My fingers like tentacles | Trying my hand at delicate embroidery | Each stitch worse than the one before
life is just so fragile. its kind of like holding onto a little piece of paper in a car driving down the highway with the windows rolled down. you have it in your grasp, or so you think until your mind wanders and your fingers loosen for one second. just one second, and it’s gone. fluttered out the window, forever dancing along the lane-dividers of a dusty highway.
Last night at this hidden gem of a vegetarian cafe/art hub in Guatemala City I met someone who had lived in Vancouver in the same neighbourhoods I also once had lived in. He gestured to a large map of Metro Vancouver that hung on the wall. Once again I was reminded gently of how interconnected we all are on this planet we call home. I fell asleep feeling like a little droplet of water suspended safely on the massive, delicately woven spiderweb that is humanity.
The coffee tastes bitter without you here.
Even with the sugar cubes I greedily dropped in.
The blackness devours me and carves me out from inside.
Today on the train
a man sat down beside me,
his large frame pushed me to the side
my knees banged against the wall
pinned; I felt his body grow larger
while I simultaneously grew smaller
as if with each of his breaths
he took a bit of me with him
I thought of a million things I could do or say
but instead I sat quietly, staring at my shoes.
his portly fingers drummed on his left thigh.
three stops, I felt his gaze on me
my shoelaces are frayed
mi piel es blanca, color de la nieve recién caída
pero dentro de mi cuerpo corren venas latinas.
cólera de sangre
de tierras robadas
de cuerpos e historias secuestradas
¿cómo pago el rescate?
mi piel es blanca, color de la nieve recién caída.
¿cómo olvido el privilegio y la opresión dentro de mi?
coexistencia perpetua, infeliz
las relaciones parasitarias suelen pasar desapercibidos
Walking down the Drive, my hand in hers.
Cold grocery bags banging against my creaky knees.
Headed home to drink wine, Saturday night.
"Adam and Eve not Thelma and Louise!"
An old man on a bicycle, wearing
reflective gear and a helmet.
"Fuck you. I hope you get hit by a car, homophobic prick,"
Only I didn’t say it.
Instead I looked at the store windows to my left.
As the bags kept banging,
and my feet kept walking.
… homophobic prick.
Even my veins feel like they’re thinning,
like frayed pieces of yarn
after you’ve tried too hard to knit them
into something worthwhile