AntiSocietalBanality

 I say what I feel

[antisocietalbanality]

Dreams change

It was the month of May,

the hellish 31 days of 2019 I thought were going to be my last of liberation and life. 

I stared at the ceiling and the transition of the color of the sky while lying in my abuser’s bed. 

I couldn’t sleep, 

I wanted to be ready. 

And all I remember thinking, 

praying,

wishing,

begging-

was that I get another chance. 

A chance of love. 

And the amusing part about it was before him- I never wanted love. I wanted to reside in life alone in the world.

With family and friends. 

No partner by my side. 

and I laid in that bed with tears stinging my cheeks-

“If you’re out there,

and if you’re listening, 

I just want you to know that I’m coming.”

______________________

It’s the month of July,

the month residing in 2021.

A voice pipes up after leaving the farmers market,

“I should’ve bought you flowers,” he said. 

I laugh, “you got me blueberries and pastries.”

And he gave me warmth, 

And remembers the almond butter treats I like,

hugs me tight when the gray cloud visits me,

calls me beautiful every. single. day,

and searches the web for tips of temporary relief for when migraines make me cry. 

He has bought me beautiful flowers-

don’t get me wrong. 

But he shows me love in all the ways I was never shown. 

________________

//nmd//07-30-2021// “He is my flower.”

[antisocietalbanality]

Not so open-open person

I was watching a cheesy romance movie tonight,

okay more like this morning, 

and though I should head to bed (I promise I will soon,)

I sit here-

thinking,

no-

needing to write about you-

because damn,

I remember watching cheesy romance movies while with the others-

just fanaticizing the day I would have someone I laugh with,

as much as the main characters laugh together,

as they clumsily get to know each other,

and fall for one another-

and...maybe I should’ve known then that they didn’t offer me that bliss. 

I watched the movie tonight feeling

thankful. 

I notice everything. 

I’m an artist, 

a poet in my free time-

you should know that I capture and observe so much-

I never disregard the positivity and put it aside,

I keep it safe in my mind, 

I treat it like a treasured, delicate, beautiful vase-

careful to take it out in particular moments,

careful to make sure it’s safe,

careful to make sure nothing could harm or taint it. 

I never disregard it though. 

You asked me about that,

the evening we lied in bed and I shed a few tears,

I’m even shedding a few tears now-

except, they’re out of happiness. 

Some of my precious moments have been 

about you grabbing my hand to gently kiss it,

it gives me warmth and butterflies at the same time. 

You cracking jokes to ease me into being comfortable 

have been so incredibly appreciated. 

Because it reminds me that I haven’t and don’t even feel the twinge to put up

a ‘perfect’ façade around you. 

You called me beautiful during my emotional meltdowns 

when my mind overanalyzed-

fuck,

the overanalyzing,

and the talks,

I can be myself, 

and share my thoughts,

and though I am learning 

and trying not to suppress some things-

I can tell you about the intrusive thoughts,

and know that you would never ever threaten me for having them. 

sometimes I cuddle next to you,

during the night for warmth-

but mostly to be close to you,

something I never thought I would ever do. 

I was the type to stop breathing when someone wrapped their arms around me to cuddle-

I always felt trapped,

suffocated. 

or the elephant that would sit between me and someone else-

touch and affection was foreign and abused.

I fantasized about maybe-

someday,

experiencing the warmth that I read about in love poems,

and novels

in sonnets

in songs,

and whenever I get to hold you in my arms,

and run my fingers gently up and down your back

before we go into slumber-

it feels natural,

peaceful.

When you tell me that you saw I worked hard that day,

or that you’re proud of me,

it feels unreal,

I feel cherished. 

I am cherished. 

and maybe that’s why I can’t stop crying at 5 in the morning. 

I feel like someone wants to keep me around-

genuinely laughs at my horrible humor and jokes-

but it brings me happiness to hear that laugh,

and to see that smile when we both look at each other at the same time out of no where,

I love the kisses I get during breaks,

I love how I can walk over and sit on your lap and forget about my stress for a moment-

because you help remind me to live in the present.

