It is so nice seeing bubbles in the open air. I do believe we should have bubble making machines on every block because they can really make people happy. Though they are transparent, and only appear to have a glossy window of pinks, yellows, and sometimes greens, bubbles really stand out. 

Today, I saw a little girl blow a million and one bubbles out of the window of her mother’s car. While they both took off, the bubbles remained, almost motionless — as if I were the one who was moving from the wind, not they. Crossing the street, I realized I tried so hard to avoid popping any of them.

I do hope someone else smiled at those bubbles too.  

Sweet Milk 

I am fortunate enough to have a mixture of family members who are also farmers. They have inspired me to farm one day. When I was little, I was always given the freshest milk by my cousins whenever I was able to see them. This milk is unlike any other milk I have tasted. It is not only fresh, but there is a sweetness in which one cannot imitate.
In many days, I would feel nostalgic and remember the scents of the city and the sights of the country.

Most of all, I would taste the sweet milk.  

Everyday, when I wake up, my mom comes up to me and hugs me and says, “I missed you!” 

When I was tiny, I used to do this to her every time she would wake up. 

There is nothing so comforting, so lonely, and so beautiful as seeing abandoned eggshells on a white plate.  

As I was clipping a microphone on a man’s collar,
All I could think about was how close your smooth hands were, 
to the inside of my dress,
Barely touching my left breast.

That was my check.  

The coolness of raspberries. 

On my stomach, I have four beauty marks. 
In some countries, this represents fertility. But I think it just proves that a body is a canvas. All of them look like they were painted upon, but were moved only slightly by the wind. On my left side - to my hip, is my birthmark. 
The type of birthmark I have is the Cafe Au Lait one - which is funny because I like to drink that coffee too. My brother has one on the same exact spot, which is so weird.  
Certain beliefs would have said that in the past life, my brother and I have been wounded on the same spot. 
My brother does not have beauty marks around his stomach, although, he is very round- but also sturdy around the stomach while I am soft and sensitive to the cold air whenever it hits.  
Stomachs are strange, and the exterior of one is stranger.  

I was asked this question today by a friend of mine, and he said, “like, something really special. No ‘I miss the nineties’ shit. Something you absolutely adored and was yours”. 

I could have answered that question fairly quickly if it wasn’t for the doubt that it may not have been the creme de la creme of my childhood.  I now have my answer. 

I miss looking up to my mom as this very beautiful doll that can apply lipstick perfectly. I remember sitting on the bed, watching her reflection as she opens her mouth slightly to apply Esteé Lauder lipstick. I would sit there in amazement and gawk at how she was so beautiful. My mom tried buying barbies for me when I was a kid, and I only fucked their hair up and lost their shoes. Sometimes blue pen splattered all over their naked bodies and face. They were plastic and they could not maneuver their lipstick like my mom did.  

This is what I miss the most about being a child. 
My definition of beauty, was my mom.

I keep these in the past tense mainly for my perspective of my mom today. Along with growing up strips away from the great impression my mom has left. I realized she was a tired and hardworking woman. I never realized how much she beat her own ass everyday just so I can make a Barbie into some blue-skinned, blonde haired bimbo. I see her as beautiful still, but a different kind of beautiful - with sun damaged skin and hair that tries to keep young. I would sit in amazement, watching my mother become broken hearted to only apply a new coat of lipstick and smile once more.

My definition of beauty, is my mom.
My definition of strength, is my mom.

Soft vocals in a song.

To hear the softness of a singer,
their cigarette voice,
Their past,
the vulnerability to be so close to a microphone
Or so far away.
Dangerous and raw
A thing that raises heads
Except for the singer’s.

Having someone physically yearn for you.

For example, when someone is giving you a hug, and they truly hug you because they missed the touch of a familiar adoration. This brings a reaction that cannot be processed through the head until the physical yearn is over.

Being you.


Truly because everyone deserves it.

Finishing something after working on it for a long time.

All the time and effort put into something that you can consider to be a new born,
The currents within your veins, rushing from the anticipation,
To simply record the time and date.

Knowing somebody adored you.

I guess this isn’t the happiest of them all.
To know that someone once adored me,
Makes me feel so light.
The idea of their precious time dedicated to me,
Is a relief,
But a sadness to time.