I wrote a couple of lines and it wasn’t what was inside. I figured maybe I should explain what happened this time. Maybe I need a disclaimer before I undoubtedly spill my heart and my mind on these keys. I figured I’ll do that tomorrow. 

With so much love in this world, why did I love you? With so little time that you had, why did you agree on loving me? I don’t need a philosophical good-bye. I don’t want your speech. Spare me how I will appreciate this later, and do away with how good of a person you are. Don’t remind me that this was for us…this was for you.

It will pass. Everything always does. The echo of my mom in my head.

I can be bitter and throw back how selfish and insensitive it was to throw me away at my hour of need. I can curse your name. I can cry all night…again.

And I will, because I am human. I’m not afraid of my feelings, and contradictory to your belief, this is how I handle them, and I do it well.

There’s nothing wrong with me. I am not damaged. I do not need to be needed. I do not need to be validated for my growth. I am a wonderful being, and you will never take that away.

I will be wanted.

One day by you, then I won’t want you.

And one day by another, who never see me in a dim light.

As much as I try to understand, some words can never be forgotten.

I will handle my illness on my own. I’m sorry I reached out to you for comfort. Actions really do speak louder than words, ironically you would always tell me.

And as I cried, fear of what the doctors would say…you walked away.

I will not wish harm. I will not wish this on you either, because I am stronger than you…I can take this.

It will pass, everything always does.

So have my expectations of you.

But never of I.


Happy Holidays

I am sick and tired of doing this.

Losing my creativity at the cost of what? The gain for who?


The others.

It’s always the others.

I’m sick of this  shit.

Sick of it.

Believe it or not I would write lovely things.


Short Stories.

Wrote for publications.

The extent of being burned out.

We are not robots.

This life we live is mechanical.

To go faster, to produce faster.

At what cost?


Your art.

I wish not to be a robot.

Wish not for money.

My identity is worth more than anything you can throw my way.




I assumed love the second time around would be better. Or the third…hell, I thought everything was going to be better.

Sad realization seeps in that maybe I am going to be alone for a very long time, that maybe I am not for another.

I thought I met someone who supported me.

Understood me.

Both chasing dreams.

He never once discouraged me.

Or said stop.

Yet, it’s this very reason why he just left me.

This very reason I am trying to work but have to articulate a couple of sentences to mark the date.

To add to the rest of stories that I hold.

That’s all we are right?

Just stories.



No young chicks here

“What is this? When did this happen?!”

I lost it yesterday. I came back randomly with eye creams, vitamins, scrubs, and other preserving items as I try desperately to hold on to my youth when all I went out for was toothpaste.
I don’t even know when this happened.

There they are though, living on me. The most utterly horrific word I can think of: crows feet

Life is over.


Take a picture, they say, you’ll look pretty, they say…

All it takes is a professional photographer, a nice camera, and time, for you to reevaluate your whole appearance and ask yourself, “Holy crap, do I really look like this?”

Parents will always lie to you. The one time you want brutal honesty is before you go out into the world to take a picture looking like a complete moron. But they will lie because they are your parents and that is the fine print webbed underneath the watermark seal of your birth certificate.

Then your friends will always lie to you too. Even when you look good they will lie to you and say you look horrible so you can then change and look actually horrible which is good enough for them to say, “Yes, you look nice.”

Today I am in shock of a picture I took. The only reason why I needed to take a “professional” picture was because I got an award at work and for a whole freakin’ year this picture will hang proudly as millions of strangers and my co-workers, walk by and stare at it.

Stare at picture. For a whole…year…a year is a long time.

Now, I know I don’t have the best self-esteem, but I’d like to think on a good day I’m not that bad-looking. In all honesty I’m not even attractive. It’s my personality. This is what I’ve been told when hot guys like me and the fit girly girls are in awe, “she’s a tomboy, she’s a pervert…wahh wahh wahh..” This is according to my co-worker who likes me. I am cool. Another co-worker who likes me, you’re a cool hippie (what the hell does that mean?). In a nutshell It’s obvious it’s not my looks that get me by, yet like I said, some days are better than others.

Today I tried. I honestly thought I looked good. Then I went to Picture Perfect. Can I sue for emotional damage? For altering an image? For ruining my day? Or in a sad truth…is that how I really look? I hope not. I want to blame the over zealous woman who probably has more cats than me, who took my picture. I can even go as far as blaming the high quality camera that zooms in on everything so…perfectly.

