Indigo Girls

Indigo girls don’t know how to grow up, how to be anything but endless nights and prevailing dreams.

They whisper their meaningless symphonies and inhale a puff of something as toxic as an accidental I love you.

They say their scarlet boys taste like cheap champagne and nights worth remembering, forgetting that sometimes it’s okay to forget. Forgetting that beauty queens also need rest.

Indigo girls don’t need to grow up, they dress their souls in accordance to their favorite trends and timeless happens to be number one on all of their lists

They put on their best red lipsticks and use those pretty minds to make things happen, but only things…never something that deserves a special name like Change.

They blow kisses and wipe away tears, because their biggest fear is loneliness. But sweet and pretty rarely gets lonely…So says the Indigo girl whose smile doesn’t seem all that real.

Indigo girls are always told to grow up, that you can only be a wild child for so long until that endearing name is replaced by words like recklesschaotic mess. Names that aren’t that aren’t so pretty.

They grow up with warnings on their shoulders and friends that are far too fleeting. Those pretty girls with their scarlet boys are a lot tougher than given credit for. Not everyone can make their misery look pretty, not everyone has the strength to be the Indigo girl who people like to talk about.

They get called names, the ones that aren’t beautiful. No one likes it when pretty people know that they are pretty, no one likes when confident people love themselves. Indigo girls grow up in a bittersweet world, a world where they can only be pretty if they hate themselves, a world where they’re only allowed to be happy when their tears make you uncomfortable.

Indigo girls are the ones worth knowing because they won’t let you forget about them. They stain you memories with their silly stories and personalities that don’t really match the rumors.

This is for the indigo girls, but also for the girls who don’t quite know what color they are. And the boys who don’t get enough recognition in poetry about empowerment and youth.

Don’t be afraid to be reckless. Don’t worry about loneliness. Don’t cry over voices and words that you won’t think about on your wedding day, your birthday, the day you realize you actually do love yourself.

Life is short, we all hear that. But we always forget that life isn’t meant to hurt. So don’t smile if you don’t want to, cry if you need to, laugh only when the joke is funny, and grow up at whatever pace you want.

You can be an Indigo girl and grow up happy. People don’t define you, neither does your past or your present or the things you’ve said and done. You define you. And you can always rewrite your definition because life is life, and you are you.

Indigo girls might have a bad reputation, but that doesn’t mean anything. They’re still worth writing bad poetry about and falling in love with.

I like Indigo girls. Them and all of their timeless chaos.

For my Mother

Youth is for adventure, long nights and failures that redefine who you are.

Some of us grow old unscathed, and with the type of grace that breeds envy. Picture perfect childhoods passed down through generations.

Others of us stumble. We make decisions that some will call mistakes and we will call “the day my life changed”.

My mother sometimes stumbles, sometimes trips and skins her knees.

But she’s the ballet dancer who doesn’t let it phase her, the one who steals the show because her mistake didn’t slow her down.

She’s the warrior who takes a deep breath and adjusts, giving up is not something she’s ever been familiar with.

My mother is the kind of woman who you can’t help but respect. I look at her and see the meaning of resilience.

Others look at her and see the words: successful, beautiful, strong, independent.

That’s without knowing about her stumbles, that’s the foundation she built all on her own.

And then you hear the past. Her past. Her mistakes and the little things that shaped her again and again.

You find out this successful woman got pregnant before she got her high school diploma. You discover she worked, finished school, went to college and raised a daughter all at once. You learn that she worked so hard she was able to start her own family tradition that will be passed down and envied.

My mother began the generation of resilience.

She raised a daughter who idolizes her but doesn’t put her on an unreachable pedestal. She created a life that proved statistics wrong but didn’t disrespect those who didn’t make it out of the cycle. She made a life out of her stumbles and has the respect of people she’s never met.

I’m talking about the woman who raised me. The one who has her college degree and high school diploma all dated years after my birth. This is for the woman who never gave up.

This is for my mother, the woman who didn’t try to erase her mistakes but rather built her success upon them.

This is my I love you.

Happy (belated) Birthday.

 

 

After the Storm

Her life had always been a thunderstorm.

The world around her had been filled with roars that made hands tremble and hair rise.

(The darkness of a closet was her safe-haven)

The air that gave life was so thick it choked you, the tension always building until it climaxed with a loud CLAP!

The lightning struck.

(Running from the tension ended with scraped knees and split lips.)

There were always raindrops in the storm

Droplets that stained cheeks and hid behind tired smiles

(The rain was no more than a drizzle during the day but at night it became fierce, torrential.)

The people near the storm always closed their doors and covered their windows

They didn’t want the rain to get it,

the lightning to scare their children.

(Oblivion is bliss for some, prolonged agony for others)

 

But then You arrived

Her first umbrella.

You were a vivid spot of red in the ocean of gray

An umbrella that didn’t get lost when the storm hit, but rather rested a hand on her

shoulder and opened in defense against the onslaught

You were the perfect umbrella

Contently tucked into a backpack,

A strong shield against the storm

Never bending

Never breaking

Aiding in her rescue from the caging storm that raised her from birth and claimed her to

be a toy, something weak and

incapable of strength

But the umbrella made her invincible, a shield that turned her into a warrior

 

Warriors are not afraid of the thunderstorm

and

Umbrella’s sometimes save the world

The Elephant in the Room

His eyes were the same shade as the cigarette smoke he expelled with each breath. They wandered the room aimlessly, a cheap imitation of misery danced in their depths.

His youth was glossed with the same cloudy daze found in the gaze of the barkeeps best customer. Flavoured with melancholy, stained with mumbled goodbyes.

His flesh was painted with bruises and scars as expansive as a darkening horizon. The dog tags that dangled from his neck prompted the question, “Abuse or honor?”

His smile was ethereal, delicate. Almost genuine. A heavenly gift blessed upon a boy who was a little too ruined to be an angel.

His hands held history of hard labor and hopeless prayer. They popped and crack in a habit that derived from a nervous tick.  Crunch. Pop. Crack.

His heart played to the rhythm of a ticking time bomb, one beat after another. A steady rhythm that would one day morph into a crescendo, climaxing in a riotous finale.

His tears were always silent, found in sobs that made his body tremble. They were the lullaby his mother always sang, a song passed down through generations that carried him to sleep.

His soul was haunted, a Halloween attraction that was open year round. Some angel’s jump, this one tripped.