I will take the roasting for me not doing any cooking,

it makes me feel like someone doesn’t mind taking care of me,

and I will embarrassingly trip in front of you-

if it means it shows how much I fell for you. 

and the way you brush my hair back while talking softly over me 

in the dark

when I have a migraine-

I feel loved. 

and maybe I’m sobbing my eyes out because I think most of my mind is done fighting the good in this-

in us and what we have,

how we’ve grown-

being apart, and being together. 

There’s many more things I see,

and hear,

and experience-

that shows how you feel about me. 

Sometimes it takes a while for me to process happiness. 

And though my eyes are now puffy,

and nose is stuffy,

the crying has subsided. 

and I wanted to end this with saying

I love you,

and all that you do. “

n.m.d// 10:5:2020″

[antisocietalbanality]

I had to Remove my Makeup

Incomprehensible concept of the constant cut-throat suffocation,

That disguises itself as anxiety,

Something we learn to suppress,

Except at the worst moments,

When your body tenses up,

And you wonder why you feel like you’re drowning in air,

Wondering why your body locks up for a few minutes 

As you try to navigate new stressors,

And you wonder why you feel like you’re not doing enough.

Even though you run

You run- towards the fear

You run towards the paranoia

Towards the unknown

Towards the things you over analyze

You run towards the darkness with just a flashlight,

Knowing you’ll encounter monsters,

While carrying all your baggage,

And,

Yet-

You still feel like you’re not doing enough. 

Don’t tell people you’re over analyzing,

Don’t tell people what you’re actually fucking thinking,

That you think they hate you

And would be better off without you,

That they don’t fucking want you.

You can’t really explain how the anxiety heightens everything else,

Can’t say you need one small reassuring reminder,

But you rather no one help you. 

Can’t tell them..anything. 

At least not right now-

I don’t know. 

I just want to be left alone.

Let me do things myself without any help. 

Let’s put on a facade and pretend that today hasn’t felt like hell. 

I had to remove my makeup-

Because I can’t stop crying. 

Maybe I’ll slide into my bed 

And shut myself out from the world. 

n.m.d.//08-14-2020

[antisocietalbanality]

I don’t need this Suicide Letter

“I started writing a letter the other day,

7 years since the last one similar to it,

And like the one from a while ago-

It started like,

“You’re probably reading this wondering what happened.”

My home sickness started quite a bit ago,

Two years to be exact. 

But the side effects started to pry themselves in

Just a couple months ago. 

I was lying in the bed of someone I’ve known since 12.

He stared blanking at the TV,

The only light illuminating the room.

I stared at my phone,

Tempted to text the guy in San Francisco,

Who I talked to for a few days prior,

And ask him what he was up to. 

It made me think about what I would be doing then,

At that moment-

If things were different. 

Instead of looking at this guy sitting in shorts,

Not hiding his barely there boner

Taking a sip of beer before touching me,

Before he fucked me and gave me attention only then,

Before going back to ignoring me and giving me the cold shoulder,

Before I would drive back home and wonder if this is how my life was going to be. 

In that bed,

That moment,

I thought about my past Monday nights.

Getting burritos with the photographer

At the taqueria on the street across my room at 655 Sutter,

He’d tell me about the models he shot with, 

And joked around with me about how to approach a guy. 

I remember the laughs, 

And sometimes we’d get coffee afterwards. 

Or the late night walks from Montogmery back to Sutter,

Playing video games on friday nights with the captain of the overwatch team,

Going on platonic coffee dates with a guy just as passionate about art and film as I was,

I remember his improv comedy show,

Where the photographer and I went and laughed for hours. 

I think about the friend I met,

All because I didn’t want to sit next to the guy who tried to get with me.

Thank God for that,

Because my friend and I used to get boba and chicken sandwiches between class 

and we were the life of the fucking party in that classroom-

Laughter always prominent,

Never a dull moment. 

I thought about the class assignments,

Reviewed by professionals,

The inspirational emails,

The “Go forward and make me proud” phases,

The “this is industry level work,”

The “I’m showing my colleagues this,”

Said by the teachers who worked on my favorite films and games. 

