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sometimes I read my old writing and I think, god, she really let the cringe jump out there, and other times I think with definitive certainty, I will never be able to write words so beautiful ever again. words will never leave me like that again. 

it’s been so long since I’ve written.

True self-care is not bath salts and chocolate cake, it’s making the choice to build a life you don’t need to escape from.

- Brianna Wiest

i slipped

and fell

down.

again

i slipped

and fell

down.

off the 

                        deep end.                                 floating in a dark haze.

s

 i

  n

Looking in the mirror I see my scars, messy curls, and oversized shirt, as I try to fix myself up for the day. Sometimes I don’t want to pick up my phone because society is just depressing. Over the summer, social media was filled with constant Black deaths, which made this pandemic even harder to go through as a Black woman.

I dream that a dinosaur walks 

into a museum and doesn’t know 

it’s him in the middle of the display. 

As I tell him, his razortooth-lined jaw 

drops in dismay. It’s a mistake,

he roars, a jewel tear rolling

down his face. I take his stubby claw 

I woke up this past Tuesday morning to a too-bright-too-close sky; pale-yellow, opaque, equally begging for and denying sun break. No distinguishable clouds--just a blanket of sick-yellow--cloaking my apartment’s view of mountains, winding streets, train tracks, and industrial eyesores.

The evening began as it always did on these occasions. As our moms set popcorn and brownies on the green countertops, they warned us that they would be back to pick us up early the next morning. My cousins and I grumbled and argued that the next day would be Saturday, and we wanted to stay longer.

I wrestled with the Brita filter for maybe 12 minutes this morning, which is at least 10 minutes too many. The filter refused to fit correctly, and I was exhausted, but eventually I triumphed—  exciting because it seems to me that water may be the cure for everything.

I have trapped myself in a maze by often saying, “I can only write sad poetry.” However, it rings as true to me as the sound of silverware being tapped against a wine glass. Negative words will flow out of my brain, into my fingers, and onto my Google Doc — I just know it, before I even write.

Growing up with a fully Japanese grandmother and a half-Japanese mother, I have often seen them take hits from racists over their skin color, eye shape, face shape, and my grandmother’s accent. I have heard a cacophony of racist names thrown with precision at my family, and yes, chink thrown at me.

As my six-month spring break of binging shows on Hulu and Netflix ended, I had to accept that I would start my education at Zoom University for the foreseeable future. While some brave souls have decided to head back to Charlottesville, I am staying in my childhood bedroom for the semester.

Tonight feels like fall. Like the type of weather that makes you imagine sweaters and sweatshirts comfortably, and makes me want to pull out a book and drink something hot. Mosquitoes are still biting me, but other than that this is my perfect climate.