#writematic

[schizomatic3000]

stupid little kid

bring headphones when you get your flu shot

because there’s always one kid wailing

for no reason at the needle

like an idiot

But the child screaming

in the other room, terrified,

is only scared because the last time he saw a needle

it was sticking out

of his sister’s arm

as she foamed at the mouth

like their old dog: Sawyer

Both have faded from his life

so much that he’d forget

their faces, if not for the photos

on the walls

But when he comes out

clinging to his mother

with a band-aid on his arm

and tears all down his face

you’ll go on throughout your day,

thinking about him only to complain

about the inconvenience of his fear

[schizomatic3000]

small haiku collection

premature

Trusting you was like

standing on a block of loose

cement - sinking strong

foster house

sleeping soundly through

the night with no monsters

in my bed, dreaming

fresh start

rotting flowers in

the garden, seeds scattered by

the wind. spring's begun

insomnia

no matter how much

i sleep, it's never enough

rest: a distant love

nomadic

how can i plant my

roots if my life is to be

spent free in the wind

unnamed

My soul is but a

flame And my mind is racing

to extinguish it

unnamed

music is a porch

light left on in your mind, safe

within the darkness

cyborg

my graphics card breaks

down, unable to render

the tiniest image

unnamed

It's more pity than

preservation to love you

when no one else will

[schizomatic3000]

The smell of the orange reminded me of triangles. The sharp pointy edges, leaking with citrus. Geometry and proofs, having to explain why the triangle is a triangle when it smells of orange juice and nothing more. Stacks of papers with homework and assignments printed in monotone with splashes of orange all throughout like the little perfume pages in magazines. The taste of the orange reminded me of my friend. The way his voice has a tangy infliction on vowels. The peel grinds between my teeth like his words trying to sink into my mind. Late night conversations about seemingly nothing with an orange slice in my mouth like a smile.

[schizomatic3000]

trapped in memory lane

I trudge through my mind,

lost in the memories like a

blizzard trapping me in my car;

safe as long as it ends soon

but a prolonged stay will leave

my corpse at the wheel, speeding

through all the white like an angel

in heaven; ignorant and unclear

[schizomatic3000]

my college essay <3

There’s always a debate about what really makes someone a woman; I believe it’s fear. The specific type of fear only women can have when they know that this interaction could end in an assault. It’s like when you get your blood pressure checked, they place the band around your arm and it starts squeezing. Only the band is put around your legs, neck, and heart; you can’t run away, you can’t scream for help, you’re about to become a statistic. The worst part is that most men barely realize when it happens. They’ll see a girl talking with their friend across the room and silently cheer him on, completely ignoring her darting eyes searching for help or her side steps to prevent him from cornering her. To be a woman is to always know you’re in danger.

One of my favorite musical artists is a band called Badflower. One of the main reasons I love them so much is because all four members are not afraid to talk about important social issues. In fact, their newest album, “This Is How The World Ends”, is all about social issues ranging from patriotism to the effect the pandemic had on politics. The eleventh track, "Tethered", keeps in line by following a young girl who ends up being drugged and raped at a party by a much older man; subsequently leading her to marry him and stay in the abusive relationship. Once the emphasis on her naivety is made, the following lines play in the third verse: "Then speech becomes a slur, She’s talking to some creep, Uncomfortable as hell, But too polite to leave" You can tell by the last line alone that it was a man who wrote this song; any woman would have said "scared" instead. 

The fact that men can write an entire song about this issue and still completely misunderstand it demonstrates how uniquely feminine this experience is; men will never understand our fear, pain, or solemn understanding of our place in the world. Every woman has, at least once, dealt with a creepy guy whether he was following her in the store, staring at her on the beach, or outright catcalling every girl has a story. Yet if you ask a man about his experiences with sexual assault, chances are he won’t have any. This isn’t to discredit male survivors but to highlight the disproportionate gap between sexes. Most men won’t even think twice about walking to their car after work but women are always told to go in pairs "in case anything happens".

