ALL THE PEOPLE I’VE EVER MET THAT SAVED ME FROM MYSELF
bela sánchez 2015
i guess this is where i’m supposed to begin because everybody writes a poem about their parents, right? is this the right place to begin? from dust you were born and to dust you shall return. i don’t fully recall the events of my birth, but i can nearly guarantee i didn’t grow out of the earth.
so far as i know it started with a boy and a girl who loved each other very much. eight months is a long time to grow but i didn’t even come out fully cooked just busted my way out like there was no tomorrow. my mom has a smile like somebody just told her the best joke in the world, and my dad tells the best jokes in the world,
so thanks for giving me the best pieces of yourselves: mom’s eyebrows. dad’s skin.
the first time i got depressed, i thought sadness was pretty, but only if i had skin like milk or porcelain. it’s not true.
i’m still learning how to be brown. mom taught me how to pick tortillas up with my fingers, and dad knows the best way to stick it to those racist police officers. and sadness still isn’t pretty. but the way my mom says “que linda” when i get dressed up saved me from myself.
i came out to my older sister at 7:30AM
it was monday and it was august and i think i had a test that morning but i can’t remember. the only thing i remember is how nauseous i felt on the way to school. she was the first family member i told. and she asked me which pronouns i preferred. a gif of kristen wiig. a video of a puppy. and my brother taught me what a feminist is. what a slam poem is. what be yourself means. since he taught me that i’ve held myself differently, like maybe someday i could really own these bones. i haven’t told my brother. i don’t know if i have to. my baby sister was born on a friday morning, and i’m not sure i remember it. there’s plenty of photographic evidence of the heart eyes i gave her. my sister and i will fight about anything, but i still know she’s the most important thing i’ve ever held. i haven’t told my sister. she probably already knows. she knows me. this poem wasn’t written for a god, but it is a hymn. a celebration of those who proceeded from the same place i did. 50% the same blood and 100% the same heart. the way they write odes to my sense of being saved me from myself.
the only person who can acceptably use clichés but it’s not because i like being fed that positive crap when i think the world might be coming down around me.
it’s for that feeling twenty minutes later. when the sobs aren’t so rib-wracking and i’m not choking on snot and maybe the world isn’t so bad. maybe tomorrow will be a better day.
and then i sort of get it. i mean i don’t. but there’s this weird feeling in my stomach. like maybe this is the right way to handle your feelings. like maybe pretending you feel good is the way to really feel good. not by forcing people into pitying you because you forget how to breathe sometimes. maybe you really actually know what you’re talking about.
it still pisses me the hell off. you shove optimism down my throat daily, but i’m beginning to understand that this is the right way to love people.
i’m beginning to understand that you really do love me, and love is about accepting the burden you bear. so thank you for the naivety. or maybe it’s wisdom. they’re sort of the same. either way, you saved me from myself.
my best friend is probably an instagram model
because, i mean there’s a scientific instagram method and my best friend’s got it down pat. knows the best vsco cam filters, the best time of day to post, the content people will like the most. my best friend knows the formula to instagram like she knows the back of her hand. like she knows me. tried to teach it to me but i haven’t got it quite right yet. the first time i got depressed i did my best to be alone. the internet is the kind of place that facilitates romanticizing sadness. i was stuck in a rut because tumblr promised your tears are beautiful. my tears are not beautiful and neither is being alone, but it took a person or two to remember that. it took an instagram model. because my best friend’s got the kind of eyes that look at you like you’re the only thing in the world. at first i thought those eyes were just for me. but she gives ‘em out to anybody to the grocer, to the mailman, to that kid who managed to catch her eye in the hall. my best friend gives to others in a way i can’t master, but she loses plenty in return. i’m learning how to give myself up for her. the way she believes humans can do anything saved me from myself.
I AM TRASH
and then i was like “what are these books even about” and you were like “bela i am trash for these books” and that’s how it’s started. that’s how it’s started a thousand times over. this is what we do. we send photos of cute girls and photos of cute boys and woah did you see that racebend and woah did you see that genderbend and woah i literally cannot find a single fanfic that i haven’t read.
you view my tumblr more than anyone else. tumblr told me. it said you’re my biggest fan. and fuck, same. it says i’m your biggest fan. let’s start our own fan club, like, our fandom would be so popular.
people would make fanart. people would write fanfiction. there would be long winded meta and extensive headcanon and wow let’s do this. let’s take on the world together. sometimes i forget to text you back and i feel guilty for hours. you send me another screenshot about some ridiculous niche interest that we’re both too invested in. so thank you for the books and the sarcastic responses and the tumblr tags. they saved me from myself.
we’re all going to hell anyway
arrived at the gates in a gold plated basket like we own this place because we own this place because we belong here because we’re best friends with hades and we both kissed persephone last week and we both ate the forbidden fruit and shit maybe that’s why we ended up this way. i’m not embarrassed about liking girls. and sometimes we stay up talking about which boy is cuter. and sometimes i think you’re the only one who knows what this is like. and i don’t even know what my sexuality is called but i know people are fucking beautiful. and you are fucking beautiful. but not in the same way, i swear. last week a man with no self-respect insulted you on the grounds of religion. and i want you to know that he’s wrong. not a single religion out there is preaching hatred. and no matter how often i pretend i understand this world i can’t explain why someone would tell you that. but i can tell you they don’t mean anything because have you seen yourself lately. i’m not always this confident. i rarely make eye contact with people i find attractive and i don’t know how to flirt with humans who have the same anatomy as i do. but the way you understand anyway saved me from myself.
look i’m not saying this is a cult
i have a fear of communicable diseases so the closest we’re ever going to get to a blood pact is this one time we sang bubblegum pop driving down the highway at sunset.
this is a commitment. i’m constantly reminding myself, because the word commitment makes me nervous but committing doesn’t. we light fires on friday nights, have competitions to see who can burn through the most emotions, i can’t remember what heartbreak tastes like but hey, your sweater smells weird. yeah, that’s because i accidentally singed the edges when i won the competition last week and burned away fear (just for a moment, though). on saturday nights we fall asleep pressed together shoulder and elbow and pinkies. look, here’s the spot where we skinned our knees last week. the only reminder i have is the puckered skin, and scar tissue’s always got me down. i never put on a white hood. i never drank the kool-aid. i still haven’t seen a snake. but here. have my heart. it’s the best i’ve got. my mom forgot to take me to the pet store, so the snakes will have to keep waiting. this. this will save me from myself.