I thought about the freedom I had.

No guilt as I wore a dress just a bit above the knees.

Going to see a movie by myself even though I hilariously got hit on,

I got to be myself. 

Not the constant questioning of morals,

Beliefs and ethics,

Not being brought in the middle of family drama,

Not being mistaken and put into the role of my mom no longer there,

Not being the caretaker for once. 

Not being the mediator,

The one always called in to diffuse a situation.

I was someone,

I felt like someone. 

I felt like me-

For once. 

I think back to that moment in my ex’s bedroom,

Right next to the bedroom of his mother and brothers I’ve known for years,

In a place two minutes away from mine,

And it…

Felt foreign. 

The touches,

Hellos and goodbyes,

The atmosphere. 

My own room even started to feel foreign. 

I got so homesick that I needed to leave for a little bit,

Flew to San Francisco for a weekend,

Stayed with someone that made me feel like I was home,

Wrapped in his arms, 

a touch that felt welcoming and warm,

In the city that was my home. 

And I had to leave once again,

Never discussed the way my heart tore,

And tears fell on that early flight back. 

Feeling like everything I wanted,

Was being ripped from me. 

And since then,

I’ve been trying to go back home. 

So fuck that suicide letter,

I’m going back home, 

some way.

some how. 

I have to go home. “

//NMD//7-22-2020//

[antisocietalbanality]

“Open-Open”

“I used to get my hopes high,

Dream away with others as an activity in our pastime.

I used to be more open with every day poems,

Searching the dictionary for new words

To express

How I was proud of them 

And their budding success. 

Used to not hesitate when sending a good morning,

A simple selfie,

Not afraid to make future plans. 

Never used to think it could end badly,

Hopeless romantic was too hopeful,

Now look where it got me. 

Used to think I trusted too easily,

But really,

I kept myself behind tall walls and boundaries. 

I used to take public humiliation 

As simple teasing. 

Used to send a paragraph or two 

Morning and night,

About the truth-

How they were great

And I was happy to be with them,

But I guess that’s too much,

Right?

I used to show my appreciation through different instances,

But I guess they’re annoyances. 

Had to learn how to cut two paragraphs,

Down to about 2-3 sentences.

Forget the drawings of intimacy-

Cause that’s overwhelming.

Don’t send the selfies- 

Cause they probably hate the spamming. 

I had to get myself used to a new normal,

Hesitate to show poems-

Because I’m waiting to hear that fake gratification-

But It doesn’t make its presence.

Hesitate to send a selfie,

Because i’m not used to praise and compliments about my beauty. 

Not used to the reassurance.

Nor the calm discussions

Only used to kindness 

Hiding several motives.

Used to shutting down-

And no one would notice

I’m so used to abuse-

The mental violence,

And the intentional silence-

That I cried when I read a random apology 

For you disappearing mid-conversing,

I was reassured, 

And not yelled at..?

You  said you don’t deserve me,

And my heart melted just like that. 

Bear with me 

For the following sentences,

As I prepare for my emotional wall demolitions. 

The closer to you I get,

The more I pull away,

Cause I’m used to being the pin,

Found in a grenade. 

I want to show affection,

So I show less of it,

Walking contraction,

I know, I just suppress the effects.

I want to send those paragraphs,

And I want to draw those illustrations,

But something deep inside

Thinks maybe you’ll find it all irrelevant. 

But that’s what they thought-

And I know you’re not them.

You treat me so good,

But I’ve been scared to let you in. 

If I’m being honest,

The ones who make me the happiest-

I convince them to leave. 

So it doesn’t give them any time to possibly hurt me. 

But I’ll only say this once for now,

Since I rarely put my guards down.

So let me apologize ahead of time-

If this freaks you out. 

I love being with you,

And having you in my life-

So if you ever see me pull away,

Please grab my hand and hold on tight. 

It’s hard for me to tell people the truth-

Of what they deeply, really mean to me,

So with this I’ll say,

I don’t want you or I to leave. 

