all I ever wanted was to be fallow.

He comes inside with no bleeding or screaming. Slaps her in the face saying, “Bitch, you ain’t a virgin.” Was it all a mirage or a simple household lie? Some things are taken, others misplaced. Others, stolen. Sans invitation, just an unquenchable sickness. Hah, like that would stop them.

The problem is that once he came inside he never came out. No, not completely. Not entirely. So, tell me, how does she go on as if nothing has happened? Coal rimmed eyes mask some inner pain as she thrusts herself back into the world with a smile on her face, and a dusting of coins. She has grown so sick of secrets, yet so accustomed to being burdensome. Of course it hasn't changed her, because that'll be easier for them to swallow. Whatever works for them. It is all about them. Whatever. Whatever. 

Convinced of an existence no greater than a black hole, he threw himself inside and planted some wicked  seed that's yet to leave her. Like a night-light, the sheen of his devilish grin keeps her eyelids from falling. He's laughing now from some far off plateau, with each cackle that seed begins to blossom.

I don’t deserve to wear white, so I’ll take it in black. When the clock strikes midnight I die inside for the second time. Twelve just isn’t my number.

If you know what's best for you, don't feel safe.

Merging my feminist banter with my love for prose...

You want to run out real quick, grab a cup of coffee or see that new window display a few blocks over. It's getting dark and you're a woman, so you better not go alone. Ask your girlfriends to keep you company. Power in numbers, aye? That's not good enough. Ask a man. A few men. Preferably someone big, muscular, or capitalize on good old American racism and bring along a sturdy black man. Before you head out though, better put on a longer skirt. Make that a pair of pants. Jeans. Take off your heels. They make your ass look too perfect and you can't run as fast as you may need to in them. Converse. Converse for the win. So jeans and converse, right? Perfect. You wouldn't want to bring attention to yourself. Blend in. Be like everyone else. Everyone wears jeans and converse. Right right?

Where are you going? Avoid that street. Don't make eye contact with anyone. It sends the wrong message. You're not interested. Walk faster. This neighborhood seems sketchy. Slow down. You're bringing attention to yourself. You see a bar on the way home. One drink won't hurt. Don't drink too much. Have you forgotten you're a woman? What in the hell are you doing? You can't leave with him. Don't you dare give out your number. Have those guys walk you and your girlfriends home. Perhaps you should hold hands, so they appear more protective. Remember, lock your door as soon as you arrive home.

Most importantly, don't ever ever ever feel safe. Be afraid. Go ahead, let them use fear to control you.

Maia: a summer tale of thwarted potential.

These unusually warm temperatures have me reminiscing about last summer. Each summer, I have the joy of working as a youth t-ball and baseball coach for my city’s recreation department. Despite the league being co-ed, by the time children reach the ages of three through seven, children have already been so heavily sex segregated that male players greatly outnumber female players. 

That’s why when I saw Maia, obviously a female player, stroll up during her team's first practice I was so overjoyed. She would be the lone female player on her individual t-ball team, and her mother expressed slight concern as I distributed what would be Maia’s uniform and game schedule. I quickly reassured her that I think it would be an awesome opportunity for her child and that Maia would have no problem making new friends and enjoying the game regardless of sex.

Throughout practice, Maia seemed to be enjoying herself. She filled the hour with enthusiastic questions, giggles, smiles, and overall just adorable five-year-old innocence. With exclamations such as “Only six days until our first game!” and “Batting is my favorite!” 'twas quite obvious how excited she was to be playing t-ball this summer.

Then came the end of practice. Maia ran over to her mother to tell her all the fun she had today in practice. No lie, I could hear their conversation. Regardless of the fact that her child was completely okay with being the team’s sole female representative, Maia’s mother did not hesitate to hand me back Maia’s uniform (which already had her child’s name on it, thus it could not be reused) and inform me that she was taking her child out of the league.

