nails.

Its been 4 years since I’ve painted my nails. Before that it was a year. And I think of every time during the 4 years my Mom asked me “Why don’t you paint your nails?” and I knew the answer but wouldn’t say shit. I think of all the sadness inside of me. I think of the past few years, where I just stopped caring. Where the sadness swallowed me whole and I learned to live with the darkness that served me. Where no one asked questions, just allowed me the space to breathe. And I can’t help but remember that time in his bed where my painted nails dragged his skin. How I would cup his face in my hands and let my fingers move from his face to neck, and how fucking lucky I felt. I think of those painted nails, in and out of love. I think of those painted nails, through depths of sadness. And I think of those nails as I see them now, full of light and color. Why did I stop painting my nails? Why did I stop caring about myself? Why did I let bullshit men dictate how I feel about myself? When I know I shouldn’t. But I was fucking sad for a long time. So fucking, fucking sad.

enero.

1/17/2020

Yesterday was the anniversary of my Tio’s passing. I don’t talk about him enough. Even when he shows up in spirit. When he shows up in spaces that fill with light. I stay silent.  Because a part of me believes that acknowledging his death, means that he’s gone. I talk about him in passing. I talk about him in greetings. I talk about him in silent because sometimes words aren’t enough to say. Sometimes social media is a place where everything has to be public. Where everyone posts what you want them to see. Their purchases, their triumphs, even their sadness. And for once I wanted to keep something to myself. Keep my grieving silent, until I watched my grief hit me in flashbacks. I don’t remember sadness when I hear his name. All I see it light. But as months turn to years, even keeping my grieving silent, hurts. Replaying memories in my mind and I could never forget him for as long as I live. Even if I grieve him in silent.