My mission is to make you happy and smile,

Even if it means putting irrational thoughts to the side for a while-

But I want you in my life,

And I want to keep you as mine-

Because you’re the person my mom told me 

I would one day find. 

I see the patience you exude,

While I redundantly question the obvious truth,

The reassurance you give-

So my mind doesn’t stress. 

And I know I think in the past tense,

Cause I’m afraid of my heart breaking again. 

But look,

There’s a space in my heart,

Just for you-

Why don’t you finally come in?”

//n.m.d//05-11-2020//

[antisocietalbanality]

Criteria Revision

The unpublished, never posted- 

Will-never-be-seen,

Work of “Criteria,”

Written in February of 2019,

Made its appearance in front of my eyes tonight. 

The work that was purged through the suffocation 

Of a rare identity being compromised,

An already-weak body welcoming fragility,

A dream beginning feeling like one of my night-terrors’ ending. 

‘Criteria’ reminded me that communication was once a fear to me;

I stated that;

“it’s not rolling around in my mind like a reminder,

More like a fear;

Only because I am terrified to express that I am in pain.”

It’s a rough draft,

That I lost inspiration for. 

A work in progress that will be deleted-

Not archived-

Because the archives that sit in my attic 

Always draw me in-

Something about it always unfinished,

Needs some fixing-

Like that joke-of-a-man needed.

 I sat here reading through the lines,

Unfamiliarity filling my core to the brim.

“I spent more time drying the tears on my face today,

Then I spent doing my makeup this morning.”

I shake my head in disbelief,

Because my current normalities 

Include me spending more time smiling in selfless selfies,

Than it takes to paint my face to make my eyes look poppin. 

Communication rolls in my mind like a gentle reminder now,

Not a fear. 

During ‘Criteria’ I carefully formed my texts to not set off a detonation-

One that would forge into a week’s worth of silence,

But now you can catch me calmly sending messages-

Multi-paragraphs,

Infused with past traumatic events-

That explains my mind over analyzing the present ‘what- if’s.’

Now I can explain myself,

Without feeling like I’m on a tightrope. 

Communicate without messages feeling like 

Fill-in-the-blanks-

That provoked me to turn to harming to cope. 

Communication now feels like a connection.

Different consistent phrases being embedded,

The “we’ll work through this.”

Or being told that I’m amazing to be with-

Me- the girl who was told..different. 

Unrefined ‘Criteria,’

Reminded me that I once thought-

That what I have now-

Was unfathomable:

The check-in texts,

The “good night beautiful” 

-I swear this is unreal.

To go from being deemed overwhelming,

To  “tell me everything,”

Fuck.

If this is a dream-

Please let me keep sleeping.

‘Criteria’ ended with;

“Communicating the thoughts in my mind is never easy.”

So I’ll end this with:

-but with you it’s getting easier. 

//n.m.d//04-18-2020//

[antisocietalbanality]

Deserving

Irritating irrationality,

Is like a fly that keeps buzzing in your ear,

And not like the cool audio production effect-

Of a track going from stereo to mono.

No-

You sit there plugging into music,

Thinking you can ignore it-

Outplay the annoyance-

But you still hear the buzzing,

You go to clean your ears,

The buzzing is still there. 

Come onnnnnnn. 

Finally you focus on the task as hand,

Until you feel the fly land on your skin,

Now you're mad. 

"Just go away" you think to yourself. 

You feel it crawl up your arm,

Feeling each step it takes

"Stop" you whisper to it

It keeps going. 

"I said stop!" 

Your words come through clenched teeth. 

And now the fly transforms into a wasp that leaves its mark every three steps.

You wince at the pain from

The stings that bury into your skin like the small buzzing fears

That mix with your past toxicities that were once your daily normalities. 

How can I be so self aware that it's all irrational?

But it's all so logical?

Gotta break myself away from societal standards,

That mix themselves within the cocktail of my used-to-be-normal.

Potent shit that still leaves me faded-

Except not the good kind,

More like the phase-

Of wondering 

What you did wrong

Did you say anything bad?

What did you do before?

They probably hate you. 

Probably lost interest.