So let me get this straight, Maia can’t play t-ball  because she won’t be surrounded by children of her own sex during practices? If Maia is the only female student in her AP Calculus class or in medical school or any other activity she so wishes to participate in will her mother encourage, not even encourage, force her to quit? Perhaps I'd possess a different opinion if Maia herself had expressed discomfort, but that was far from reality. This mother's action of pulling her daughter out of a program solely due to its lack of female participants suggests to her child that certain activities are better fit for boys and it's best if girls stick to their own realm. Ehh, way to instill good values in your daughter?

I really wish Maia would have stuck around, not only would her mother and daughter have benefited, but Maia had the potential to prove girls can be just as athletic as boys to all her male teammates.

My only wish is that this is to you as it is to me.

At a time in which my favorite person was no more than a voodoo doll, I find love distilled into a series of bitter tasting kisses and numb embraces. A loving no more than nodding, she tires of hospital room date nights. I thought by becoming one of them they could no longer scare me, but when I shifted into their shape is precisely when I began to develop autophobia. How does one manage to remain themselves, as they try to end themselves?

The car radio churns out yet another seemingly inappropriately cheery pop song, but I can’t help to sing along. In an effort to drown my crooning, I turn the volume to a heavy vibration. An inked and gemmed finger belonging to the most crooked of doctors, curls around the dial. “Why do you always do that? I can’t hear you, goof” and restores the volume to a mere hum.

Rolling out a giant canvas we tried to capture the sun melting into the sea. When every inch of that cotton blend was coated, with gentle delicate brushstrokes that felt like eternity, you painted me from head to toe. So, on that beach we feel into one, as did the sun and sea. When you've built your house of a heart on a foundation of toxins the first big wind'll blow you away. So that's exactly what I did. I blew away with the promise of radiance.

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À un moment où ma personne préférée n'était pas plus qu'une poupée vaudou, je trouve l'amour distillés en une série de baisers acerbe et étreintes gourds. Un amour pas plus de hochant, elle se lasse date nuits à l'hôpital. Je pensais en devenant l'un d'entre eux, ils ne pouvaient plus me faire peur, mais quand j'ai changé dans leur forme est précisément au moment où j'ai commencé à développer autophobia. Comment parvient-on à rester eux-mêmes, quand ils essaient de se terminer?

L'autoradio barattes à une autre chanson pop qui semble inappropriée heureux, mais je ne peux m'empêcher de chanter avec eux. Dans un effort pour étouffer mon chantant, je me tourne le volume à une vibration intense. Un doigt taché d'encre appartenant au la plus tordue des médecins, s'enroule autour du cadran. «Pourquoi tu fais toujours ça? Je ne peux pas vous entendre »et rétablit le volume à un hum simple.

Roulant une toile géante, nous avons essayé de capturer la fonte soleil dans la mer. Quand chaque espace du coton a était enduite, avec de touches délicates qui se sont senties comme l'éternité, tu m'as peint de la tête aux pieds. Ainsi, sur cette plage que nous ressentons en un seul, comme le soleil et la mer. Quand tu as construit votre maison d'un coeur sur une fondation de toxines du vent premier grand va tu emporter. C'est exactement ce que j'ai fait. Je souffla avec la promesse d'eclat. 

Emotions do not discriminate on the basis of sex.

Just because I have a strong opinionated reaction to something doesn't mean I am menstruating or pregnant. Female emotional response is not dependent on hormonal imbalances. So closely associated with all that is exclusively feminine, any emotional display or signs of irritability in men, has been credited as "man-periods." Have we forgotten that emotions are part of the healthy human experience? So ashamed of this truth men aren't allowed to acknowledge their presence and the only platform in which women can express them are in times of hormonal imbalances. Huh?

Crediting all female emotional behavior as results of hormonal changes is like crediting all forms of violence as the result of testosterone. Pure ridiculousness. Emotions are not sex specific. That is, all emotions are experienced by both females and males. The difference however, the realms in which women and men are allowed to express them. (let's avoid complete post drift and save that discussion for another entry).

P.S. I'm thinking of incorporating a little more poetry/prose into this blog. Rad idea? Let me know what you all think.

P.P.S. This is the coolest picture on the internet. My blog has been struggling to breathe without it, thus I am going to help it out and end it's misery.

Red hair: hot on Rihanna, a cry for attention on your high school girlfriend.

