Beauty, they say, is in the eye of the beholder. Lock that away, file that it in a folder. Look into the eyes of your soul, Is it whole? What do you see? Have you ever been free? What have you been through? Did it make you stand taller and feel anew? Do you feel beautiful or do you need validation? You are your own creation. Create Love, not Hate. You control your own fate. Learn from your mistakes. Don't reciprocate or reiterate. Like the Phoenix, rise from the ashes ans bat those lashes. Cuz, Bitch, you Lavish!
About the Creator
Isabel Ana Zavala
Have been loving to write since a child. Never got anything published, I write more for myself. My everyday life. My children, My illnesses. The darkness we all have, The lightness we all want.
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More stories from Isabel Ana Zavala and writers in Poets and other communities.
Alone
Sitting in a cold chair staring at an old picture frame, looking at a face that was once filled with life. Now all alone and terrified, there is no hand to hold. No one to speak my worries to. I feel the toxins slowly course into my veins. A cold sensation runs up my arm and down my spine. The metallic taste in your mouth getting stronger. Legs elevated, blood pressure low. All alone, in a place where death is in the air and all around you. Laying in this cold and eerie recliner hearing the beeping of the machine while it continues to drip the toxins into your veins. Realization kicks in. Am I making the right decision? Will this kill me faster? Mind racing, all alone, no one to run to. All alone, staring at the old picture frame, pleading to God, please remove my loneliness.
By Isabel Ana Zavala5 years ago in Poets
Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
By Ella Bogdanovaabout 20 hours ago in Poets
The Piggy Project
I’ve had so many names in this life I lose track of which ones were ever really mine and which ones I wore because someone needed me to. Some were handed to me before I had words to refuse them, before I knew what they meant, before I knew I could say no. Most weren’t meant to hurt. That doesn’t mean they didn’t leave marks. Marks that told me who I belong to, who I am by way of who claims me, recognizes me in the good and bad, who walks beside me.
By Fatal Serendipity7 days ago in Confessions
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