Who I am

They will all tell you something different;
My father remembers me the best day I was,
Strings in D-major canonizing the moment I was born.
My mother named me Jehovah Jireh,
after the heavenly providing that formed me in her womb.
My aunts and uncles, I saw me grow up in the church,
I was the good girl who came to all the Friday night Bible studies and Sunday messages,
but couldn’t seem to stay awake through them.
My friends and my siblings will tell you I am from poetry and books.
Felled, I could show you the lines upon lines of unwritten prose ringed in my mind.
My existence is a series of seditious sacrileges.
The English nerd of two math teachers.
The bisexual believer and questioning Christian,
The heavenly providing and the damned of hell.
No one stays the same,
I walk into your dictionary between the dichotomies to dismantle your definitives.
As a child, I used to think I was the antichrist,
all this havoc I wreak must have a meaning.
That is my story, but I want a different one.
Maybe, it does not matter where I’m from or where I’m going or who I am.
Not a daughter. Not an answer to a prayer. Not a sinner. Not a writer. Not a fighter. Not a battleground for you to defend your politics and your religion.
I am just a girl who is young and in love.
A tender gardener whose large loving hands can’t seem to fit her gloves,
who is learning to plant the seeds wisely one by one so she won’t wake up to find a bed full of thorns,
And she dreams of a day where she looks up at the sunset passing print painted patterns on leafy greens;
I could look up at all that liquid honey dripping sweetness before my eyes,
And think only of just how grateful I am to be alive.

(Picture was taken by Ivy Chen)


On loving.

I keep my love for you in my backseat jean pockets,
A good luck charm for those rainy days that have no golden lining.
On the nights I can’t sleep,
Thinking of you puts my mind at ease knowing tomorrow is another day where you will be.
It is good the sun rises and falls, it means I am still alive to be with you.
Loving you is seeing the good in everything and nothing all at once,
Feeling the world through your hands, seeing with your eyes,
And realizing with the bitter crush of disappointment that you are not here.
Love like this should be kept secret,
Because once the cat’s out of the closet there’s no going back.
I’m a tender gardener whose large loving hands can’t seem to fit her gloves,
So I’m learning to plant the seeds wisely one by one.
Otherwise, I find myself in a garden full of thorns.