Author: gianna.m

As we stand on this stolen land,
others fear us, and judge us based off
our looks. Dark hair, brown skin from
our ancestors. “Beautiful” my family says.
but when others look at us, all they see is a
“dirty illegal alien”. Laws forced upon us like
a root in the ground, they’re trying to get rid of us. ‘Mass deportation’ all over the news,
reminding us why we live in constant fear.
multiple posts of us getting hated
and discriminated on.
A sunny, nice day at the park turns into a nightmare. “La Migra!” the gringos yell.
They think it’s a funny joke, not knowing
our family could be torn apart in
One, Quick second.

People say
it would be best if you stepped back
and enjoy the bigger picture

What if?
Instead you
JUMP
forward
and gently examine
each brush stroke,
each crack the paint

What if?
You look behind the canvas?
You lean against the wall and set your gaze on
the side
of the canvas?

Mabey
even touch it,
feel how each stroke
flows
into the next

What if
you make
every kind of color
on this canvas
we call the world
feel seen?

The Weight of What Was
Love stands as a specter, silent and grim,
Its promises etched on the fragile rim
Of a trembling heart that dares to believe,
Only to shatter, only to grieve.
Its touch is fleeting, a warm deceit,
A fleeting balm that turns bittersweet.
You drink of its cup, you taste its wine,
Then choke on the dregs, a cruel design.
The smiles it brings, the moments rare,
Are daggers waiting, cloaked in care.
What begins with laughter, soft and pure,
Ends in shadows none can endure.
You’ll carry its weight like an unseen chain,
A quiet ache, a familiar pain.
It whispers of hope, then fades to dust,
Breaking the sacred bond of trust.
So turn from love, let it drift apart,
Guard the quiet of your steadfast heart.
For to love is to fall, and fall you will,
Into the void where time stands still.

I’m flying, I’m free
But it’s pretend as I crash into a window
It’s clear
No one told me what to expect
The knot in my chest tightens
Can you hear me
Screaming
Screaming
Screaming,
As I’m
Falling
Falling
Falling
Into a hole and
I wake up and my
Wings are torn, my
Lungs are crushed
I’m broken, a broken little bird
Who will forget how to fly
and What am I if I’m not supposed to fly?

I’m walking, I’m alive
Its big
the World around me
I survived, I’m existing but not living
I’m going to learn from my mistakes
Can you hear me
Hoping
Hoping
Hoping
As I’m
Trying
Trying
Trying
I’m healing, it takes time
every day its a bit better
the sun seems brighter
the sky seems closer
I’m okay, an okay little bird
who remembered how to fly
and I am a bird and I am supposed to fly.

i love me not
pluck
i love me
pluck
i love me not
pluck
i love me
pluck
i love me not
Why can’t I decide?

I sit outside, waiting for the time
Laying on the grass, with a glimpse of shine
The sun starts to lower, while colors chime
The gold of the bright sun dims
the sky gets dimmer

Fluffy clouds with pink coming through
As the sun lowers, more colors even blue
You cant see the sun anymore, only
the reminisce

The sky is bright, shining with gold
It starts to fade away leaving the world cold
The colors shift, the world goes dark
Stars coming in and leaving a mark
The new day awaits

The sun casts her golden rays; sparkling light
Over river shores and twisted grass
Bringing crisp dawning skies to dark sad nights

Little fawns open their beady eyes
Tiny birds push their wings south and bask
As the sun casts her golden rays; sparkling light

Autumn leaves rustle and shake to the might
Of cold, brisk wind that parts the clouds at last
Bringing crisp dawning skies to dark sad nights

I stomp my boots, tie my laces up tight
Stroll in the creeks and go about my tasks
The sun casts her golden rays; sparkling light

Rippling water under my fishing line
Reflects purple clouds, turn baby blue fast
Bringing crisp dawning skies to dark sad nights

I bathe in the orange haze sent from heights
Higher than Heaven and the starship’s mast
The sun casts her golden rays; sparkling light
Bringing crisp dawning skies to dark sad nights

Asylum

Behind glassy eyes
The floor crumbles beneath her
She tries to speak,
She reaches for her words
Reaches, for anything,
Anyone
To hold onto
But everything’s gone
Even herself

With each passing day
The empty room she lies in
Seems to get smaller,
And smaller
The cool tile floor
Presses against her small,
Vacant, body
A shell of a human,
Is what they call her
As if she can’t hear,
As if she’s just a corpse,
waiting to be taken to the morgue

