Satin Black

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The collection of Stars
Was not Midnight Blue
The trees encompassing us Reinz Green
The lights Lipstick Red
My father said “Give me your hand”
I walked across the ice and into the grass
A wall, now night, completely covered in Studs
There were haunting glints on the forest, quite distinct
My father and I spoke briefly about the food
And the wine (neither of us cared for the wine)
The forest was frozen Reinz Blue and Rice Brown
Now it was too dark on the path
“I don’t have my flashlight!”
“We don’t need one” he said with laughter
About the sky he sang songs
In Polish and I sang with him

“Wait look” I whisper and tug his jacket.
“What?”
“Look at it” I say gasping
The North Star was the only one I could name
The Big Dance
But I loved all the little ones
Which are obviously gargantuan
They were infinite
I didn’t want anything
Didn’t want warmth
I didn’t want a shooting star
Although my father mentioned a telescope
I mentioned buying a family star that’s at least six hundred years old
Because there are Six of Us
I wanted but could not explain
To my father what the fabric was in Polish

And as we continued listening to nature
And seeing the world frozen for the year
The marvel of evergreens
The lights
The sand and the lingering burning odors
Of someone doing something curious
I knew one thing For a fact
Too bad this would not be on the math test
I knew
The sky
It was
Satin Black

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Complicated Corrosive Compulsive Cry (I am not that lost girl anymore)

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I know that this essay is supposed to be just about the orient express and myself but because of me, I am inclined how I relate to a member of Grey’s Anatomy, and how much I can relate to the train members. I had a topic of my own rhythm that I need to belt out. When you take those silly, pointless online quizzes, you never take them seriously. I didn’t. Even after I got Meredith as the TV character I most resemble, I never gave it a second thought. That is until I watched episode after episode, finding that I could always emphasize with Meredith a made up character seemed made for me. The life full of things to dread. A life is flooded with harsh truths and entire flocks of friends that escape into places that are everywhere except to console her, never mind her breakdown. Her getting slapped by her father made me realize that the emotions hurt worse than any slap a person could give.

It was like I was her shadow or she mine. It is like how the detective needed to find parts of the murderer by placing himself in their shoes. “It was done by a woman. I, a man could not deliver such blows” (Christie 89). That is the only way the members of that train remind me of my own life (this similarity) , and it made a lot of sense close to the last page of my reading, that the moments of quiet desperation felt by the murder investigation are felt by myself in equally strong degrees.

People could be my closest friends yet I’d feel so distant like a shadow yet so close and like I didn’t know them at all because of their actions. The knife found in Mrs. Hubbard’s room caused her great distress, like in my life invisible swords made up of words that hurt. “I just can’t tell you how terrible it was. I was always sensitive …the mere sight of blood” (Christie 206). It is this “bloody” life I was, these events that just make me tear up. I weep whenever Meredith is shot down, when she was drowning metaphorically or in reality because I don’t see her, I see myself. In the bathroom, behind the auditorium, in the foyer, in the dark, alone, I can see me a silent sadness. I see a detective stumped the case gone cold. Whenever it’s all wrong, pretend joy is short lived. When everything is wrong, she moves along or gets help along the way, she is helped through it all. My mother too resembles the yelling, shouting and being told you’re not good enough of her deceased mother. (Not all the time and not as much. I love my mother deeply) It’s like there is no difference between compliments and lies! Everything is essential all the same to me, because isn’t it all the same if I need someone everyone leaves me? They drift like a man lost at sea, further and further away.

It’s like watching Meredith; I want to smash the glass world that separates her life from my own and meet her. I want that which separate us, to disintegrate so we see into each other’s eyes. I want to cry with her, and stand with lost eyes, let her know she is not alone. I feel the members of the train just brush things off that are important, and that mirrors my life. I want to be with someone who feels like me. Because I want to know that I am not alone. All the people that shouldn’t care care A LOT. Nosy people and it’s annoying to explain my “pathetic life story” This is like the people who are curious about the case. And all the people I need in my life simply cannot fulfill the simple duty of being there for me. Just being there. Is that too much to ask? To call me, or to hang out. To comfort me when I’m sad or lost. To bring me the warmth of their smile or their shoulder to cry on. To calm me down, at least try would be beautiful! Isn’t that what friends do? They help each other. They are there, they care! To have your back? They don’t. And I’ve thought of the situation so much it has started to lose all meaning. That is what Poirot understood, that he really had to get under the skin and truly comprehend all elements to discover the truth. Frankly, I want to be stuck in that blizzard in the novel.

