angrysadhappy

[angrysadhappy]

No I was wrong, I still missed my ex.

[angrysadhappy]

But I was starting to like him again, the deer eyes boy from freshman year. The thought of a distant liking, common conversation with smiles, hand holding on special occasion and tilting your head as the most flirting you’ll do; I liked that. I felt comfortable with the innocent gestures, cute daydreams and I liked the music that played in my head when I’d think about you.

[angrysadhappy]

A baby was born with your name and I started to miss you. I was just starting to think

[angrysadhappy]

A possessed girl, covered in her own vomit, with spit spilling from her mouth and snot running down her nose, she cried, “Oh my goddess! My lady Aphrodite!” When the gate men pulled her away from the warden’s doors, it’s been months since she’s been in solitary confinement; I hear her whimpering, I hear her praying, I hear her little wet feet slide out of the bathroom to roam the hallways at night, I sometimes hear her sing in the choir room, I find myself waiting for her presence before going to sleep this has ruined my face. My condition has started to worsen; I now stumble, I now struggle to remember my sermons, my times tables, what time I should take my medication and who I believe in or exactly..what it is I now believe in. My infatuation with the girl interrupted in sound, body and mind kept me up, it filled my belly with worry so I starved physically, I was tiny, I felt weak but this meant nothing as her singing became louder to only my ears; I was special.

,”you are crazy.” The teacher smacked my hands, served me cold soup and gave me the awful weekend chores as punishment for speaking about the girl, the amount of chores increase if I ask a question related to insanity, my meals worsen in taste every time I hum her melody’s, was it true? Was I really crazy for prolonging my pain? Or was it my “delusions” that made me crazy?

“Grave Yard shift. You’ll work in the green house after the women have left to bed and the only staff around are our guards and gate men. You will be safe, you will be alone and all the doors will be locked. There is napping area in the shed, I will awake you before the night ends so you can get a proper sleep in your bed.” The guard handed me a key, my garden tools and a bucket to dump in any pests I find. The work wasn’t too much, I only focused on the dying leaves, the wilting flowers and churning the compost but by the third hour, I began to nod off, my legs struggled to hold me straight, my neck burned and tears ached my eyes; oh I was so sleepy. I slouched, I dragged my feet, my movements were slow, my back ached unbearable pain, I groaned if I lifted my head and my joints cracked loudly if I crouched too much; I was roaming the hallways when I meant to nap. My gaze was down but I saw the long hallways, the dirt I dirtied the carpet with, I disturbed the air around me with a stench of dead, rotting, an awful scent of peonies and roses old and curled inward alike to a bud but wrinkled, I ruined all the peace around me with my careless desire to see her, this girl— or now a woman by the years that had passed since the last time I seen her, she was 17–to hear her mouth form the vowel’s she breathed out deep from her belly up to her throat, her body alike to an instrument; only made to make music; its insides are empty, nothing inside but strings or a small piece of metal. I was in love with this being I’d never seen. My hands began to touch the ground, I was falling, but my arms persisted, my hands reached; I destroyed the wallpaper with claw marks when I needed to take a turn, the carpet behind me was now a wet, brown, eerie path with a stench unlike that of earth’s rain eroded walk ways, I heaved when my moans of pain turned exhausted; I was running out of air, my breasts we’re carpet burned but still I stayed awake while she continued to sing.

I swallowed my fear when the idea, “I might die here” creeped, or was I brought to peace with the thought when I passed the children’s rooms and knew, “I’ll die in the only place I learned to live for, my name will be given respect and I’ll have a marble statue of me in the ladies-in-waiting room, I’ll be wed to death and I will have a grandiose matrimony if the nuns refuse my marriage, my sisters will continue to love me, my work will be appreciated and I will be remembered by the roses and the children will know me by their smell.” This little idea gave me meaning, it made me happy though my body was tattered, my mind did not work and my heart pitied me.

When my nails bled, my fingers burned red and the carpet led to stone I took a big breath, took all the life I had in me left to open to choir room door, “Michelle?”

,”Oh my lady Aphrodite! You’ve come to me!”

To death I owed nothing to, but to Aphrodite I hope my beauty, kindness, love and wisdom I can repay with my life when it is the end.

