the watch poem

your watch so carefully mirrors
you
small and delicate
holding mature treasures
from a memory past
pretty, unimposing
rounded and white faced
full of promise for
stability
and idle dreaming
of time

spectrum

september 9, 2013.

I want to isolate a part of you through a spectrum 

and project it on all my walls

then blindfold you to take away your eyes, 

because they mean something.

pratt design incubator

I was featured on the pratt design incubator's meet the interns column for my work with rubina magazine

july j. billie

I don't even know where to start, daddy. I think I should start by saying that I forgive you. I forgive you for giving in at times, for falling, for not being there. I forgive you for the misunderstandings and the missed opportunities and for the mistakes we've both made. you were always someone I looked up to in some way or another. I would eat up every single thing you told me, all the facts and stories and fighting techniques. I treasured every moment I had with you because from an early age I knew they were limited. I knew it when you moved out, when my sisters and I would stay at your apartment and eat jiffy popcorn, when you weren't there on my birthday. I was so mad at you, daddy, and for a long time I was confused and didn't understand. but now I do, and I regret the time I lost getting to know you. I realized that it takes two people to form a friendship, and I wish I had started to hold up my end sooner. but that doesn't matter because in the last two years we did everything we could to be in each other's lives. sure, we still fought, and things hurt and I was so mad at you and destroyed by the things you did to yourself, but I fucking loved those two years. you came to my graduation, which means so much to me I can't describe. you visited me at columbia. you told me how smart you thought I was, and I made me so fucking happy. you were so smart, daddy. I'm so grateful you supported me in those times, and I'm so grateful I was able to make you proud. I want you to know that I got my strength, my intelligence, my determination, my patience, my tolerance from you. even when you didn't think you were teaching me, I was learning. you may have had your qualms about fatherhood, but I have to tell you that your three daughters are amazing. not only in their communities, but they are good people. and they are smart and grounded and tough. that's because of you, daddy. I love you so much, and I've been missing you. I missed you every time you went away, and I'm missing you now. I'll miss you forever, and I'll love you forever. I wouldn't have it any other way, no other daddy, nothing changed. I wish you could have helped yourself, but I forgive you. always know that. and there were a million things I wish I could have told you, but never had the chance to. I'll find a way to let you know. I love you, I love you, I love you. nothing I ever write will show just how much I love you, make me satisfied, but it's the least I could do for you. big kisses on the cheek, big hugs. rest in peace, daddy. things will only get better from here.

patchwork from the seminole tribe

I wrote an article profiling the art of patchwork and it's effect on seminole culture for rubina magazine

concerned about insomnia

dreams fume between inches of thickness to bear nothing

but fragmented eyelids, only patches to separate

desire from this ache in my mouth and fingernails

this delta of carcinogens from heart to capillaries

//

days float apart between nondescript evenings

running into each other like sharpied letters on canvas

carving initials of belongings; you belong to me

but beyond the bleeding I am unsure.

//

I am unsure

I am sick

and I am tired

//

I am desperate to feel some sort of comfort to reaffirm

that this could be something more than transient, shallow

that there’s an image of me inside you on a loop

but maybe je t’aime can’t exist off of winter’s lined paper

//

and I’ll admit, my floor admits, my hands admit

I can’t look at my body without thinking of you

in its solus its naked, dissociated, dark

sporting scars from fingers only I can see

//

only a leaving I can feel, like the night, you are gone

when I decide to resign to a reflex that hasn’t quite ripened

it casts a shadow twice my size, haunting me and saying

I’ll take care of you, but I am forgotten.

a guide to living as a 19-year-old with nothing going for him/herself

art by: tia blais-billie

may 21, 2013.

hate yourself?

throw away half your clothes and buy new shit

do 50 sit ups and floss your teeth

go to the movie theater at midnight

write inspirational quotes on sticky notes'

stop eating so many chips

think you’re stupid?

read a fucking book

try to do well in school instead of the bare minimum

give everything an actual, whole-hearted try before dismissing it

finish what you've started

feeling alone?

call your friends to hang out

text someone you like talking to

walk next door and have a conversation with your sister

look through old pictures you took of people you love

wanting to die?

write a poem

write a terribly terrible short essay

write a song

write a song and sing it like you mean it

STOP READING THAT FUCKING TUMBLR/GET OFF OF TUMBLR IN GENERAL

sit in bed and stare at your wall instead of crying or puking (not that that would happen)

the kulfi co.