Screw logical irrationality. 

Or society's view on constant,

Captivating,

Conversing. 

Screw annoying jealousy

That ends up as massive insecurity

That stemmed from absolutely nothing-

Fuck. 

You're not there anymore. 

You're not at the doctor's office

Being told that you're under 100 pounds.

You're not hunched over a trash can trying not to vomit-

As you hear him laugh from his bedroom.

You’re not there 

Being purposely humiliated for personal entertainment. 

You’re not there, 

Listening to him say, for a second time,

That he wanted to cheat on you. 

You’re not there,

Listening to him yell at you after you jokingly asked him why there was a black hair in this bed-

You have brown hair-

His sister was blonde. 

You’re not there

Asking him to stop and slow down

As you try to hold in tears from the pain coming from down below. 

You’re not there anymore,

But some days you are. 

Or some days it shows through the insecurities-

The small, super normal, 

Inconsistencies. 

Because you were built to assume the worst-

And some days you don’t feel good enough-

Because that’s how you were treated.

And even the good days you had-

You felt like nothing.

Never was commended for getting rid of 80 prescription pills that nearly killed you with one dose,

Or the 90 x-acto blades you had hidden in your room.

Or how about the day you promised to stop self harming-

Right after your biggest relapse.

He turned his family against you-

He told you that his mom never wanted to meet you-

Or he made you stay quiet while his friend was on the phone-

Because he wanted you to hear his buddy say how your anxiety would be a problem for him.

But you’re not there,

Right?

You were still the only one who saw him swear in for this country,

Waited for 5 hours with a pounding, nausea-inducing, migraine just to say you supported him.

You’re not there anymore. 

Nor with him. 

But every time this comes up

You naturally want to tear yourself from the good 

Just so you don’t have to be the carrier of these bad moments

So maybe you’re not there anymore,

But some how they end up here. 

and it leaves you questioning sometimes-

what it is you truly deserve.

However,

you were there.

the day he looked you in the eyes as he said,

“you’re lucky I can put up with you, because I don’t know if anyone else would.”

You’re here,

chuckling to yourself,

as you look at the incoming texts from someone special.

reflecting back to that statement,

thinking,

and solidifying the fact you want to try 

to let yourself finally believe-

that you deserve nothing by the best.

starting with believing you also deserve the person behind the texts that made you chuckle.

//n.m.d// 04-09-2020

[antisocietalbanality]

“You made me want to write again.”

Do you remember the day that you craved physical touch?

Me neither. 

I mean- me neither- I don't remember because I never craved it. 

I am what one may call a ‘pessimistic hopeless romantic.’

Not even a realist, really. 

I'd fall in love with the way a touching moment was written-

Like the ones where the guy would gently grab the girl's face and plant a soft kiss on her cheek. 

Though it's hard to imagine that over the sound of cracks coming from your neck after someone forcefully grabs your face. 

I'd watch movies about the love of someone's life helping them get over hindering fears,

But it's kind of weird to believe those things exist when you can’t even keep track of which fear was created by someone you trusted.

How can you write about being cared for,

When someone has stared into your eyes as they stated they're retracting their compassion for you. 

Note to self- compassion is refundable I guess. 

Or when you go to apologize for being the way you are- they say it's okay, but they tell you they’re unsure how much longer they can be patient with you.

Similar to a parent on the brink of snapping after their kid can't understand why 1+1 equals 2, to be honest, I still don't understand it. 

Then again, everything was always one sided. 

 My favorite times-

Were what I wrote about the others:

The facade based poetry works, of how calm one's green eyes reminded me of the sedating forests-

Even though I was too scared to look in their eyes.

Or how I wrote about one who brought light into my life- 

Yet I suffocated in their darkness. 

Or how I missed the embrace of one,

But I disregard how they left me stranded on the cold ground one night- like something you'd read about in a thriller novel. 

But I remember the day I craved physical touch for the first time. 

It was the same moment I felt the most warmth, 

Even though my right arm was over the blanket and I could feel the cold room,

It was inferior to the warmth of the hand I found right between two bodies. 