[angrysadhappy]

It was decided, until then I’m staying home; I was grounded. Locked away in my room until then. Until what? Until I held myself she said, “compose yourself!” Oh I’m acting too “rowdy” too “noisy” too much for anyone, too much what? Too much of everything, if I was quiet it annoyed her, “Girl! What are you up to?” But if I even made a peep she’d yell, “GIRL!! WHAT IS IT WITH YOU?!” I just couldn’t do anything. I knew sex wasn’t a healthy choice to make but at the wrong age of 16 I lost my virginity to a home-bogen who’s mommy would cry if I even held his hand in front her, I was frustrated with my desires; he’s too tall, she’s too skinny, he’s got too much hair, Jesus Chris did she stuff something dead in there!? Hurl. I found myself disappointed, I never got to lay on a comfortable bed, never on a mattress, always with someone who’d shove me down a desk or on a chair; that shit would always turn me off.

This punishment set by loving parents wasn’t too much of a bad deal, I liked my alone time, I spent money on good things and even made better decisions. It’s been a while since I’ve had sex, I mean I’ve masturbated here n there but at some point I lost the groove of setting the bed to now opening a book. Maybe I’m getting old; I just turned 17. Or maybe I’ve just stopped being dumb; being grounded left me no choice but to leave the boys in my list, block every number and reject every one of them that asked for mine. I was fine. Best sex I had was with the edge of my desk listening to tunes on my old ass iPod; this tuned me onnn.

[angrysadhappy]

She had more beauty to offer, more than a face, she was a woman that hummed then laughed if you could make her, she wasn’t easily impressed but if she liked you enough she’d be, just about anything you did. She bounced her legs, she was never in rhythm but she liked dancing; and if you were cute enough for her she’d tap your shoulder and compliment you. It was special because she was really specific with her compliments, it took little time to analyze a body and find all the beauty in it; she was Aphrodite, if that could be a given gift, because she was the beauty all around and she was the love she died searching for. That lonely woman cried in her house, she mourned every goat that died, sheep that lost a baby, or cattle that missed its mama. She was wealthy is jewels made of rocks by the creek, she was wise when it came to herbs and spices, she was kind to every animal, and despite it all; her head hung low forever bowing but never to a man. She was an odd creature, they called her a “fickle woman” or a whore. I never understood that last one, she wasn’t the town tramp, or saloon bunny— she slept with rich men, handsome men, old and young but nothing under 27. She never stole a man, tempted a married one or gave them the idea that they could. So I didn’t understand why se called herself that. I never met her when she was young, I never even met her at all—only once when I was 7 and I liked her field of herbs, I got lost there after a big fight between my parents— she found me but let me stay for an hour; she never said anything, didn’t ask for my name. She only brushed my hair and told me all there was to her. How many men she loved— once a woman but that never worked for her though she did feel something she hoped wasn’t just exclusive to women— and much she loved them, she loved with gifts of riches— no rocks from the creek or heaps of barley for a hearty breakfast; she knew they wanted money so she’d get in debt with the bank just to show how much they mean to her— how little she cared for it. She loved with limitless time and patience— she took days off work to take them around Kansas, when they got bored or complained she quit that job so they’d explore a different state, because every minute was a nugget of gold filling her heart.

She’s got many nicknames, most from enemies— her friends died in the 70s, not really. I found out my mom left her at a ditch after Tom O’Mally said he’d rather bone a dog than get caught with her.

I never got her name, I wonder if she knew mine. Whoever she was I didn’t care, but it gets to me when I remember she died in that house, alone. I was 13 when it happened and I never let it go; I had 6 years to knock on her door and tell her I remembered, that I knew, that I understood and that I loved her. Though I couldn’t be her mother and cradle her, or a lover to hold her; I think maybe it’d matter to her just as much.

Maybe what’s wrong with her is that no one’s ever laid in a field full of her passion, heard her stories, slept in her lap, let her play with their hair, compare hand sizes, leg length or count how many twirls you can do without getting dizzy then chased and tickled. I didn’t know who she was but she was someone’s baby, she’ll never know but she’ll be named after mine.

Somber.

[angrysadhappy]

Though the man in front of her offered gifts and promised forever love, she had a picking feeling in her brain that told her it wouldn’t last, because that’s how it was before with someone else. So she thought it through, remembering the nights she spent crying— wishing for a love like no other, when she caught herself humming a tune, then unknown, now whining the lyrics through tears as the day she packed his gifts, all that was a love like no other. She didn’t hide her heartbreak very well, as the scars don’t itch anymore but there was a voice teasing her to relapse, “do you remember what it felt like? Why not try and get it right this time” so she did. For about three months she’s talked to a different man; January, February, March— but she hummed the same song she never finished it, she only sang the part that hurt her most- I wondered why, she cried in a house never alone, why every man she’s ever talked to, let in that house, allowed to touch her; why did they all leave her?

My mom says it’s her fault, she says it’s because she has no self worth; I don’t know if that’s it, again there’s something I can’t figure out about her.