I wrote an article on the kulfi co.'s project and their tasting for rubina magazine

weaving through the distance

I will send you my love

in letters and songs

hand selected, ripened to perfection

only my most careful and quiet thoughts

for you to sleep with under your tongue

I'm weaving through the distance

in writing and voicemails

sharpening my senses until you

are safely tucked away in my dreams

seeing your face once again

the bad guy

No one believes you because. You’ve heard about it on the news, known a few friends of friends here and there. It can get ugly. But do these things really happen to people like you?

Imagine this: you spent a long day at the factory, working like a dog. You have to stay late because someone bails his shift, leaving you with twice the workload. This drags on four extra hours, then you’re free to go. You don’t have a car, but it’s relatively safe for a 6’4,’’ 250lbs man to walk the streets of Cleveland after dark. Or so you think.

“Salt of the earth,” honest, hardworking. You taught your kids their alphabets, their manners, their loyalty to the flag. Your wife is a schoolteacher; beautiful, smart, can bake a mean apple pie.

So, you’re walking home. You approach a streetlight illuminating a small, quivering figure. As you get closer, you realize it’s a young woman. She seems alarmed.

“Fine night we have here,” you say as you nod your head.

You look at the girl. She has makeup smeared down her cheeks. Her blonde hair is messy. Dirty. She wears a tight, short, green dress and carries a small black purse. You look into her eyes and see vulnerability.

“Ma’am, are you holding up alright?” You ask in your gentlest voice.

You wait. She starts to cry, covers her face with her hands. She tells you she got in a fight with her boyfriend. Dropped her off here on the sidewalk, told her to find her own way home. Thing is, she’s not from around here. Got an accent. Got no idea where to go or what to do. No phone, no money.

Shocked, you reassure the girl that she’s safe, that you’ll take her to Shaker Heights with you. Get her off the streets where your wife will take care of her. She doesn’t answer, but faces the road, leaning over and crying some more.

She turns around with a .45 automatic raised to your face.

“J-Jesus, stay calm,” You stutter.

You’re fucked.

She demands you give her your wallet. All you have is a $5. She throws the wallet to the sidewalk, cursing. Her vulnerability has been replaced by a hard evil. And she’s downright pissed you’ve got nothing. She eyes your wedding band.

“That!” She points to it with her free hand. “Give it to me.”

Anything but that.

Three years of saving went into that goddamn ring. Shit, it was even engraved. ETERNALLY YOURS.

“Now listen…” You try to reason with her.

But she tells for you to shut-the-fuck-up. You panic. You think of your kids, of your wife. Of this gun in your face.

Without realizing, you lunge. You grab her wrist in your left hand, simultaneously squeezing. Hard. With your right hand, you rip the pistol from her fingers and you throw it as far as you can. Splash, into a small pond. The girl freezes. Her face is blank, her mouth contracting like a fish.

“Stay. Calm.” You beg her. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

As if that were the cue, she lets out a blood-curdling shriek. A shriek so loud it scares the shit out of you. It’s fucking unearthly. She starts thrashing around, and you’re holding her wrist because you don’t know what to do next. You frantically search the purple night, praying a car rolls by.

“Bro, what are you doing?!” A teenage boy runs across the road towards you both.

You let go of her wrist.

“HELP ME!” The girl screams, “HE’S TRYING TO RAPE ME!”

Your heart sinks into the pit of your body. Your stomach tightens, your head feels faint. No. This isn’t real, it’s some sick, depraved nightmare. This isn’t happening.

“No you don’t understand son, she was trying to rob me. She had a gun!