In another poem, I once wrote, 

 if one would remember the countless times I would apologize for being fucked up,

And when I state those apologies now-

You respond with kindness and reiterate that ‘there’s no reason to apologize,”

“We’ll work through this,” you say. 

And now I’m looking over my old works of poetry- the ones infused with romantic fantasies,

Wondering how these things are becoming a reality. 

I remember the moment you wanted to hear my heartbeat,

I had to hold in tears,

Because I was always the one to listen to other heartbeats-always seen as a silly thing. 

No one wanted to hear mine. 

But as you put your ear to my chest

I wondered if you knew that those heartbeats were for you. 

I listened to the peaceful silence when I would wake up randomly while we were sleeping-

Wondering how a year ago I was on the brink of walking away from life- because someone’s version of care for me -was abuse. 

I was remembering how I was with people that would cuss me out and yell at me to get out,

Or not fight for me to stay with them in their lives.

I fall back asleep-

And the next morning you pull me in as I rest my head on your chest-

While you say that I couldn’t believe I was there.

Nor could you believe that I was your’s.

And I think about that Saturday evening,

How I opened up about the stressors I don’t dare share with people,

But I shared them with you. 

Maybe I expected the normal- “that’s life.” response,

The shoulder shrug,

Or being left alone with my stressors having to save myself from drowning and suffocating-

And you grabbed my waist and pulled me into a hug as you reminded me of the present-

Something I never could do,

You kissed my cheek as you said, “one thing at a time.”

Is this even real?

I think about the poetry I used to write-

About how I couldn't wait to show affection and compassion through touch. 

Me- the anti-touch introvert who barely can give long hugs without feeling awkward. 

But I knew back then that my person would make me feel safe enough to be that vulnerable. 

And you did,

As I snuck up behind you, rested my head on your shoulder, 

And ran my fingers through your hair. 

I think about our late night conversations-

How I’d sacrifice a few extra minutes of sleep,

Just so I could talk to you longer.

Even if that meant I sacrificed a bit of makeup in the morning too. 

I think about the day I went back to him,

When I was interested in you. 

And maybe that’s why I detached from him,-

Because I felt something towards someone else-

If we’re being completely honest-

I wanted you instead of him,

And maybe that explains my immense happiness as I texted you about what I did a few weeks later.

I’m sorry for that period of time that I never responded back. 

I was thinking about you during that time. 

Who knew you’d have such an effect on me,

Ha,..

Look at me-

I bought a ticket to see you,

Traveled through an empty airport-

Amongst a international pandemic-

Just so I could meet you. 

I open up about my embarrassing stories 

In an attempt to make you smile and laugh,

Because every day- you make me smile and laugh,

Like you don’t have me yet- like you’re still trying to win me over.

You brought the spark back,

And now I’m stumbling over my words-

Even though this used to be my playing field.

I’m spilling my guts 

And unveiling the heart I wear on my sleeve. 

Just so you can see how much I care about you.

Because I’d go through all of my heart breaks, abuse, and betrayal again if it meant I’d end up in this same place, 

With the same man I get the blessing to call mine.

//n.m.d// 04-05-2020

[antisocietalbanality]

It’s been a while

Didn’t write about my relationship with a Narcissist-

didn’t mention my strong cravings for suicide attempts-

I picked up and dropped an old addiction,

Dropped under a hundred-

hey I’m keeping it 100.

Gained it back and more,

I can hear the opening of doors.

took some time off-

had to recharge,

after mistaking pity for love.

Living life,

cutting necessary ties,

Honest to God,

I’m thriving.

Granting chances-

to those deserving.

And truthfully-

The first granted chance,

went to me. 

//

n.m.d

10:26:2019

[antisocietalbanality]

Ashes

I watched the fire burn,

as I continued to throw in

all the arrows

that inflicted pain upon my being.

I pulled them out of my bones,

flesh,

heart,

soul,

and mind:

One

By

One.

I pulled out enough arrows,

To keep the fire going throughout the night.

I get close to the warmth.

It prepares me for the next battle.

