A Nightmare

The air was tainted with ashes and black smoke.

The stench was foul, making your stomach flip.

Hills of rotting corpses in every direction.

Flames of orange, red, and yellow raid the horizon.

A fence dividing sickly walking skeletons from the living.

White and black striped jumpsuits with a figurine across their shoulder blade separated them from the rest. 

Posters line the streets with images of rats and the figurine.

Poisoning the minds of their once neighbors.

A place for Jews, blacks, colored skins, gypsies, homosexuals.

Their rightful place. 

Or so they were told.

A nightmare you could not awake from. A nightmare that you live day and night.

Watching your family and friends and the man across the street who would wave to you good morning with a loaf of bread in the nap of his elbow, slowly becoming extinct with a single breath of smoke in their lungs.
Children forgetting once happy times with mornings filled with laughter and play pretend.
Families being separated, killed and stripped of their humanity.
A girl known as Anne,
hidden behind a bookcase with barely any room to stand, filled with terror listening to bombs going off and destroying houses and local bistros.
Thousands and thousands of innocent people being starved and punished for no reason that comes to mind. Being robbed and beaten.
Men being forced into guards or death would become of their families.
This is a time none shall never forget. The faces of children and newborns being ripped from tearful mothers. Faces of the elderly and the ill. Images of families holding hands as firearms trigger with a loud noise that echoes off the gas chambers.
Never will we forget the man that brought many to excruciating pain and abrupt destruction.
Never will we forget how he glowered in fear and cowardliness as he tested a pill on his trusted advisers.
Being tortured for years on end. Sunken bodies on the riverbed tied with a brick around their neck.
Their lungs drowning in toxic clouds.
Bodies and minds being ripped apart with every cruel smile tingling from his lips.
Many asking why? Why us?
We ask the same.


The oxygen tasting of ashes and deceit.
Smoke rising from firearms which went off in the night, clouding your vision.
Blood and bodies covering the cement floors.
Mountains of shoes and ripped clothing rose lower than corpses.
Smiles of relief and sorrow painting on the faces of the undead.
Prayers being answered once more.


A father of a family that perished greatly.
A room that once held hushed whispers and scared whimpers.
But beating hearts of his beloved friends, his wife, and children. His precious daughter who wanted nothing but to make a difference in the world and publish her work.
Torn pages out of books scattered the attic floor.
A diary being recovered out of the dust.


Pictures of unforgotten persons.
Stories of horror being told each year.
The air no longer smudged with intoxicating sadness and burning smells that stick to the fibers of your nose.
No longer do they suffer in pain.
No longer.

Recovery

I'll never forget that night. The night that changed my life.

I cannot tell you how many times I wish I was dead or how many moments devoted to creating art with a sharp object on my body as if it were a canvas.

I was convinced no one would ever know. That no one cared. I was convinced no one would get hurt with the exception of me. 

Well, I was wrong.

That night still haunts me to this day. 

I still wake up in terror, paralyzed from what happened. 

I will never forget the faces of my loved ones. I will never forget what my older brother said to me that night and the tears in his eyes with red puffy stained cheeks. "Don't you _____ leave me." That line and his hug stuck to me like glue. 

This is not a story of sadness. This is not a story with a cherry on top.

It is simply a story of recovery. 

More than I like to admit I have relapsed. Foolishly I use to think those two words; recovery and relapse were meant for drugs, alcohol, and pornography. 

I will never forget the many times my friends grabbed my arm gently and turned it over exposing my godly creation. Either followed with sadness and teary eyes, fingers lightly pressing on my scars like piano keys, or light kisses. 

To this day I still wonder if I would be missed by friends and teachers and the students at my schools or if it will just be another sadden day with church clothes and forced kindness towards others then the next day will be as if I never existed. Of course I never want anyone to be sad over me. I still wonder. I still wonder if students knew who was truly writing this would they sign out and never read my blog again. 

I'll never forget the road I went down and the people that dragged me with them and I let them. I do not blame anyone but myself. 

Whenever I begin to grab an object flashes of suppressed colors and scenes as if from a movie. Faces of loved ones that mean so much to me come to mind. 

I promised to be a better me. 

I know what that means now. 

Your question? Does it get better? 

Your answer. I'm still alive. So are you. 

Stay strong, you are beautiful. If you are a boy you are beautiful as well. I believe in you. Hold on. 

My crayons

I remember when boys and girls had cooties. I remember when scrunchies and overalls with high ponytails were my favorite. I remember when I didn't have a care in the world. Where weight, height, age, race, disabilities did not matter. I remember when the definition of love was love. I remember when the only thing I was scared of was the monster hiding in my closet or beneath my bed. When cellphones were folded up Capri Sun juice pocket; the straw as the antenna. The whole world was in my backyard and the safety of my neighborhood. I've gone to Egypt, Congo, Brazil, China, Nevada in one day without rest. Scissors and knives were used for paper and grownups. 

I remember those tea parties with my teddy bears and Barbie dolls. 

I remember when everything was simple. 

When every scribble you made was ice cream and A worthy instead of an scowl and lecture for making a lumpy circle. The teachers were always kind and never grumpy. There was nap time, play time, snack time, story time, sharing time. Any kind of time was the best time. 

But soon crayons became calculators, story time became study sessions, cooties became getting too involved at a young age. Imagination and creativity withered and faded away slowly churning into logic and responsibility. 

We are expected to act as adults but are not taken seriously. 

They tortured us and scared us for fifteen hard years then expect us to choose a career.

 I remember when I loved myself.

When I didn't look away from the mirror disgustedly. When I didn't constantly worry what other girls or boys thought of me and how I looked. I never worried about making friends. It was as simple as saying "hi, do you want to be friends?" Then all of a sudden you are best friends laughing and telling jokes, skipping down the hallways and swinging at the same time. I remember when it was easy to talk to grownups about what was happening with your emotions. 

Never did I wish I was dead or gone. Never did I wonder if other kids hated me. But I grew up. They stripped me of my freedom, my creativity, my ablility to be my own creative self and stripped me of my colorful crayons and teddy Bears. Then they handed me a new identity and set of organized rules of what I can and can't do. What was right and what was wrong. Papers began to be marked with red and my parents scolding faces. Kids began to be mean and cruel. Teachers began to pick you out and look down at you. I grew up. And so did you.

Why can't we be like children, not care of what others think? Be creative and free?