Frozen in time, because these continuing tears that rupture my cheeks and burst onto the keyboard. Internal conflicts float as soon as the first tear begins it’s descent down my cheek a path known so well, that it doesn’t even feel real sometimes. I hear the voices of all those “friends” telling me to drop this drama, that I’ll be fine. How do you know that I’ll be fine? For a fact, you don’t know. My sitting here writing this proves I am not fine right now. When I should be celebrating my successes in life, I’m over this dark cloud creating more problems with my dismal doubt. Like Poirot discovering the answer of the case, the case of my life is not solved, the pieces scattered on the carpet like puzzle pieces with people yelling it’s a bird, it’s a dog, it’s the sun. I tell them and you that it’s my life spilling out. Sometimes everything is wrong, and it needs to move along.

More than anything I can’t help the hopeless, trapped feeling I have. Like those on the train who don’t know want they want. Like why can I just be a calm person, mellow and relaxed? Like so what if tomorrow’s better, because life is never without suffering. Why do we suffer? It is said we suffer to gain compassion. It is said we build character. It is this compassion that has made me a fool. Because only now do I realize that I sit alone. My compassion for some is one sided and that is well, it is what it is. Without guarantee from anyone that tomorrow will bring sunshine into my life, I travel alone. I plot a path in my head of where I’ll go. And I will leave this negative persona behind. Because I want to believe the world has good in it, despite everything that disproves that, moving on through is supposedly to make me stronger. If that works, I’ll have the strength of ten men. I will build bridges and put out the flames of the ones that are burning. Until then my mind is in a headlock, tortured more perhaps by words never spoken, then words said. I must, like the detective look beyond the obvious and turn to the“it couldn’t be”. There lies the answer, the secret to life.

I cannot believe how distressed I was in High school. I found this old essay and was compelled to share it.

Update: I am not that lost girl anymore. I love my friends and my family. Although I still feel sad as every human has the right to feel.

The Dazzle that is my Desk

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To the untrained eye, my desk looks like the aftermath of an earthquake with various objects scattered in every nook.
I see it for the sanctuary it is.
Pictures of my twin and I adorn the desk.
Glistening frames covered in shimmering purple stickers or funny catchphrases are possibly sensory overload.
I love the memories the picture evoke like where we were and who we were and how that has changed.
My snow globes are my pride and joy. Whenever I want to see snow, I furiously shake them.
They remind me life is fragile. Yet Beautiful.
They glow with an essence of childlike whimsy.
Finally, my box of secrets. It is unmistakably something special.
Covered in studs and pearls which are my personality, they add to the cream colored silk, a sort of decadence.
All my secrets lie inside and that’s the perfect place for them to hide.

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

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When a mirror crosses my path I avoid it! I do not own a single mirror. Such a device does not exist in my room. When I look in the mirror, I can pick apart the different layers and see my eyes my mind; it helps me to hide the inner most layers of paint, of lies, I tell myself each day, of hopes and dreams that were happiness, excitement, love, passion, obsession, hope, dreams, loneliness, confusion, curiosity, anger, suppressed fury, and sadness. The inner layers of my subconscious include self-hate living in my sister’s shadow, being dejected and forever lost. These layers are my beautiful disasters. They are my breakdowns. When I look long enough in the mirror I want to smash it. Memories of illness that is permanent and the things I can’t change overwhelm me. The worst part is that nothing I can say or do will change it. I don’t want to be that sad girl who is brittle and fragile and clearly not all there. When I look long enough at this wall of truth I see exhaustion, I see the wanting of dreams to come true. I tell lies to myself that what I dream will come into reality.
I see in the mirror what I cannot change. I will always be second best! When I see the silver device again I want to shatter it. Destroy it. Melt it. Shatter it. A mirror has a long list of stereotypes. Be this fake entity. I have to look nice, thin, sexy, porcelain doll perfect. [Insert name here ] is trapped in this idea of me becoming this perfect person. I want to understand how I broke [ ] porcelain image, I actually shattered it – broke out of that stage, I have no long lived in this way , and in return now, I look into the memories, and I see failure, someone struggling to go to bed each night and not hate myself.

