At 16, living with regrets is hard. All these things I wish I had never done, never said, but they happened. I could either beat myself up about these things or choose to simply learn from them. Sometimes, it’s hard to forgive yourself for things that are almost unforgivable and hurt so many people that you care the most about but what I’ve learned recently, is that those same people, need you to be okay. The ones who love you the most don’t want you to give yourself hell over the mistakes you have made even if you did hurt them. And if they did want you to suffer because of what you did, then maybe they don’t really care about you after all. Your past can make you or break you, meaning you can let it define you and have a miserable life or you can take it as a life lesson and come out a better person. I’d like to think coming out a better person and learning from my mistakes is a better way to handle things. Beating yourself up about the past doesn’t change things; trust me I know this, but becoming a better person does. Working on the things you don’t like and improving on the things you do is what changes things. Keeping yourself busy with friends and enjoying life even after doing something terrible is what makes the future brighter, and what you did in the past will never matter as much as what you choose to do tomorrow. What you did doesn’t make you who you are, it’s how and the way you move on that makes you, you. And this could very well be one of the most important lessons I have already learned in life.
Shorthand
Sprung Encounters
I. Exhabition We sat on the floating tilt o’whirl at the parking lot carnival at night. The neon lights slowly faded and we sat tight underneath the pressure of the—safety belt Waiting for the machinists and operators to abandon their stations To be alone Without the noise and clutter of the world The darkness seemed surreal with the vivid memories of starbursts spread out—every three inches Watching us with serene potential They mock our impotence Watching what amusemeant To one in the past When the world was as simple as The floating tilt o'whirl at the parking lot carnival at night. —xanax makes the night light like a firefly— We dance as freely as a floating tilt a ‘whirl at the parking lot carnival Wearing nothing but ambition on our back and hearts up our sleeves Watching the lights come to life in retrospectacle Wanting nothing more in our retina or on our reticle Than the science behind the miracle of how we transcend conscience as We sit on the floating tilt-o-whirl at the parking lot carnival at night. II. Reminiscing on the 116 I sense the presence || A nomadic soul enters when the doors open by the Locomotive tracks. So dissenting must the experience be for the forgoer. Lo, Where do you get off? Facing the lake, A shimmery seiche; The wavelengths radiating from Ethereal summery depths. Dipping a toe, the shock Venomous as it is voltaic, Offers salty solace to the stoic’s nostril, Yielding a touch to the tongue beyond displeasure. Else, there is a grandchild in their greater years Unable to take care extended with grace. Randomly accessing the memories of Space and time that prophetically race, Yet control, plus a zenith Ensure the undoing of the dissenting descendant. The heart has yet to be touched however, I promise you will be there at the top of the hour. Nay, the end of this hour. Our Subterranean burrowers leave scars Everywhere but our legs. Dreaming, you are not, As you descend Through the organ. Equal parts euphoric and Dystopic. Grains of salt will assist the firewall, Restricting the bridge between then and now. A-N-D Every severing cut Updated by our imachinations Reinstates the purpose of your wanderful soul. III. Deontoxication In talks occasional, He Feels: content is necessity With our engravings So rigorous On slots and pane: Ten Commandments lead The unkind necessarily To gather a moral compass Direction. The sires Answer His deliverance, Demand order so That darkness bounds the mind. *** Intoxication, all he Feels: contentedness/acidy Withering ravens Soaring or else Onslaughts and pain Tend to come adamantly. The unkindness is airily Together. Some more will come pass The wreck, shun desires And service the liver, once The man orders, o’ That darkness bounds the mind.
(Un)Spoken Territory
The rhythm of thieves and killers plays in my mouth every day, blasting colonized letters up my throat and Piecing my words into grave reminders— breathing my mother would invite me to doom. I would never speak for myself again. Like a ghost, I wish on midnight stars that I could poison my bastard tongue, ridding its rule from my spirit.
Unsavoury Characters
As a writing instructor, I’ve noticed that students usually have an easier time creating “likeable” characters than unlikeable ones, which are sometimes glossed over and written superficially. Here’s a simple exercise I’ve used in the classroom to help emerging writers give unsavoury characters more depth and humanity:
Choose a scene from a story-in-progress in which you think you have given short shrift to a disagreeable character. Rewrite that scene so that the character continues to hold our attention but also arouses our sympathy or understanding, at least to some degree.
dowry
my mother left me four flat rooms three washloads two fivefoot boys one tenfoot man when she went under she took her breasts her rippled hair she left me bonestuck bare they say i have my mother's mouth they say i have her eyes
Lunch at l’auberge
He arrives in murmuring blue tie puffed like a poised rattler He has brought a ruby flower scent of languorous hours "Have you never been to France?" His face is sluggish but his fingers fly He finds a dear spot behind her ear "Tell me. Tell me." Her eyes are ruby wine and his his eyes his eyes are the ports of Le Havre