I drift off into slumber,

The last thing I saw

Were the ashes and ember.

//

N.m d.

6:25:2019

//

[antisocietalbanality]

who you talking about, drop a hint

People from my past, present and future really. Two direct names have been said in poems, and those are some people from my past.

-n.m.d-

[antisocietalbanality]

Are They Watching?

This letter is just for you.

I think you know why I haven't written anything.

I felt like they were constantly watching,

And dissecting phrases-

Conjoined vowels and consonants,

To use against me as a poison.

I couldn't write about my true thoughts anymore.

The way that paranoia sends chills down my spine,

As it looks in pleasure of the way that

Anxiety kisses my neck and whispers sweet nothings.

But are they watching?

They are aren't they.

Remember it was just you and I,

And we could talk about anything?

Privacy is a never ending joke.

It’s all about the control. 

The fakeness is overruling in all honesty.

Remember the good and the bad?

I talked to you about my darkest parts?

I was still hiding so much shit,

only because I knew that someday

people would start looking over your shoulder,

and you would lie and say that it was only you,

not any other sets of eyes,

ears,

mouths

that would transform my writings

into viruses.

I tried to be open,

but suppression is an addiction.

It becomes easy after 16 years,

what do you expect?

I cannot shed all of my skin,

or show you the stage of my heart,

my severed soul,

and my fragmented mind.

I cannot trust,

It all results in some form of retraction.

I’m constantly looking for the broken patterns,

because I believe a complete one will never exist-

just like happiness.

A temporary-

a myth.

Do you want me to say how I feel?

How can I do that when you can’t listen to my facts?

Do you see the dilemma here,

no?

That just further proves my fear. 

//

n.m.d.

1:17:2019

[antisocietalbanality]

"You know I've been trying to purge you out of my system,

It's been over a decade,

And I should accept the fact that

They are all a virus that is resistent.

No cure can be found,

And no I'm not messing around.

They say the more I write about you,

The more you become strong.

But you bounce in my mind,

Like an excruciating trigger song.

But this war will never stop-

You were in my life once,

And now I just wish you were finally gone."

//

N.m.d

1:16:2019

"Empty wishes"

[antisocietalbanality]

History didn’t repeat itself.

So I’m doing an art review,

of a famous muralist;

Jose Clemente Orozco.

He had no fear in painting the true tone

of the Spanish invasion

and conquest of the Aztecan empire.

An empire,

that crumbled beneath the feet

of  a man,

that I hope only sees the depths of hell. 

I hope he takes on all the pain he inflicted on 

the empire he wiped out. 

Harsh,

but then again,

I am Mexican,

you can see why the topic is painful.

History almost repeated itself.

Another Mexican,

against a guy who possessed a name,

that meant conqueror. 

A guy who often prided in Spain,

to the point where it dug into my heart

and poked at the sore wounds having to do

with my cultural history. 

History almost repeated itself.

but,

it didn’t. 

and it won’t.

I keep writing about this,

not to inflict pain,

and not to bring up pain for myself,

but to feel myself become stronger.

Me:

a temple,

a mix of cultural histories,

family,

and pain.

I am an empire,

and I am an army,

oh,-

and the best thing?

I am the leader.

I was the one to fix my heart,

and carry it through

the storms of broken glass

that penetrated my body.

I’ve fought monsters,

demons,

I’ve been used by puppeteers,

I’ve kissed the ground more times,

than I’ve kissed anyone else.

I’ve fought walls with my bare knuckles,

until one of us were able to feel like we actually existed,

-which was the result of seeing blood being covered by new tissue,

which formed into scars on my hand. 

-Constant reminders.

Like the tally marks all across my body,

that remind me about the times I tried to escape my own hellish prison cell,

right after visitors would remind me-

that they were free,

and I was not.

I’ve seen myself turn a concept

into a reality-

becoming a monster that was unveiled. 

I’m not a monster,

it was them.

Paranoia,

fear,

stress,

anxiety.

I’ve become the owner of a disorder,

that used to own me.

I am a borderline.

I have walked on a thin line,

while different obstacles are posed,

and thrown my way.