When men are talking to a creepy guy, he doesn’t want to end the conversation out of fear of being seen as rude. If he abruptly ends the conversation and moves on to do something else, the other person might be offended and not talk to him again. But when women are talking to a creepy guy, she doesn’t want to end the conversation out of fear. If she abruptly ends the conversation and moves on to do something else, the other person might be offended and follow her to the bathroom to get her alone. Growing up young girls are constantly taught how to protect themselves, not to walk alone at night, never leave your drink unattended, and always share your location when on the first date. It is never presented to you as an "if this happens to you" scenario, but rather as a "when it happens" scenario.

Sexual assault is always on women’s minds as it is the only thing we all have in common; the fear of it happening to us. Men can never and will never be able to experience that level of systematic terror. When women are feminists, it's because they will literally die without it. When men are feminists, chances are they just want girls to think they're hot. Even if they truly do want a change in how women are treated, they can't even begin to understand what it means to be in that position. The feminine experience of fear is what defines me as a woman, but it will never define me as a person.

[schizomatic3000]

space cadet

Friday night at McDonalds with her family. She wants to go into the play place, but it’s closed for the night so instead she eats standing up in hopes to rid herself of the energy her mother so angrily hates. Seven years old, maybe eight, and a natural space cadet; staring off into space, witnessing the stars and planets orbit the galaxy around her. A lone astronaut, tethered to the homeship but the airlock is broken, and her crew can’t be bothered to fix it. Drifting further away from everything she knows; the stars brighten her hope for the future. She hasn’t quite come to terms yet with the fact that she’ll be stuck in oblivion forever; her hope is that others will save her. Locking eyes through layers of windows I manage to see right through her helmet and like everyone else I see my reflection; except it’s still her. As large and vast as the universe is I was able to stray far enough to find another stranded astronaut. Just like me, she sees right through the reflective material and witnesses what she might become. The broken cord attached to my suit scares her, for she knows one day she’ll have to cut hers. I remember when I had that fear but the relief of being free made it all worth it. Four seconds total and we knew everything about one another. We’re both just stranded astronauts afterall. Even infinity has no room for individuality.

[schizomatic3000]

liminal

Gas stations. But the off-brand, run-down, days from bankruptcy kind. They’re perfect. The broken lights make it hard to read the price on anything, forcing you to squint until you involuntarily cry from the effort. Flickering in the bathroom in sync with your now racing heart as you wash your hands reminding yourself the person in the mirror is just you. The creepy guy behind the counter who’s desperately trying to imagine what you’re wearing beneath your jacket making you subconsciously pull it tighter around yourself like a goodbye hug. The smell of cigarette smoke and gasoline mixing in the air and pumping helium into your head, your brain floating up over the tiny shelves and right out the door. Longing to join the stars it bursts on a powerline, lighting up the sky and fulfilling its wish. Your body, a host without its parasite, stumbles about waiting for someone else to take control. Humming along with the crappy pop song barely audible in the background, taking your time in every aisle allowing yourself to just exist despite your fictitious truth. Gas stations. But the off-brand, run-down, days from bankruptcy kind. They’re home.

[schizomatic3000]

newspaper blackout poem

Safer than yesterday;

But

We grow up

Facing threats

We never considered

Before

“Safer, stronger, wiser”

The reality:

Not enough.

Attacks on unity and purpose,

“I don’t think we can be safe”

[schizomatic3000]

Judge My Diction, Not My Grammer

(my completed prose piece from multiple drafts i previously made)

Driving down the road only guessing how many you’ve been down. From Brooklyn to Montague; you’ll travel the world one day. Just me for miles: safe and content. The tiny volume dial spinning back and forth between my fingers getting more and more elated with every increase, the feel of the pedals beneath me, finally in control of something for once in my life. Stray coins fill the console thrashing about at every sharp turn without any damage at all. One day they’ll fall onto the floor, and never be found again. Lost under the seats like childhood dreams, I took too fast a turn to keep them safe. The car needs me as much as I need it. Without the other we’ll both just sit and rust away in some junkyard, but instead we arrive at my favorite place in the world. Gas stations. But the off-brand, run-down, days from bankruptcy kind. They’re perfect.

