Because sometimes there are stories that swell up inside of me like misplaced memory, or unhinged stories that get lost in translation. The last two weeks have been groundbreaking and life changing. Along with three other phenomenal women, I just completed an intensive international artist residenc.

Writing anything, is like balancing on a tightrope of ego. Will you survive your own scrutiny? Good art is like an amalgamation of timing and luck. The blank page is daunting and so is the first page of horrible writing. Happiness is out there somewhere and you daydream about it as you put words to paper. Today it is to escape from the self-inflicted pain of unawareness. Harsh? April 30, 2014. I feel halfway between a memory and imagined destiny. And hope dances as beaut.

These are the days I feel most alive. I was always the last person to leave the premises because my mother was always late. And take the opportunity to talk with her when she finally came around to picking me up. Afterwards, they would make side commentaries to me, Oh, your mother is very lovely. I would smile in return and forgive them for making me detest my life and school that much more. I did not like it at all. And just have mine alone to worry about.

This is for the girls who smoke bathsalts. In bleached baths to soak the dark out;. Who pass out in fumes of rancid flesh. This is for the girls who scrub themselves raw till. Blood blurs the brown and. For the girls who drown their hair. Just straight up and down like their bodies are. Too round and brown,. For the sisters told that deeply dipped backs.