[angrysadhappy]

Sex n stuff, woman or man, it’s all the same to me; I crave her touch, his kiss, affection that I miss. I just want someone close to me.

[angrysadhappy]

There was something annoying about missing a boy who’s drunken by the bar, probably, while I lay wondering, “why isn’t he here? With flowers and a big big box of chocolates begging me to be his.”

I was peeved that the tall, too skinny, snobby rich kid called me picky. The nerve! Was I supposed to accept the cheap sandwich food inn was a date like I was stupid?? UGH! And don’t get me started on the other three— one a chubby-fit long haired band member (singer) the other two buzz cut skate boarders with no future other than crack— or marijuana if it hasn’t bore them by now— ack! Seriously?? Were those my only options???

I figured my problem was me so I did better, I prayed celibacy with a slight hope it’d be over as soon as it started..when I said there was something about missing a guy..I think it was a minor inconvenience— gum on a shoe— what was REALLY annoying was the idea of a man so unbelievably unreal you cry after daydreaming because you know he’s not real.

But if I think hard enough maybe. I forget I’m a witch and very capable of making the man I dream of.

[angrysadhappy]

My insides hurt

[angrysadhappy]

Evil scourers could be called dark wizards but they leave that part out if they want you, space angels are inherently the muck and scum of any planet; they spawn like the stars we see so suddenly— that’s literally what they are.— space magic, charms, beauty is what they have; your bones is what they want. I’ve met two space angels in my life and one I ate his alien liver! The other I craved his warlock gut, but he disappeared—a star I will never forget. As April arrives I will begin to see a surge of mythical beasts— uncanny creatures and monsters; ex boyfriends, lazy brothers, bum dad’s and boy virgins. An easy power meal but I think I’ve done my fair share of witchery and chaos— I think for now I’ll sit and listen to my fellow wizards, dark or gray— like the jedis— talk of their victims. If love were a little more foam and geese eggs in a potion; I’d be delighted to try it, if it were more concentrated to a strike of light; I’d be excited to see it, but love is different in the eyes of every being— or non-being— and it’s something we have no control over; it’s a feeling like hunger that we can either wait out in misery or despair others with our gluttony— I speak of the homewreckers and cheaters and girl’s well aware of the girlfriend their crushes have and, “oh no it’s a joke!!” Their way into a situation with him- whether he likes it or not they don’t care. Wretched bitches. But oh well! I’ll fund myself alone walking the town this February— not a pity cry— I enjoy my solitude so I look forward to it..my only twinge of fear is I’d run into him. The star. But oh well— I’m a mature wizard, I know not to be a grackle, or a fool— or id hope so. I miss my days of pretending to be a magician but now I am out of tricks— my rabbit and my hat are both missing and I’ve lost all the mass, the admires and the stalkers. It wasn’t a good time for me, not a lot of people like witches so I lie and say I’m a wizard which now..feels weird. I actually don’t know what I am; if not a girlfriend then a friend but if they don’t like me at all then I’m something I can’t stand, I want to kill her when she ruins my image but she was me and I don’t know how I could strangle an image in my brain— or how to get rid of her when she doesn’t even exist anymore. I’m a dark wizard! Or so I tell the boys so they don’t get scared and run away, I’m actually a witch but I didn’t grow up in a coven so I don’t know how to make potions or read their grimoire..I learned magic from my warlock father and how to lure men from a siren in my 4th grade classroom, how to mind control by count Hortencia in my 5th grade summer program, how to curse a lollipop by my best ghoul friend in 6th grade!! I’m not the only witch who uses other magic, I know some learn things from succubi!! I’ve heard it!! Their lewd conversations!…that helped me get where I needed to be (NOT a virgin in my witchy 30s)

[angrysadhappy]

For a while now I’ve forgotten who I was to the world, for a sudden moment I wasn’t me but the rumor, the ugly, and the thing I hated most. I didn’t need anyone to tell me so— I mean they did—but I knew— or at least I had the creeping thought. For a while now I’ve questioned too many things and ignored their answers, I thought if ignorance was bliss it’d be forever but it ends sooner than I expected— I mean he doesn’t talk to me, just out of nowhere disappeared!— and I’d like to be that person and say, “Oh! I didn’t even think twice about it! I’m actually maturing and fine!” But I’m still running this cycle out of breath, I still get angry about it and he’s all I complain about now!! ,”Unbelievably”!! ,”How much more immature can you get Sophia??!!”

I could cut down a tree so it’d fall on him, or use the school club’s bees to infest his hotel room.

But I don’t attend Rushmore, and I don’t really think he’s my Rushmore.