On Lookbook, “the largest online community dedicated to showcasing member-uploaded "street style" photography” girls in three inch high flatforms dominate the “hot” page. Photographs of heavily tattooed women, their eyelids thickly splashed with glitter, are perpetually reblogged on Tumblr. Heck, there are entire Tumblr pages devoted to ladies with lilac locks.

Perhaps in show biz Lady Gaga and Nicki Minaj have long ago declared themselves queens of ko-ko, but even Katy Perry dons purple tresses, Lana Del Rey – fake grills and spiked nails. As celebrities continue to opt for standing out rather than regurgitating been-there done-that traditional concepts of “pretty,” even magazines geared towards the average teenage girl have begun to feature beauty tutorials for wild nail art and cutting edge fashion forward editorials.

If the sources in which young people look to seek style inspiration and define prettiness are experimenting with new concepts of beauty, why then, are girls with dip dyed locks and bow ties around their necks still subjected to gawks and eye rolls as they stroll the hallways of their high schools? If we, as a society, have linked recording artists and actresses as contributors to a spike in eating disorders among young girls or a glorification of rape culture, or simply put, the shitty parts of the world in which we live, why hasn’t there been a successful trickle down effect of this redefinition of what it means to be beautiful?

Are daring beauty trends only desirable from afar? Is it the fame and fortune that allows Miley to bleach and take a razor to her hair? Is Rihanna’s red do’ only sexy because while hey, it’s Rihanna, but still a big no-no for your high school girlfriend? Will we ever reach a point where we don’t have to tell our girlfriends to cover up her tattoos when you first bring her home to meet your parents?

Perhaps, by convincing ourselves that the answer is time would prove comforting. Time for Hollywood's trends to blow eastward to small town suburbia  Time for older generations to realize that our generation's pink hair is no more radical than their generation's long haired men and Afros. However, ignoring fear's role in deterring young women's experimentation with their outward appearances would be both ignorant and an injustice. As if the color of your make-up is somehow a grandiose political statement, fear of being labeled too progressive. Fear of young men's disapproval.

. 

One of the most beneficial aspects of experimenting with personal self expression – man repelling. There is no better way to weed out immature duds than challenging traditional concepts of femininity, or what it means to be "ladylike." Experimentation , in the proper context, is a healthy and rewarding aspect to adolescence. It's yet another avenue for one to discover new skills and joys.

Bottom line: Whatever your style, whatever the decade – confidence never goes out of style.

Also, to the two glorious women who reminded me of why I blog and drug me out of my slump, I thank you.

Human Rights, not Native Born Country Rights.

Illegal immigration is not limited to Mexicans. Crime, including drug trafficking  is not limited to Mexican immigrants either. Don't complain about those fumbling through the language. Have you ever tried to learn another language? If so, I'm assuming you never went beyond high school requirements. Let us not forget that Spanish and French, the two languages most commonly offered in American high schools, are romance languages, thus meaning they are two of the easiest languages to learn (romance languages all derive from Latin). English, a Germanic language, is one of the most difficult languages to learn. Many of you will never even master a romance language that you begun learning in middle/high school, so if you, with all your American opportunities unavailable to these "illegal immigrants" fail to learn a second language, why do you feel that they should learn English the second they set foot in this country? Many immigrants are much older than junior high, thus making language learning even more difficult. 

So why does the common man bicker about immigration? Are they really taking careers that you would ever even consider? Do they desire anything immoral or different than the natural born rights that you take for granted daily? Does their native country give them less of a right to opportunity or freedom? America, however cliché it may sound, is a land of immigrants. Those clenching onto the belief that America is "their country" must realize how ridiculously ignorant they sound. America is a stolen land, but that's beside the point. Many of us don't have to trace our ancestry back more than two or three generations to see immigration in our own families. If it weren't for your ancestors you must likely would not be an American citizen. Perhaps you would be residing in a country with not even a fraction of the freedoms we have in America. Perhaps you would want natural rights. Perhaps you would want better for your children, your lover, yourself. Perhaps you would come to America. Perhaps you would be an "illegal immigrant."