“What gun?” She says, smirking through her tears.

thoughts at 2:54AM

december 20, 2012.

chapped lips ruby red porcelain

this is you in your only skin

"crowded music"

the feeling of longing, it's painful and drawn out and desperate omg

I can feel my brain pulsing

walking through the cold

february 11, 2013.

walking through the cold

limbs swaying 

pendulum of flesh

detached and detaching still

I feel and do not see

I do not feel 

and cannot see

the deepest encounter

most heated distraction

leaves me still

lifeless

map of a body

february 10, 2013.

head: useless

body: engorged in certain way, uncomplying to present desires, ancient in biological functions, premature in biological functions technically 

heart: tired

soul: crackling underneath a tobacco leaf, still not in flames or emanating the truth  

almond milk

the ersatz of a summer

substituting sun

synthetic half lawns

red plastic flowers

with your almond milk

my bellowing abdomen

shaking in hunger

starving red marrow

crying out in creaks

for your nutrients 

ikea desk

beautiful like an ikea desk, I'm

cheap, exciting, adequate exterior

but not like the real ones.

if the assembling process doesn't turn you off

a little less than a year

and I'm worn.

sonnet

june 29, 2012.

so you are to fire, and ice to your love?

for every pretense made too hot to touch

this "flame" you hold next to truth high above,

could not phase me as if it's enough.

with every fiery and searing remark

frozen dead in all its dwindling tracks,

why do you promise to boil the lark

when your actions bear none but icy slack?

now so apparent your heat nauseates

and this love, frost bitten, blackens my nose.

should I get close enough to melt my face,

or call your bluff and nurse the flesh ice broke?

your sweet paradox suffocates your name, 

and so, I can only smother the flame. 

chelsea hotel no. 2 lyrics turned story

I was supposed to be studying for midterms one night;

instead, I wrote a short story using a line from the first stanza of a song as the beginning of each paragraph. 

I had downloaded chelsea hotel no. 2 by leonard cohen and couldn't stop listening to it

march 17, 2013

I remember you well. we used to be classmates. you got upset one day and threw your chair to the front of the classroom. the teacher was outraged, the school kids were in a frenzy. that summer, you went away to massachusetts and no one ever heard from you again. you always smelt like cigarettes and peach tea, even two seats away from me. I would look at your dirty hands. they never followed the pencil across the lined paper like the teacher wanted them to. you treated yourself like an empty desk.

**
In the chelsea hotel, I bought my first pack of cigarettes. it was the morning after my best friend lost her father, the night we were drunk in new york city. we saved just enough money to drive six hours east, to celebrate our graduation. we took a bag for a few nights, we took our favorite CDs, we took our best underwear. we stayed at the chelsea hotel. she told me she'd never slept with a boy before, and I told her I knew. a lot of people back home didn't know, but I knew. she was the kind of girl so uncomfortable in her own skin, she accepted anything anyone else projected on it. that's probably where she got her reputation.

we were talking so brave and so sweet. I held her hand and laughed with her as we made eye contact with three beautiful boys across the bar. it was dark, and I whispered again into her ear the things I would say to them if I could. she bought us another round of drinks, and was so brave by the end of the drinks that she walked over to the boys. before I knew it, we were sitting so sweetly on their laps, so sweetly in their eyes. my best friend couldn't find her key, but we had enough money to take a cab to their apartment.

giving me head on the unmade bed. a scratch on my left knee from ripping off my jeans. the taste of cigarettes in his mouth. these are the bits and pieces that pervade the swallowed evening. I tried to pull my clothes back on, but she came running into the living room. She was hysterical, her made up face ran down her chubby red cheeks. She told me her mother just called and told her her father had died. without putting on a shirt, I ran over to her and held her in my arms. we cried and I forgot what happened next.

while the limousines wait in the street, filthy things go on in cabs. I don't remember why, but the boy who was with my best friend came back with us to our hotel. or at least this is how it was told to me. he told his friends that we needed help getting back, getting another key from concierge. he would sacrifice his night. I guess he didn't feel like sacrificing his sleep; he put me in the bathtub and shared the bed with her. in the morning, he was gone, and her father was still dead.

**

but those were the reasons, and that was new york. still, I find myself yearning for a cigarette whenever I feel that momentous emptiness welling up inside my stomach. one day I found myself sitting under a gas station awning, seeking shelter from the rain with a smoke in my teeth. for the first time in five years, I smelt this sickening peach sweetness, and there you were.