[angrysadhappy]

Me gustan los chico con ojos bonitos, narices bonitas, cejas bonitas— cara bonita

Hermoso como rosas y que huela bonito como a gardenias !

Que baila bonito y que muerde— pero en cierta ocasiones !

[angrysadhappy]

Oh that lemon tastes sour😭

[angrysadhappy]

I cry everytime on my birthday, same wail as the one the doctors heard the day I came.

[angrysadhappy]

I like the soothing voice of the woman who introduces the listener to Midnight Marauders.

I imagine her as the white women therapist I see in movies, the cliche ones that hold your hand and say, “that was the right thing to do.” After a kid calls the cops on their crack addict parents. I like rap and hip hop because it riles my imagination; in their voice I can see facial expressions, their tones and pitches telling me the mood of my surroundings, the beats tell me go fast, get back, watch behind me— or slow down, take a step and watch the world around you, appreciate the things you have. I hear poems, and love letters, warnings and stories— it’s entertaining— it’s drama but at its best— it’s art. And I like it most when an album is a novel, each song is a chapter and you can interpret it as you want— not a soul can tell you what is right or wrong. It’s different from a book, wayyyy different form an audio book— it’s music but it’s more— simply it’s art.

I don’t sound very smart when the group around me quotes Kafka or Shakespeare and I randomly shout, “I SEE THE LIGHT” at any time because I think it’s funny— I don’t act dumb on purpose, that’s just who I am— and sure I can’t read aloud well, I should work on my stutter but doesn’t mean I’m a retard. Words on pages like mix n match, suddenly “misses wextler” is “mink sweater?” And I don’t know how I got there or what happened before because I read like a fifth grader and repeat my words. I don’t like messing up when I read. The only good thing I have is when I fuck up a lyric and my mom beside me says “it’s fine, it’s hard to rap.” She knows I’m not trying to find my place there, she understands it’s just entertainment. Why can’t my fucking teachers get that? Instead they send me to a different room and call the principal saying I wanna argue? Bitch shut the fuck up. You get on my nerves. Not to mention you barely teach; all you talk about is your nephew. “Man I fucking I hate this bitch” is something lot of your students relate with, it’s not my fucking problem if I can’t read chapter 18 on a book I fucking hate, “Tell me about the struggles of Bud Not Buddy—“ bitch go about you learn a thing or two and understand that us children. Hate to be worth something. My existence shouldn’t be a bet to greatness, you shouldn’t have expectations on an 11 year old?? Swear to god this woman needs to fix her fucking lipstick before she comes around me opening her mouth— “you didn’t do your homework!!” Fat ass mama with a flap to spew shit from. I genuinely don’t like her, never had a good time with this teacher. But I guess she was the reason I pushed forward to be here. I read better because I wanted to show her I’m not fucking stupid— I worked on my stutter just to be able to communicate with her— she thought she did a great fucking job when at the end on the school year I told her I grew my vocabulary, told that bitch straight up, “I know what discard means.”

“Do you? What does it mean?”

And I walked away because I forgot and I probably looked like a dumbass fucking liar. I didn’t know what it fully meant— I had an idea because I heard it in a song, she used spoiled food as a metaphor of her love for a man and used that word. I ended up asking the smart girl, her top student, what it meant and she said, “throw away like it didn’t matter”

And yeah that makes sense. I also felt like after everything I did and the end she thought my shitty cake was spoiled and threw it away; she didn’t look like she cared. But I learn a thing or two from bad situations, it’s a habit.

If there’s a lesson she got through my thick skull is was probably to never impress a bitch who’s so stuck up. I mean she probably did think she was better than everyone else— she gave off those vibes— but I meant more like, “don’t even try for someone who will see your efforts as failure”

I’ll make up a name for it since I wanna feel smart;

Ingratuldimende- ing-grah-two-dih-mend

•a way to describe an ungrateful person’s behavior

•insult to an overachiever

Ex. “Don’t even go to that party, you know how ingratuldimende Carlo’s mother can be.”

[angrysadhappy]

I have a weird character. I know something about me is strange but not unnerving, it’s cool to have people look at me as if I were an alien; a questioning look on their face that’s like “oh I heard what you said, I just don’t know if I’m understanding.” I’m weird in all aspects, as a human I stand out. That’s natural. But as a person..I’m a nail that’s asking to be hammered down. A weird logic. They call my thoughts unnatural and my behavior disturbing. I can see it tho; I mean if we’re talking about the fact I masturbate at the end of every month in hopes it releases all that stress built up— then yeah I’m kinda fucking creepy? But— I don’t see how wearing socks over leggings..and ponchos without undergarments makes me..weird?