The broken lights make it hard to read the price on anything, forcing you to squint until you involuntarily cry from the effort. Flickering lights in the bathroom in sync with your now racing heart as you wash your hands reminding yourself the person in the mirror is just you . The creepy guy behind the counter who’s desperately trying to imagine what you’re wearing beneath your jacket making you subconsciously pull it tighter around yourself like a goodbye hug. Bittersweet and lingering for days. The smell of cigarette smoke and gasoline mixing in the air and pumping helium into your head, your brain floating up over the tiny shelves and right out the door. Longing to join the stars it bursts on a powerline, lighting up the sky and fulfilling its wish. Your body, a host without its parasite, stumbles about waiting for someone else to take control. Humming along with the crappy pop song barely audible in the background, taking your time in every aisle allowing yourself to just exist despite your fictitious truth. Gas stations. But the off-brand, run-down, days from bankruptcy kind. They’re home. 

As home as I’ll get in this body and brain of mine. With my ribs sticking out, begging for God to make me a companion, I breathe out giving life to the trees that surround me. Swaying in my breath they filter light from above casting a halo above my covetous head - my first sin. The apples of my eye float mockingly high, shining that shade of red that makes you feel warm and re-ignites the butterflies within your stomach. Beetles and spiders and wasps crawl around through mine, clicking and popping to scare off predators - am I not enough to protect you? With my twiggy arms squeezing tight around my core and giving life to the branches you reside on? I know there’s knicks and scratches and dents, but I thought you’d like them. I’m sorry I don’t know what you want. My brain is but a rock; dense and heavily within my skull. The cracks that wrap around have taken only moments to spawn, but now, years later, flowers sprout from the darkness. My heart is more a leaf than anything else. Jolting from side to side following the wind, even when they disagree. Rips line the edges making the original outline cryptic - the tree she came from I’ll never know. Frequently flooding Eden in my sorrows I make fruitless attempts to build protective dams around the garden. Waterfalls run down my face from the caves that are pretty only at a glance; the more you observe the worse a place they seem to be. Absorbed by the seeds of my skin; one day flowers will ornate my body turning me into the garden I know I am. Until then I’m just a spot in the forest, isolated and esoteric, praying for it all to burn down.

A charred ghost town sits lonely in my skull. The once excited inhabitants are long gone and scared to come back. I don’t remember when but the power plant exploded and all that’s left is mother nature. Evacuated, the citizens made home somewhere else. It’ll never be the same, but at least there’s a roof over their heads. And crime in the streets, corruption in politics, death in hospitals, and constant crying in schools.Where my hope went I don’t know, but in place of pride lies an alley located between my confidence and sorrow. Dim and putrid with noises of feral cats and unsteady dumpsters. The sidewalk in front is cracked and crumbing, callous to the weary feet that tremble past. The small pop-up shop that is my confidence has only a few items left in stock. The owner seems to always be in the back; leaving customers at the register long enough for them to give up and go somewhere else. How pretty the decor is, beautiful paintings and sculptures that no one cares to admire. To the left, a skyscraper reaching for the stars hoping to become one. The multitude of floors and departments and workers and management inside is as heavy as the steel and concrete used to create their home away from home. What makes this building so terrifying is that the farther you go up the more you can see. Except the building is so high it pokes out through the clouds and at a certain point all you can see is a white blanket of faux snow calling for you to become an angel. I’ve been to the top a few times and as ethereal as it was, nothing was more comforting than racing down the abundance of stairs and straight out the door. The air is not nearly as fresh down here but at least I’m not light-headed anymore. The cartography of my soul is still mostly undiscovered. I hope I can create the full map someday; maybe then I’ll know who I am. Maybe then I’ll be able to tell you who I am.