Anxiety keeps me on my toes.

Reminds me of the loop holes,

I have to watch closely.

But again,

History almost repeated itself.

and it was so damn easy to think I was destroyed:

November 11th, 2014,

a massacre inflicted on my body in my bed,

I didn’t want to feel obliterated. 

I wanted to be done.

August 2016,

rushed to the upstairs bathroom,

only to find bruises and blood.

Hugging the toilet while my body was detonating.

I wanted to be done.

March 1st, 2017,

created a juxtaposition:

antidepressants engulfed rapidly,

not to feel better,

but to wipe me out completely.

I wanted to be done. 

But history didn’t repeat itself.

I turned to art,

and turned everyone and every damn struggle,

into a character in my story.

-A character I could look at,

and not feel defeated.

Because how can you feel defeated,

by a character that is a few pixels tall,

a character that could be erased in a few strokes. 

History won’t repeat itself,

because no one destroyed this empire,

they only made it stronger. 

//

n.m.d

11:28:2018

//

[antisocietalbanality]

I fold.

I began this game,

with no idea how to hold the cards correctly.

No one taught me the rules of the game.

I lost more than I won.

I showed my cards to those who used them against me.

They raised the bets when I had nothing;

but the bones that held my body upright, barely. 

They saw my expressions change-

and took that time to pounce and tear me apart,

right on the table while the game was being played. 

They dragged me under and feasted on my

paranoia,

fear,

anxiety,

and soul-deteriorating empathy. 

I held onto the remaining cards,

knowing they were my only weapons,

I was ready to raise the stakes,

turn the table,

-finish everyone with my strategy. 

Others played the same game,

they influenced me with their ways.

Told me which cards to play,

and when to raise the bets. 

I look at my cards-

while feeling a whisp of hair fall out of my bun 

and brush against my neck,

confusing me with the carnivorous creatures-

that used to drag their claws down my neck and dig into spine.

I put my cards down,

cracked my knuckles,

and smirked. 

“I fold,”

I say,

while I watched bets turn into emotions,

that were played,

like mine in previous games. 

Bets covered the table in blood,

that came from the heart that was left unguarded.

Not my fault-

it was their’s for once.

I left the game knowing that cards were my weapons,

and emotions were the bets. 

Why do you think I am good at this now?

I don’t use emotions in the equation anymore. 

//

n.m.d

11:25:2018

//

[antisocietalbanality]

Say Hi for Me.

Nightmares and night terrors,

are part of my nightly routine.

They come before I open my eyes to the ceiling,

but they come after I close my eyes

while my face meets the pillow.

Having dreams,

is...

wonderfully unexpected. 

No complaints.

Having dreams about abusive exes though,

I’d rather take the night terrors. 

I’d rather not get manipulated in my sleep,

and wake up to me grabbing my phone,

only to stop myself halfway through a text,

telling an ex that I miss them,

and saying that I was the one always in the wrong.

Telling them that I was to be hated,

and they were to be worshiped-

reminding them that they were the best I have ever had. 

At least the night terrors remind me of the truth.

Manipulated dreams,

altered concepts,

distorted frowns that turn into smiles,

are why I constantly wonder if I am better off without them.

..

If my dreams have to lie,

in order for my past opponents to look like saints,

I think I am doing just fine. 

..

If they’re also having dreams about me,

they’ll say hi for me.

//

n.m.d

11/24/2018

[antisocietalbanality]

Whoosh

There it is-

I missed it.

The opportunity of you and I 

was lost in my hidden feelings,

and covered by the obvious “just kidding”s. 

I missed it,

because back in the young and dumb days:

I favored the disrespectful approval of others,

way more than my happiness.

You were truly a sweetheart,

and I tore you apart,

because the Vultures needed to eat,

and I just needed a home.

Two years ago,

we both hurt each other 

for stupid reasons. 

but tonight,

I looked at you,

And it stung:

knowing that there would never be another opportunity,

that just had to do with me and you. 

And just like that-

-whoosh-

I missed it. 

//

n.m.d.

11:11/2018