 I was running for the money and the flesh you said. I'll pay you back for these smokes, you said. you're still the only person to talk to me, you said, and I said I knew. it turns out, you were sent away because of repeated outbursts, and you had "anger management problems" and were a threat to our pathetic little catholic school. I knew your parents were getting a divorce, because your mom used to be friends with my sister's classmate's mom, and not many people got divorces in our small town. your mother also had beautiful black curly hair like you.

and that was called love for the workers in song. love was having enough money to send your son to boarding school, to therapy, to a place hundreds of miles between yourself and what you're afraid of. you showed me the scars on your arm from other boys, and from a boy you didn't want to admit you were. you told me dirty jokes, and I gave you a fifth cigarette, and you spit onto the sidewalk. I laughed at your mannerisms. you asked me why I was being so friendly to someone who I didn't even know.

probably still is for those of them left, you said, and I knew what you meant. catholic school was nasty. I told you I agreed, and that something in me drowned there. when I realized how much I hated it, people hated me for knowing it. my best friend became my best friend when we were the two most hated girls in our class.

oh but you got away, didn't you baby? you seemed broken before, but in a different way than you were in front of me chain-smoking in the rain. I knew that you always saw beyond your circumstances, and that's why you were so angry. everyone oppressed you. me on the other hand, I had grown tame. I found pleasure in losing my mind, in cigarettes not because they were "social" or "cool" but because they made my body forget I hate myself. I don't think you ever hated yourself more than I do. I almost told you this. you touched my shoulder and said you would see me around. you walked away, and I went into the gas station to buy another pack.

the future is so close

february 4, 2013.

listening to classical music, wishing I was dancing. wishing this essay was over. overhearing girls talk about "ethnic hair" and how people know how to work it. I'm thinking about tomorrow and how hard it will be to get myself out of bed. I'll open my window and stare at amsterdam avenue like I do every morning, convincing myself to get up within in the next 3 minutes. I'll then chose an outfit that will make me feel comfortable enough to hide in but "fierce" enough to protect.

 its painful, sitting in front of an illuminated screen and gutting your mind for motivation. or maybe even an idea to start to fester into a sort of motivation. there's always that factor of getting sleep, but lately I've been neglecting the necessity. there's the need to get a good grade, but this only throws me off into tangent of anxious confusion. the future seems too close, so close that you can't even make your eyes focus on it because it's pressed against your fucking nose. 

coffee shop

november, 2012.

my fingers freeze around a folded paper plate. my dinner, a pathetic sandwich in a to-go fashion, exposes my hands to temperatures I'm not used to. this is the dead of winter, the north. the earth holds no mercy for those who seek heat. only it isn't the dead of winter, it's barely the middle of november. this is what happens when you grow up in florida.

I'm on my way to a coffee shop, alone, listening to a self-help audio book my father forced me to download. he has probably never called me as many times as he did to remind me to listen to said self-help audio book. today wasn't very satisfying to say the least: I woke up late, got to class late, met a friend for lunch late, started a paper late. a paper I can't even finish.

in the coffee shop, I find an isolated table near a lamp jutting out of the wall. in solitude, I eat my sandwich and open my laptop. sometimes I wonder if people could look you in the eyes, or even just glance at your face, and know how miserable you feel at the moment. 

I make eye contact with random strangers as I awkwardly weave through the dark, crowded area to grab a cup of water. I wish I could read their expressions. some of them look away immediately, some let their eyes linger on mine, some look smug. for just a moment, we're exchanging a very human reaction, a raw emotion that has not had time to ripen into a socially-constructed reaction that defines the situation as positive or negative. 

was that flinch a flinch of discomfort? are you looking away because eye contact intimidates you too? do you understand what its like to be so far away from the familiar? were you thinking of getting water as well? what if my thoughts are plastered on my face, like an obnoxious graphic tee that everyone stares at and judges. what if they're not. I'd like to hope that they aren't, or that if they are, people recognize them.

I return to my seat. here, I can withdraw for a while and reevaluate my circumstances. a self-help audio book, a sandwich, a paper. if that's not obvious then I don't know what is.   

startings and finishings

I keep my beginnings neatly folded

cut out and glued to construction paper

clippings in a folder

waiting to be used

I keep my endings painfully tattered

lost somewhere in the rainy streets of june

stinging cigarette burns

sticking in my throat

but the middles, I can't seem to find them

existing somewhere between sleeplessness

and insecurity

and inhibition