This sudden knowledge that no one can love me if I don’t love myself first.
When I glance at myself, I’m curious am I that ugly, tired thing? Why should I even care any longer? Everyone expects these things from me when I want to live in a world where none of those frivolous things matter. A mirror is quite a dangerous friend for once you lose sight of what is important you see only skin deep. Now when I look in the mirror, I love my aqua outfit I love my eyelashes, all I wonder how is who will love me back, more specifically will he? Respect me, pile up and pull apart my thick intricate layers. After that you must still love me despite and in spite of myself. That happy girl, content and lovely the one I once was, maybe he can capture and release what he sees – an exquisite, intelligent, ambitious, tender, gentle, wild, unpretentious – the jungle of qualities that make me.

When I look in the mirror for a third time, someone is behind me. Wow, Maria I never knew you were one of those girls. I’m not, I said. I just like watching the physical breakdown, I thought Hollywood tells us what we should look like. I only want to be myself today, tomorrow, forever. When I look in the silver slab of honestly, I remember what someone once told me. Don’t hide and be yourself. Do not care what other people think. Even though the mirror can’t lie, an interpretation is left up to the eye of the beholder. When the mirror and I cross paths, I see that first day at the hospital. Only I see that girl who gets her heart ripped from inside her everyday, that girl who has to pick herself up without aid from anyone and say – you can do it, why care about the past – go out there and show them. Understand. Love. Find the line try never to cross it. Pull yourself together. The only person that “mirrors” my emotions with wise words and a gentle tone – [ ] When I see his face, I don’t need a mirror – I see a smile which I am certain has crept across my face. What I need is already inside me. It is how you use it, that knowledge that makes a world of difference.

High on the list on things I hate

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High on the list of things I hate
Broken rulers, being dreadfully late
Burning something or worse leaving it uncooked
Going to a hotel only to find out they’re booked
Self- help books and a huge flood
When my brand new shoes get caked in filthy mud

Cruelties towards an animals or human soul
Finding out your favorite team lost by one goal
When your dress tears apart at the seams
You wish that it was a sequence of bad dreams
(Yes I even hating the wishing, the lies we have to tell ourselves to stay okay)
When nature’s fury causes us to question our fate
These are high on the list of things I hate

When you end up questioning everything you’ve ever done
If you have not, it is time you’ve begun
When you look in the mirror and
You truly don’t love it, you take your hands and pray
When you have a craving for something and the store is fresh out
When you’re baby cousin does nothing but screech and shout

But something I don’t hate per say but
Something that makes me cry when it occurs this way
Is when I am sad
And no one knows why
Instead of advice or comfort of any kind
They sit there stuck on rewind
No knowing that the only thing worse
Then any problem, burden or curse
Is facing this world alone

The clouds stole the sun

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I’m feeling sick. But this nothing new. Over 12 years I’ve been this way. There are good days and bad days great days and horrible ones. I fight for the right to being okay each day but today is a horrible one. I’m dizzy and drowsy although I slept enough. I cannot stand without wobbling so I finally stop pitying myself and clean up the blankets and pillows. I go outside where my dad is swimming his cares away. I dip my feet in unsure if being in the water will help or hurt me more. Suddenly my dad says something that inspires me. “The clouds stole the sun from me” he said with fury and disdain. I love the concept of the clouds having the ability to steal. By personifying them he made them special and real. As he jokingly splashes my legs with water I start to feel better. I decide today was ok. It has to be understood that when bad or horrible days do come you can lay back with your dad and watch the clouds steal the sun.