They come to watch her multiple times a day
Each time the door opens, she seems to flinch
Like an animal in a cage,
She gets used to it
Now, she barely notices anymore
As they get quieter
And blurrier.
And eventually they leave her mind completely.
Her sanity drips away
With the soft pitter patter
Of the rain hitting the window
It’s always raining,
For her at least

During the day,
She drifts in and out of sleep
Exhaustion hits her like a tsunami
Her eyes flutter from open to closed
Pushing her into the undertow, then letting in enough air,
Just to keep her alive.
The dreams feel real to her now
She’s not sure whether the clock ticking in her head,
is actually there
Until someone prods her delicate skin
Making sure she’s still alive

At night,
When she’s supposed to be sleeping
Her eyes stay glued open
And her body is sore from the force of the day
But her mind stays awake
Thoughts race through her head
Banging,
Pounding on her skull
Waiting to be released
Into the cool, night air
When all the pain will finally stop.

Today I haven’t left my house, but I will soon.
Some never leave their home, some never call a place home.
Four walls, a door, floor, and a roof.Concrete strong, wood soft.
Warm on the inside with a cold outside night, for most that’s what they call home.
But for me home isn’t a house, or a buildinding, or even a place.
For me home is somewhere i can laugh, tears filling my eyes as i cant breath, the paintings laughing with me , dropping on the ground because of something stupid i find funny.
Home is somewhere I can place my head on their walls and cry, salty water rolling down my cheeks as they hold me up from falling into nothing, I bury my head in the crook where the walls meet, I feel safe and heard.
They won’t judge me no matter whatever or whoever is making me cry even if it’s the house itself.
Home is a place where I can scream my secrets at the top of my lungs to all the walls and they would listen, keeping them safe, the doors locked as i bang angrily against them.
For me home is the first place I go when I get good information, when I am proud of myself. Home for me always knows what to say, they always know what to do even if they’re falling apart to build me up.
For me home is beautiful, its walls hung with memories and its off white trim along the side.
Its cracked paint on the doors, the color of the cold orange floors below my feet always there to catch me when i step, the sent of it filling my chest every time i enter after being away, the hole in the wall from my fist the day my great uncle died but it forgave me, the scratches on the door from the dog running into it every time someone would leave, the flickering light in the hallway making it feel like a horror movie some nights, the windows all around letting the light flow in drowning out the cold, the same windows letting in an emptiness when the sun leaves the sky and all there is, is darkness.
The rust on the door frames, the brick on the outside that’s rough to the touch.
The indecisiveness of deciding its style from within and outside, the broken water pipes that creek when you turn the faucet on.
The broken locks on the doors from the past owners that cause the house to hurt but still let people in, the way it looks sharp as you pull up onto the cracked driveway but it’s soft on the inside.
The fact that it’s just home, not A home; but my home.
For me I will alway love home.
Even when the heater doesn’t work.
Even as it falls apart in the wind.
Even when the windows get stuck in the cold.
Even as it yells and asks me to leave.
Even when I move out, and it becomes a ghost of a place.
Even when I feel like it’s not MY home anymore.
But It will always be
For me, home is her.

My youngest sister is the droplets you feel before a rainstorm.
The ones that feel like little pieces of snow landing on your neck.
The ones that are gentle and kind.
Then they become stinging and unforgiving.
They drive you inside and turn into a full on flood.

My middle sister
is a hurricane,
raging and
thrashing,
swirling and
whirling.
But there’s always the eye of the storm,
that little safe space where I remember
when she was younger,
that’s her spirit ,
her whole heart,
her boisterous laughter,
her spark,
her light that is always,
always drowned in the night.

I am the storm that cleaves the sky.
I will scream and shout
and
rage until they hear me.
I light up the sky to the beat of the
music that booms from my house.
I use my voice to make the floor
thunder like the sky.
I am not my daddy’s little girl.
I am my fathers daughter.
And I have all his rage.

My sisters and I,
we all swirl and mix,
shaking the earth with our storms,
lashing out with our fathers fire
and our mothers cold ice,
but we all follow the
steady beat of our heart,
the beat of the songs we sing,
the games we play,
the steps we walk,
the way our feet hit the ground,
making storms,
causing earthquakes,
moving the sky.

Day after day,
week after week
you will feel our storms and it will continue on.
Girl to Wife to Mother to Daughter,
we will not be your lambs to slaughter.
And when that cycle comes to an end ,
you will feel our storms again.