If all jobs paid the same, what would you choose to do?
The first career path I chose for myself was at age 12.
I was going to be a writer.
A published and successful author.
Throughout high school, I was told once, then twice, and on repeat, until I changed my mind, that being a writer wasn’t a game plan. My guidance counselor made it clear; writing was a hobby. Journaling was good self-care. Poetry was an excellent form of self-expression.
Writing wasn’t a career, at least not one that would pay the bills or be well-respected.
So I became a part-time cashier at a craft store.
When I wanted to become a guidance counselor, that inspired teens in my community to reach for more, follow the path less traveled. …
You brought a gift you
called life and love. Accepting
this offer would bring
a fate worse than death,
eternity in the dark.
You didn’t love me
like Epimetheus, for he
was unaware of
the hatred and the pain, but
you knew the contents all along.
Forbidding me to
see truth, the insanity
that would slowly drown —
infiltrate my mind, my heart.
Poison has never tasted
so sweet, like rancid
cream, you know it will make you sick,
and yet you crave the
taste, the possibility of
of perpetual joy.
I should have cracked the
lid, just to catch a glimpse of
all its contents.
Fearing a fate like Pandora,
unwilling to unleash chaos. …
A friend of mine suggested I do the ‘Buss It’ challenge, to which I replied, What in the world is that? And then I googled it.
For those of you who are unfamiliar with the Tik-Tok challenge a person, shows themselves jiving and swaying to the start of a song talking about:
Checkin’ your reflection and tellin’ your best friend
Like, “Girl, I think my butt gettin’ big” — Buss It (Erica Banks)
They’re dressed in their comfy clothes. Hoodies, sweatpants, any piece of clothing that says, I am comfortable, and I give two f*cks about what anyone thinks. …
2021.. I thought we had the talk.
The one where we came into the New Year with renewed hope. Not in a naïve fashion, expecting all the trauma we experienced in 2020 to just magically disappear at the stroke of midnight. But I thought we had the understanding, that there is no way humanity could survive anything remotely like the year before.
And yet here we are. Six days into this year.
Our cautious optimism has been crushed. Decimated.
Do you know the worst part about this all?
It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility.
Did we think it would happen? …
Let’s talk about your eating habits.
Do you overeat, and then find a way
to rid yourself of the excess?
I tried binging and purging when
I was young, I was never any good at it.
My disordered eating came about
in a much more regimented way.
You see, I call it disordered eating,
instead of admitting it was an
eating disorder — something
about the order of the words
makes me seem broken — but
I prefer, a work in progress.
My vice of choice was restriction.
Monday, Wednesday, Friday were
the 500 calorie days, Tuesday and
Thursday an exception was made [1,000]
because I needed to get through my
workouts, and dance practice
without collapsing on the floor. …
The Author would like to note, even though this essay uses female pronouns/ladies/women, as it is from her perspective, this message is for anyone who felt they had to fake an orgasm for their partner's pleasure, as opposed to their own, regardless of how they identify.
I never enjoyed sex the way I thought I should. I thought there was something wrong with me when I didn’t experience this overwhelming surge of pleasure shooting through each and every nerve ending of my body.
Not only did I find it strange, my partners did too. In fact, they took it personally regardless of the fact research suggests “about 75% of all women never reach orgasm from intercourse alone.” …
Down along the lakefront
wind whips violently,
as to say, you’re not welcome
here. Walking along the wave
soaked pier regardless —
I am unwanted everywhere.
Wash me clean.
Wash me away.
Spray from the Great Lakes
decorates my face, running
into tears I let loose when
no one is watching.
Longing to feel spray,
or the tears. Something…
Remaining stoic and as iced over
as the concrete beneath my feet
Waves crash into the
pier, one after the other.
Coming down the line like
a row of dominos, falling
one after another, and again.
Drawing me in closer,
reaching out its icy grip,
calling me home. …