“There are three things I want you to learn how to say. One. "I love you" and don't just say it as an empty phrase, say it with feeling, say it to every person who comes to mind when you think of those three little words. I know it's scary, I know it's difficult, but open yourself up and shout it. Don't mumble, don't say it under your breath, when you love someone, whether platonically or romantically, it deserves to be shouted from every rooftop. Two. "Goodbye" There will be some people in your life that come in and just wreck everything, they mess up your plans, they hurt you, and make you feel less than what you are, so please learn how to say goodbye to them. But I also want you to learn how to say goodbye to even the people you want to stay. not everyone stays, and saying goodbye is like setting someone free, and it won't always come easy, and it won't always come without heartbreak, but not everyone stays, and it will do you a world of good to learn how to tell them goodbye. Three. "I am worth it." there will be waves of sorrow in your life, and you will feel as if you were the sand that the tide carries away, you will feel as if it carries away your worth it will feel like you are the left over rubble of a building that had been burned down, and you will feel less, but please learn to say these words. say them in the mirror when you have just woken up, say them when your lover turns their back on you, say them when you are opening up the refrigerator sing them, yell them, whisper them, and please, believe them. You are more than sand that can just be washed away, and you are more than just a few pieces of broken cement, please, you are worth it. ”—These will be the three bravest things you will ever learn how to say
The Poem vs. The Poet
I never wanted to be a poet.
I can still remember coming home from school
with red pen scribbling out my creativity,
greeted by mother’s silent broken smile
splitting across a household.
I never wanted to be anything but myself,
but now I wish I could spend a day
in someone else’s shoes,
mine are uncomfortable,
filled with too many pebbles,
life is burning new blisters with every step.
If I look at the back of my hands
it says I’m too young to understand,
but when I catch a glimpse of the shadow of my soul
it says these feelings are hundreds of years old.
I want to be dust, I want to be dynamite,
I want to be the moon during the day
and the sun throughout the night.
I don’t want monochromatic emotions,
I want my eyes to look like mismatched socks.
I want my thought process to be etched into my skin,
so I could duct tape my mouth shut
and people wouldn’t have to ask why I act like I do,
I can’t answer the questions that I’m the question mark to.
If I wrote a poem about the love I’ve known
the page would be blank,
paper stained with silence,
fingerprints smudged with heartache.
I want to graffiti my name across the sky,
so when you look at it, you think of me,
and if you stare at it, you need me.
I’m still trying to learn how to pronounce my name.
I still can’t say words like “trust”
or “acceptance” without stuttering.
I’ve never called myself a poet.
I’ve been too busy pretending that the sound
of my fingers clicking these keys is my heartbeat.
click click… I’m alive,
I am still alive.
I’ve always lost myself
trying to find
the meaning in things.
I’ve also tied myself
to those things
that have meant the most to me.
They have left me broken
and you’d think
after twenty four years,
I’d be use to it
but I am still delicate.
I scare myself
with how easy it is
to not feel a thing
only to preserve
the last breaths of life
I have inside me.
Maybe one day I’ll be ready
to not feel as safe
as I do alone.
I will find comfort like leaves
ripping off trees
and be happy as the wind blows.
translating ourselves is a delicate process. be gentle. embrace the intentionality of our native tongues. forgive moments of frustration. our queerness is not always captured in English. and sometimes it won’t feel the same or sound the same in our mother tongues.
find comfort in the process of always searching for words. capture experience over identity. we are complex. we are delicate. it is not always easy to know who we are. it is not always easy to feel that parts of us do not exist in our native tongues.
translating ourselves is a delicate process. honor the stories we tell in place of words we can’t have in our native tongues. honor ourselves. honor our ancestors who have existed in bodies like ours freely. honor that we can be free in a world like this, too.
When I buy and play Nintendo products, it’s more than just bias. I don’t support them merely out of silly console war arrogance some people may come to believe about me.
I buy and play Nintendo games I don’t even like just to support Miyamoto. Every hour of playing time, every cent spent on his games, every word I speak to my friends about him.. it contributes to his vision.
His forever rock-solid vision in what a beautiful game is. I support it. I want it to stay alive as long as possible. There’s going to be a time when he’s gone, or when Nintendo’s gone. I want it to stay as long as possible.
Nintendo isn’t just a company to me. They’re not just games. It’s not just a pastime anymore. It’s a philosophy to me at this age now. His philosophy is what I believe what gaming should be. A philosophy of software focus. A philosophy of bright colors, smiling at cute things and all the things you love about your cute creations. A philosophy of exploring, learning, and encompassing people of all ages and creeds. A philosophy of substance over flash. Experiences over products. Fantasies and dreams over realism and practicality.
And most importantly… passion over all else.
The Way Light Moves
Move the way light moves
when you look up and it moves
between the leaves
like sheets of glitter and green.
But light never touches everything
the way darkness does—
the balls of your feet—
the shadow on the small of your back
—light doesn’t touch.
Be the one
to make the darkness beautiful—
touch the places light doesn’t touch—
move the way it moves,
when you move,
the way those shadows are lit
by the movement of light.
If you keep moving—
what is in shadow now,
will shine in light.
The Cup I Left Behind
I became trapped in a pixilated universe—
a virtual reality, I invested in a world
of people I couldn’t see or touch, but
I heard them. I heard their cries and laughter
in the middle of the night, I read their words
of fears to failing and joys of loving, I watched
them broken and bleed and throw up. I witnessed
them glow and grow and glide. I learned to love
and about power of a pen and to fear
the grey masked men who brought both
secrets, admiration, and hatred.
I became fooled and a fool. I became
a warrior with painted skin, and I laid
naked on a white sheet for all of them too see,
crumpled and vulnerable. They accepted me,
for my imperfects and defects. This universe
created itself into beauty, I became a larger
part of the world, we dreamed of isolated islands
and love affairs and tragedy. We are writers,
dramatic, dark, delusional, beautiful. The walls
turned to honey, sticky with desire and sweet
with satisfaction and I knew I had to move out,
I had to find my path in the real world, with real
people. I packed what few belongings I brought
and waved my goodbyes and cried in letters.
I left a coffee cup in an empty cabinet
to mark my existence there, saved for
morning coffee and newspaper prints
When I return for vacation, happy to see
familiar faces, watch homemade movies
of memories made, and still experience
the pixilation of a world created on words.