I sat awkwardly from the start as little adorable kids said cheese. Then there I was, an awkward giant waiting in line to say cheese. Flashbacks of middle school pictures swarmed my mind. No…not middle school. I’m better than this Jane, I’ve overcome this!

I’m finally next.

I get a woman who treats me like a child.

“Smile, or I’m gonna tickle you.”


The image that followed that sentence can perfectly sum up the emotional fear and confusion I felt as she said that.

“I just need one picture, it’s for work.”

“Yeah, I know but this coupon is for 18 so we can take that many and just have fun with it.”

The next thing you know I’m on the floor.

My hands are to the side.

My hands are on my face. I’m looking up, to the side, over the shoulder.

This is what you get when you use a coupon for anything in life.

She is getting too involved till someone passes by and pulls her aside.

“Oh man so I’m only suppose to take one. No one tells me these things. Ok, smile.”

All enthusiasm gone from her.

The end result.

Self-esteem lowered than before.

One eye smaller than the other, the lazy eye acting up; bags under my eyes, dark circles, blotches, hair a little messy, a face that suddenly looks rounder than usual, and an overall orange tone covers my porcelain skin and my nose looking bigger than I wanted it to be.

…and this my friends will be hanging up for a year. This will be staring at people as they walk by.

And you know what they’ll say?

“I bet she has a great personality.”


I like to think I don’t look this…

…but like this. You can lie to me.



Memoirs of a stabbed candle.

Shavings from a candle are scattered at my desk. The wax left residue of my life all along the black canvas where I sit. Where I think.  Where I write.  It has a gaping slash, deep on the side. The hand that etched it was trying to distract the mind. The hand was the only thing that could move. Two years later and I’m still with a demon that seems to haunt me, a demon of another woman, another woman who loved him- another woman who received the love in return. After it all, after what history and the trials of love has taught me, this is why I am here, for two years later so I can obsess over this creature that I have created in my mind. Why can’t I let go? For Christ’s sake, take this fuckin’ thought away from me. It stays.

Self-inflicted wounds.

I had to ask more questions, two years later and I ask more questions to pick at the scab, to add salt to the wound. You know it’s going to bleed when you pick it, just not how much.  I believe a piece of all humans are masochistic and sadistic sick son of bitches. This is the only way to justify why anyone of us would do certain actions. It is the only justification why on earth I would ask him. We were doing good, if I may ask. I made a practical joke of how I was taking a pregnancy test, and how it showed I was in fact pregnant, thanks to Google. I found an image of a woman’s hand in a similar bathroom as mine with the positive results. He freaked out. He was ready to take me to Texas and accept responsibility for this false child after the jokingly threats of beating me. I laughed and in the end told him of my prank.  This is the light-hardheartedness humor that we express to one another. The only person that I can be like this with and it finally sunk in that he was actually gone.

Self-inflicted wounds.

I’m cleaning the wax everywhere on my floor. There’s coffee stains that smeared in with the wheels of my desk, resulting in dark, sticky streaks along my tile floor. Clothes are everywhere. Underwear thrown on all corners of my confinement, shoes, socks, cats, all scattered somewhere. A room that exudes the owner’s breath “I give up.” I try my best to clean it but never finish. Story of my life.

The candle has its own story to tell. How it sat innocently, to burn, to provide a sweet smell. Not to be stabbed, scraped and poked all along the rims where the fire once lived. The stabber has a story too. She asked her lover, her former lover, lover with no title that floats in the middle, what exactly happened that night. She asked if they had sex. He replied no. She knew their bodies touched though, she wanted the details, she wanted the images in her head.  She asked if this girl went “down on him.” He replied yes. Instantly she imagined her raven hair down between his thighs and legs, sucking hungrily with no other thoughts but the task at hand. She then asked if he returned the favor. He replied yes. One of the rare acts where it showed his emotions. The candle understands. The candle doesn’t burn anymore. She pictured him positioning her every way, spreading her legs wider to get a closer view. She pictured his tongue lapping up the foreign juices, swallowing to the last drop. She feels his hand on her doing this to her and removing them to touch the other’s skin. Is it soft? Is it smooth? Can you feel the muscles tighten and release? The candle breaks.  To further complete the image, in between the silence, she pictures him kissing her, both tasting each other, in a forbidden taste. She wants to ask how did her lips taste? What flavor will he remember, was it sweeter than mine? She doesn’t. She just sits. She just thinks. She asks if they were naked. He responds not all the way.The breaths are getting heavier in her head. She asks if he sucked on her breasts. He responds yes. She pictures them bigger than hers, and supple for the grazing. She asks if he fingered her. He responds yes. The image in her mind stops at his strong fingers exploring her lips. The candle bleeds hot wax into the crevices that have been scarred on its figure. It can’t be fixed regardless of the leftover wax besides it. The heavy hand continues its work.

