Yesterday, was yesterday.

I'm not a writer.

This thought came across my mind yesterday. A web of self-doubt was weaved before my eyes, as my peers and professors threw their comments across the table. Yet, I was the designer of it all. This web that I've caught myself in.

Workshop is workshop. That's all it is. I don't think I'm amazing and I don't have thick skin. Why did I take it so personally? I'm not sure. Maybe it's because I'm too nice. That's what my sister says at least. I need to get mean. Whatever that means. I'm small, petite, with a soft-spoken voice. I don't think mean is in my nature...

Now, I'm living a very temporary life it seems. A life that doesn't seem to belong to me. I feel like I'm just going with it, because I've become so dissociated with the world, that I'm just trying to latch onto anything familiar. The scenery's changed and I guess I'm just seeing where I fit. I understand this is a part of life, but I know I will never fit society's "mold". I won't be what others want me to be, but that doesn't necessarily make things easier. I'll always be on the outside looking in.

And I think that is the reason why I write. So that I can place myself somewhere. So that I can fit within my own design. My own web. I just need to clear away all of the cobwebs that have haunted me and accept what is and go on. I don't write for you or for anyone. I don't write to be heard or recognized.

I write for me.




Writing Exercise #2: I don't have much time left, and I still have a few things left to say...


           “I don’t have much time left, and I still have a few things left to say. My name isn’t Brian Ofla. I lied. My name is Guglameshna Foreska. And I’m not twenty-seven years old. I’m actually one hundred and sixty-eight years old, but it’s equivalent to twenty-seven from where I’m from. Or at least I think so. I’m also not from a small town in Ohio, but from here like you, but from the future. Five hundred and sixty years into the future to be exact. Only, I came back. For you.”
            Analise started laughing. So hard, her body shook.
            “I’m serious!” I said, hoping she would believe me.
            “Aright, Goog-lamesh-ness.”
            “It’s Guglameshna!”
            “Oh right, of course.”
            I grabbed her by the shoulders. “Please. They’re coming for me. But before they do. I. I. I just wanted you to know.”
            Gently, she placed her hand on my cheek, with a large smile on her face. “Okay. I’ll bite. What do you want me to know?”
            “I love you.”
            With that her smiled disappeared, surprised by my declaration. But before she could say anything, I suddenly felt light-headed. I looked at my hands and saw that they were dissipating into small miniscule particles. They had come for me.
            Analise was suddenly afraid, but belief was now in her eyes. I saw her lips move, but I couldn’t hear anything. I was being pulled back to the future at light-speed.

This has become one of my favorite poems. Relatable? I think so!

I’m Over the Moon

By Brenda Shaughnessy
I don’t like what the moon is supposed to do.
Confuse me, ovulate me,

spoon-feed me longing. A kind of ancient
date-rape drug. So I’ll howl at you, moon,

I’m angry. I’ll take back the night. Using me to
swoon at your questionable light,

you had me chasing you,
the world’s worst lover, over and over

hoping for a mirror, a whisper, insight.
But you disappear for nights on end

with all my erotic mysteries
and my entire unconscious mind.

How long do I try to get water from a stone?
It’s like having a bad boyfriend in a good band.

Better off alone. I’m going to write hard
and fast into you, moon, face-fucking.

Something you wouldn’t understand.
You with no swampy sexual

promise but what we glue onto you.
That’s not real. You have no begging

cunt. No panties ripped off and the crotch
sucked. No lacerating spasms

sending electrical sparks through the toes.
Stars have those.

What do you have? You’re a tool, moon.
Now, noon. There’s a hero.

The obvious sun, no bullshit, the enemy
of poets and lovers, sleepers and creatures.

But my lovers have never been able to read
my mind. I’ve had to learn to be direct.

It’s hard to learn that, hard to do.
The sun is worth ten of you.

You don’t hold a candle
to that complexity, that solid craze.

Like an animal carcass on the road at night,
picked at by crows,

taunting walkers and drivers. Your face
regularly sliced up by the moving

frames of car windows. Your light is drawn,
quartered, your dreams are stolen.

You change shape and turn away,
letting night solve all night’s problems alone.

Writing Exercise: My mother never...


            My mother never told me she loved me. Not even when I was born and not even when I had recovered from breast cancer. After my flute recital when I was six, she told me that I played wonderfully. After being awarded student of the year when I was in the eighth grade, she said I was intelligent. The night I went to prom, albeit stag, she told me I was beautiful. A few years later when I graduated from college, she said that I was a worthy role model. On my wedding day, as she held a dampened handkerchief to her eyes, she told me she would miss me. But never did she once tell me she loved me.
            As a child, that was all I wanted. Each year as I blew off the candles on my birthday cake, I wished with all my might that she would say it. Every time I saw a shooting star, she was the person who came to mind. Growing up I realized that birthday wishes don’t come true and shooting stars do not have any power over us. Still. I wanted it more than anything.
            “I love you, mom.” I would say whenever I left her home.
            “Good-bye, dear.” She would always say in reply.
            At the age of ninety-three she passed away in her sleep. It was on the day of her funeral, as her casket was lowered into the earth, when I realized that all my birthday wishes had come true and all of my desires had been granted by those shooting stars. She never once had to tell me that she loved me, because I felt it everyday.
            What are words compared to the look in her eyes? The same look she gave me when I was born, to the last day of her life, and everything else in between.

Week 2

Today marks the end of week two, and now I know what the phrase "mindless eating" means. One week of school and by the end of it, I realized that I hardly thought about what I put in my mouth. I grabbed whatever was available when I was hungry. On the plus side, I did keep up with my workouts, so hopefully that balanced everything.

I do have a solution though. Meal prepping! I spent Sunday bagging up my snacks, making my chia drinks, prepping salads, and etc!


Now, a yummy dinner after body-pump (I'm starting to like lifting. It's wayyyyy different from endurance running. It was challenging at first, but now I'm getting use to it).



Only a month and a half until San Diego!

Happy and healthy days to you all!

-Miss M
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