People try so hard to figure out what I am; but I don’t know. Listening to me talk about things that seem to spike my interest as my eyes stay dull and unfeeling. All I do is drone on and on while thinking over and over ¨be present, be present, be present¨. But I can’t: I’m preoccupied. Constantly aware of the fact that this isn’t who I want to be. Younger me would be so disappointed and it kills me to know I let her down. I was all she had and now, she has nothing. I could’ve been so much but instead I’m just hollow. Not empty or void or missing some important piece of me; I’m just hollow. There’s nothing inside me - yes - but nothing was ever meant to be. The cavity in my chest is not meant to hold a heart, but to allow birds to perch on my ribs and sing songs that echo throughout my body when they so please. I’m open to the world, yet hidden from society.

[schizomatic3000]

white noise

Watching them walk in together you’d assume it’s a simple father-daughter outing. You wouldn’t dare guess that she’s his girlfriend. She’s uncomfortably younger than him, I’m talking 20 years minimum. This dude is probably older than her father. He seems normal - and that’s the worst part. Most likely has a well-paying 9-5 that he’s soon to get promoted in and a simple but durable car he’s had forever. He seems normal until you add the high school girlfriend. She’s average; decent looks, consistent grades, friendly with all. Never first place or last. She’s living a simple life and he manages to make it more fun. The world is in grayscale to her and he’s a rainbow. But she’s not the first, she won’t even be the last. Girls stay with him the way seasons stay with New York. By the time the trees have gained all their leaves back the girls have aged enough to know what’s really happening. 

[schizomatic3000]

you were my first kiss

and you took it

with hunger and lust.

you never gave me any

kisses, only took them.

you can feel someone smile

while you kiss them; i was so 

excited when i learned this

that i smiled every time.

but you never did.

i was not important enough

to experience those little joys with

[schizomatic3000]

12/7/17

When my grandmother died, I wasn’t allowed at the funeral

My mother told me to stay in the bathroom - out of the way

But I waited outside, sobbing on the curb instead

I could hear my relatives’ cries of despair 

as it's finally setting in that she’s gone, really gone

I can’t be in the room with them 

but I grieve all the same,

my pain they refuse to see

Inside; my family mourned 

Outside; I smoked my first cigarette

I wonder if they heard my cries too

[schizomatic3000]

stuck in my own cobweb

I sit in class

collecting dust

as everyone looks

past me. I am the

small spider, living

in the unknown

cracks of your wall;

watching,

listening,

observing

[schizomatic3000]

Mind Palace (v. 1)

In place of pride lays an alley located between my confidence and sorrow. Dim and putrid with noises of feral cats and unsteady dumpsters. The sidewalk in front is cracked and crumbing, callous to the weary feet that tremble past. The small pop-up shop that is my confidence has only a few items left in stock. The owner seems to always be in the back; leaving customers at the register long enough for them to give up and go somewhere else. How pretty the decor is, beautiful paintings and sculptures that no one cares to admire. To the left, a skyscraper reaching for the stars hoping to become one. The multitude of floors and departments and workers and management inside is as heavy as the steel and concrete used to create their home away from home. What makes this building so terrifying is that the farther you go up the more you can see. Except the building is so high it pokes out through the clouds and at a certain point all you can see is a white blanket of faux snow calling for you to become an angel. I’ve been to the top a few times and as ethereal as it was, nothing was more comforting than racing down the abundance of stairs and straight out the door. The air is not nearly as fresh down here but at least I’m not light-headed anymore. The cartography of my soul is still mostly undiscovered. I hope I can create the full map someday; maybe then I’ll know who I am.

[schizomatic3000]

drowning

Water. Cold and salty, it invades the tightly sealed wall of your eyelids adding a burn to your chilling death. Rushing in and out and in and out and in and out of your lungs forcing oxygen to stay away from your convulsing frame. As you beg, plead, and pray for help, an evil deity mauls you like some lethargic, worn-out doll being tossed to a needy child.

[schizomatic3000]

it can't be

The anti-social festivities indulged in this classroom; I observe tentatively, aware that it would be impossible to join. The boy. A thing. Not pure, It can’t be pure: it’s unhappy. It’s I, the boy