Self-inflicted wounds.

Embedded in my mind is this. Over and over I have given this demon another power, another  line in her story of my mind. She laughs, she smiles, she doesn’t care what she has done. This is what doesn’t let me rest at night. She suffocates me with my own hand.

I tried to let go. I tried to talk it out, write it out, let it all out. I tried to be as angry as I wanted to be to let it go, I tried to let time deal with this, I tried.

The love of him momentarily kept her away, kept her under my bed, but I know where she lives, and she knows where I sleep. She comes when I’m alone. I fear I’ll always be haunted.

Two years later and it stings in a new way, in a way that resurfaces it all, but with a different light.

Do I sleep with another man to find a common ground? To find what physical means. No. there’s more.

Do I fall in love with another man and come to terms emotionally and physically? It can’t be done.

Not that I doubt the chances of this, or my moral views, but what could revenge possibly prove to me. Revenge is a tempting mistress, momentarily high off someone’s low. I don’t want more demons for my collection.

Where’s the direction for this exorcism? And who am I throwing into the pits of hell to never return?

A lonely thought. A memory. A candle.

I fear that I am weary on this journey, and will never be able to find my sword. It’s somewhere in me, hiding behind courage, tucked away in the unknown.

I wish to be set free.

To be relieved from this curse and fate that has been plunged into my heart’s soul.

Set me free.

I tell the candle this. I sweep up its remains and apologize for the abuse.

I’m incomplete, ‘half of something else.’

“Release me,” I mutter to the shavings, as I throw them away.

How I Met Jane, I, LIfe Journey

Change: A note from the author (me)

Someone told me that I changed, that I’m not the same anymore. I simply said, of course, when will you?

Not sure if this is yet another trial of adolescents, growing up, reaching the peak of adult hood and notifying the difference between growing up and aging. All of the above.

What angers me the most is how I want to punch certain people in the throat, but am trying my best to let this all go, for the sake of my own growth and prosper in life.

It was a friends graduation party last night. I was sent a sort of last-minute un-vitation, if I may quote from Seinfeld. The oddest collection of people were at that gathering. I’m not sure why but it bothered me. One was my best friend about 5 years ago, another was a close friend, one was a past lover who I may have written about, and others were people we all grew up with. No one really new. Just this bunch. This bunch that hated each other, liked each other, and talked so much crap, yet I was the “bad person.”

Yes, this angers me.

Looking at certain pictures just brought back memories. Besides that it brought back where I came from, especially 5 years ago.

I found pieces of paper ripped out from an old journal I had. It was a record of when my family and myself lived in a hotel. It was just the scene. All I wrote about was where I was sitting, asking myself questions, and just observing. The smallest detail of when I wrote about my mother applying her make-up made me cry. I kept it in for so long.

I read this to her aloud and I broke down.

I don’t know if it was for any self-inflicted memory it brought back or out of joy that it was over.

All I could remember, from this, to those pictures is how those “friends” were never really there. They seemed to feed off of my misfortunes. Feeling sorry doesn’t count as friendship. Anyone could feel sorry for something and walk on by. The words ” you are playing the victim” murmured in my background. This is what I was told.

A part of me wishes for those people to feel certain things to understand, but I know I’ve changed when I understand this isn’t important anymore, it is in the past.

So, yes, of course I’ve changed. WE all do. I can say with a strong soul and heart that I’ve changed for the better, and will keep changing for the better. That’s when you know who are your “friends.” People who understand the differences or distance and pure heartily respect and encourage the well-being for yourself.

After I graduate on my own terms, get a better job and satisfy every goal that I have, I will be more than happy that I changed.

Evolve into something better.

Don’t dissolve to feel better.

On an unrelated note, I have ditched work to continue my essay on business ethics, how ironic.