I’ve encountered numerous cases of patients who decided not to take important medications or chose to ignore a physician's strong suggestions to make life-preserving changes.  I’ve often found myself unable to understand how they’d fail to comply in these situations.  My response to my illness was no better than theirs; indeed, if I hadn’t been so set on keeping up "business as usual," I might not have spent an entire month suffering from chest pain.  But as a result of my experience, I will likely be more willing to acknowledge the complex intersection between disease management and daily life—after all, I was once a patient who had to navigate it myself.

印象 (inshō, impression)

If only success
Made a bigger impact than
Times I missed the mark.

ECHOING ICARUS

I’m too close.
I know it.

But I can’t
step away from
the fierce desire
to protect you
from your demons
and your plagues
even though it’s
not my place.

You are suffering.
I am sick
to my stomach
with this knowledge.

And I would
blur boundaries and
defy logic and
attack the sun
to heal you
even though I
am fully aware
of the futility.

I know it.
I’m too close.

on the subject of a black woman's silence

my silence is not willful apathy.
it is not the absence of rage.

it is not a lack of desire
to process,
to protest,
to educate.

it is not consent,
no inaudible whisper of
"yes" to injustice,
no hushed utterance of
"this is ok, everything is ok."

do not equate the shutting of my mouth
with the closing of my eyes and ears
to the tension so tangibly felt.

i am aware.

i know that for some,
silence is agreement
with all of the above.

not so for me.

it has become hard to believe
that the pen is mightier than anything,
that one's voice holds power.
when reality hits
and history repeats,
i feel choked and powerless.

in saying nothing,
i preserve self.
it feels like the only power i have.

(untitled)

during a virtual poetry night last week, we were given the prompt to write a letter to someone on our last day of life. without even thinking, i knew who i was going to write about, and probably could've gotten to work on the spot. the other folks wanted more time, so we took the following week to reflect and write and read them to each other yesterday.

there’s no way to make up the lost time.

phone calls that could’ve happened but didn’t,

“thinking of you” texts never sent,

so many words unspoken.

i was too passive.

i thought i’d see you next Christmas,

thought i’d get another chance to call for your birthday,

thought i had so many moments left,

endless memories to make in this life.

i didn’t use the time i had

because i thought i had nothing but time.

and ever since we lost you,

i’ve found so much guilt in your place,

unanswered questions mingled with regret--

did you know how much i loved you?

did my actions make that clear when my words didn’t?

can you forgive my selfishness?

can you look past my attraction to convenience?

i honestly don’t know why i wrote all this down

When tomorrow i’ll get the chance to say it directly to you.

four years ago,

i prayed that your death wasn’t real,

that you’d somehow survived,

that it wasn’t your body they’d identified.

once my heart accepted reality,

i hoped that death didn’t hurt you like it hurt us.

now that my own last day has arrived,

only four words come to mind:

I’ll see you soon.

(for my cousin Brian. he would've been 36 today.)

parallel

the life-breath of God // the last-breath in death
rage-fueled fires tonight // Holy-Spirit Pentecost tomorrow

an agent of protest // a murder weapon
violence begets violence // sirens beget sirens
black and white thinking // protests into riots

proud to live in this skin // scared to die because of it
numbness // sadness // fear // rage

too tired to keep writing // too tired to stop

開放火炎 (Kaihō Kaen, Open Flame)

A dangerous game:
How close to fire can I
Get before it hurts?

open.

Write the damage down—

Don't hold back.

Replay every permutation of no,

All the diminished returns,

Each day that called you an option.

Realize it's a lot safer inside your own head—

At least for now,

Perhaps forever.

Unhook your heart from your sleeve;

Place it back in your chest

Where it's warm and no one can crush it.

Make a new mantra of self-preservation

And scream it to yourself through your tears.

Just remember to lock the door when you're done,

Or history will repeat itself—

More patterns will weave their way inside,

And before you even know what's happened,

You'll have more damage to write down.

12/13/15

guarded.

show me how you built them.
i won’t ask you
                          to guide my hands.
feel free to just rattle off words,
syllable by syllable,  
                                brick by brick.
it’s okay to be quick.
i’m a fast learner with a long way to go.
you’ve got walls,
                             i want a fortress.
(considering castles, a moat maybe)
but it’s okay to start small.  i just know that
no one needs in here anymore.

tell me about your armor.
you can hold me
                            at arm’s length if you want to.
i understand it’s easier.
i seem to like the hard way.
charge into battle
                              heart first, headstrong, no helmet.
i can’t be that afraid of getting hurt.
(but God does it hurt)
so maybe it’s time to defend myself.  after all,

i’m not beautiful enough to break you.

common knowledge

"Everyone knows,"
we say,
"that putting
Band-aids on bullet
wounds will never
stop the bleeding."

and yet
we let those
crimson rivers
flow

and
we wrap
our secrets in
gauze

and
we walk like
we've never been
damaged

note to self:

this "here i come to save the day" complex needs to be laid to rest.

as much as you feel compelled to have all the answers to your friends' problems, you don't have those answers.  maybe they're in too deep, maybe they're hurting.  sure, you can listen to them, be there for them...but there's a difference between being a good friend and trying to rescue them from all of their problems.

the latter is impossible.  telling yourself otherwise will only leave you more emotionally drained than you can handle.

the only job that you have is to realize that you are no one's savior.  figure out what that means.  cling to that distinction when you find it.  everyone will be better off that way.  including you.

confession is good for the soul, they say...

one of the things that Harvard taught me--and i mean, drilled into my head and wrote over my life in pen--is how to lie.

i tell people "i'm fine" before they can get out the last syllable of "how are you doing."  make light of stress by talking about how i went through a whole bag of pretzels in seconds the night before, or fell asleep in the shower, or something like that.

meanwhile, my real state of being is something like Hurricane Sandy.

i know that what i need is to be honest.  to actually admit how i'm feeling instead of just saying "i'm working on it."  the Harvard mentality of "i'm fine, you're fine, everyone's fine. etc etc until the end of time" has followed me back down south like a dark cloud.  as i sit here, typing this at 2am, listening to music in minor keys and wondering why i couldn't get to sleep earlier, i realize that i need to let myself get rid of those lies.

the things my brain comes up with scare me sometimes...

saw a tumblr post about Aokigahara (aka "suicide forest") in Japan.  apparently it's the second most popular site for suicides in the world behind the Golden Gate Bridge.

and i suddenly got 2 ideas.  very strange, possibly a bit gloomy, but ideas nonetheless.

1. whenever i go to Japan, i should go to Aokigahara, maybe to lay flowers somewhere, maybe just to pay homage to lives taken
2. it may be interesting to write some sort of fiction work (maybe a short story if it's compact enough) about a man who drives across the U.S. intending to jump off the Golden Gate Bridge.  not sure at this point if he actually does at the end.  but maybe i don't need to know that until we actually get there.

not sure why i posted this here, seeing as how i usually leave my darker musings to more private places...

i'm so bad at goodbyes...

i never quite know what to say.

(if anyone's wondering, this was supposed to publish itself as i left college about 2 and a half weeks ago.  it never did.  and i didn't want to delete it so i decided to post it now, because it's still true.)