zhanubia divine.

here lie some words for u to chew on.

[zhanubiasdiary]

high school friendship series, pt. 1

some old photos of an old friend. I always saw the world thru the lens of what it could be. the sky painted itself with fairytales and other-world creatures when the clouds filled it just right. I saw stories in the lines of my friends faces, watched poetry climb on the strands of their hair. often, I stopped those I loved in parking lots and shopping malls to pull out my camera, always seeing new words to be written in the way they turned their heads or the way they flicked their eyes in a certain direction.

my friend was a compulsive liar, always swapping her thoughts for ones which would hit harder. I never understood her but I know her heart was soft. and that was what mattered, I guess, especially because mine was not at the time. she was younger than me, naive and thrill seeking. i got in the car with her and her friends once, and never did it again. we sped over the hills, dodging the one lone car I knew was coming by an eighth of a second. when we hit the pothole they leaned out of the car, amazed at what destruction could have hit, amazed that it hadn't.

we never truly saw each other, I don't think, but there was a connection to be found in the way we both escaped the worlds around us. we found common ground as we spun in circles on the streets of her neighborhood, music playing from her pocket. we sent each other playlists and put lyrics on our walls. this, I think, was the thread that tied me to most of my friends. our ability to paint our worlds into a new color, to build whole cities and streets out of artwork and TV show characters.

her boyfriend was something straight out of a novel wrapped in boyhood and heartbreak. he was volitale, emotional and wired to overwhelm easily. he was skinny and blonde and had honest intentions. but he was young and you never realize how young you are until you aren't anymore. I knew nothing about his parents, only that he wasn't with them. I look back and see him still maturing, still learning to cope with everything surrounding him. I think she was too light for him, always darting back and forth like a hummingbird in a wood. she was not long term. she was short fuse and temper and loud music and "don't worry, I'll get us there." and she always did. she had a ride everywhere and no best friends.

[zhanubiasdiary]

I'm a little tired of it all. The caring about nothing. The conversations about coffeeless mornings and hitting traffic trying to reach the grocery store last Saturday and having to take the long way. I'm a little tired of it. The knowing and not doing.

I grew restless with my work when I realized it was doing nothing. The only way for me to stay silent is to ignore what I see. The only way for me to not burn the whole system is to pretend I don't hear the cogs ticking.

And yet, that fire still crackles in the background. Every time I drive by an unmanicured bit of land I wonder when the trucks will be there, those mighty machines and their wiry men, ready to tear into it.

Every day I come into work and hear his voice on the news. Every day I wonder why he must be so loud, so unavoidable. Every day I wonder how everyone around me remains so quiet, so complacent.

I can no longer be a part of a community which isn't lit up, isn't spreading its word like a forest fire. My role may be small. My contribution may not be monumental. Perhaps the earth will die anyway. Perhaps life will continue to be monetized and built upon until run into dust. But at least I will have been on the side who fought it.

[zhanubiasdiary]

♡ artistic martyrdom ♡

I will draw hearts on my right cheek and my mother will worry for me. this will be the first crack before I break.

I will start speaking in poetry. the words I write will fall from my tongue like drool when you forget to swallow. all at once, I will become art and you will not know the person in front of you.

I will meet my paintings again. I'll start wearing earrings which dangle at my shoulders like ornaments. I will break.

my heartbreak will be televised and this is how I will heal. once my story is out in the open it can no longer eat at my brain.

maybe I won't fumble as I count out the customer's change from behind my register.

maybe I will be slower.

maybe my body will befriend time as it once did, when I was a child, during the months I wrapped myself in bones and skin and went to sleep. we'll find comfort in the present.

and here is how the present will be made real. I will photograph the scabs on my legs and draw stars around the acne scars on my forehead.

let's highlight that which is not pretty.

I will arrive unshaven at the pool party. I will smile back at their stares, what with their soda cups and smooth skin.

sometimes freedom is a war cry over your demons. sometimes the only way to break through is to break through. let your pain hit the sunlight and hear how they scream.

I will fall apart for my victory.

[zhanubiasdiary]

I am always trying to tie my thoughts to a memory, and here is what I see

I see me, 9 or 10 years old, cleaning the bathroom

I am rushing and forgetful

forgetfulness has always been my downfall and I don’t think I remembered to clean the mirror

and my uncle only gave me x amount of time to complete this task

and here he is coming, as I am rushing

or maybe I think I am done but the mirror is still watching me, smudged and waiting

I don’t really remember but here he is coming and I was not fast enough and my brain is dropping all of my thoughts like flies

and suddenly he is here and its bad

and there is a bucket of ammonia in front of me

and here is where I want the story to stop.

this is what Holly scolded me for, this inability to keep anything at the forefront of my mind

here is something that sends me spinning like whenever I left my house key at school and my father would come home loud and unhearing and ask me why. 

“Why can’t you ever remember the things that matter?” and I would tell him like I told everyone else before.

“I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“You just don’t care enough to,” he would conclude.

“But I do. I do.”

my mother taught me how to twist my words with sarcasm

sometimes everything I say means the opposite

so I should be able to understand her language but when she makes a comment on the calls I forget to make I disintegrate

she says “I am not people, I am your mother.”

but my father was my father and my uncle was my uncle and my aunt was my aunt and-

what I’m saying is that the people I couldn’t trust were always those who I should have been able to.

what I’m saying is a built a world for myself within myself

I learned how to survive with what I was given

a world where my forgetfulness didn’t bring me to tears

I don’t know what’s wrong with my brain either and that is the thought I always try to swallow down

because then, maybe they were right

maybe I was always as small as they saw me 

my point is that I will be 20 in two months and this feeling still creeps up my back

I still complete tasks given to me as though someone is hovering over me, tapping their foot

my feet still trip over my thoughts on sidewalks and in restaurants

I try to move as swiftly as my mind and end up fumbling

sometimes I spit my words like hot tea at the end of conversations so the listener can’t lose interest first

afraid of watching their faces fall with boredom, but mouth too full to swallow it all down

here lie the details I’ve been ignoring.

now, maybe I can set them down.

now, maybe, I can calmly walk away.

[zhanubiasdiary]

my eyes are always red and irritated,

the beginning of the school year was cold air and discomfort, sneaking to the bathroom for another round of eyedrops and self preparation

I guess red eyes and allergies dont make for a good poem, aren't really that important except I could not look my teachers in the eye when they spoke to me

I tried to make myself small in the hallways so no one would see my discomfort, pulling my processed hair around my neck and watching my feet as they stepped

I guess allergies are a small problem in the grand scheme of thing and I only tell you about it because of what it represented to me

the boys come over and I hide in my room so they cant see me unpolished. of course, no one would see me the same if they saw what I saw and I was sure they could.

when the eczema on my face flared up I grew acquainted with every speck of dirt on the floor

until I got called into the office because the teachers thought I was scared of them

no, I'm just scared of myself, I told her

I'm scared of what this cracked skin means, what it makes of my mind

I thought you could see the thoughts scattering like shards of fear and disgust across the classroom floor

being seen with an insecurity on your body is the same as being seen naked

stripped down to skin, bone, and pain

I think every disappointment lived within my insecurities those days

It altered the way I walked, the way my clothes felt on my body

I tried to fit into a box of pretty things, all straight hair and open-toed flats

we learn that the solution to our insecurities is layers

If we cannot see them, they dont exist

so what a joy now, to let them hit the sunlight

to be brown skin and eczema and scars with my eyes looking forward

what a joy now, to be seen