Written January 2016

My dad didn’t know how to do my hair and he liked to dress me in neutral tones. He also preferred to buy my clothes a size or two too big. He made me learn how to play chess and tennis. He enforced thinking strategically and perfection. He wanted me to skip middle school and go straight to university because I tested on university levels in elementary school.

He wanted me to be the best.

He was usually absent & usually abusive.

I feared him, yet I can’t deny that he cared to push me.

I despised his tactics. I have no use for him now and have made peace with the dynamic of our relationship in my own ways. He has no idea where i am now, or what I’m up to. It’s cool that he had some sort of vision of my intelligence and capabilities. He just didn’t know how to support me or love me & still doesn’t know how. It’s all good. I’m sure he’s somewhere with a passport full of stamps. He named me Asia for a reason.

Listen to “saddad.”  (recorded summer 2017)


mother nature 

june 2017 ::

i came from your pussy –

first one to come from your pussy.

didn’t it hurt when i came from your pussy?

so helpless, all bloody and squishy 

i was screaming and crying.

what a joy ー

you passed me off like a baby doll 

and i am not a toy.


you once looked so happy though.

you see, what had happened,

you gave up so quick on ya girl 

i’m not sure if you planned it.

i’m not tripping because 

goddamn girl you so craaazy

and if i was around you more 

i don’t think i’d be this lady.


maybe i’d be famished from no love from you. 

i’m not being extra. 

had a beautiful cry 

like i had a blade dragged into me to remove a dormant cancer that was hidden & resting but in great magnitude. 

before this cry, i had a productive day.

i laughed and smiled.

i worked on new projects. 

i saw people who i admire.

i had endorphins flowing through my body.

i had a cry @6A after a bike ride home during a call home to my grandmother. 

it was like blockage was removed and resting pain that existed inside me exited in bulk, in the same vain of my living joy. 

i could see myself screaming as babies do when they become aware of the vast world – life replanting me from my comfort zone to one more visibly boundless.

my grandma laughed and said i’m perfect. 

circa 2004

These days, life is like the summer between jr high and high school. I don’t know it all but I’ve seen some things. I’ve grown apart from people. I’ve seen things come to an end. I’ve seen sadness. Creating precious moments that are like deep secrets is a hobby. I’ve built comraderies through shared experiences. Most things inspire me. I am very expressive. I dance often. I kiss my friends. I hold their hands. I want them to feel special. Life is not sexualized. Life is pure. My male friends are my brothers. My female friends are my sisters. I’ve seen happiness. I’ve gotten into trouble. I know life is about choices. I’ve taken some risks. I’ve seen my peers do foolish things for the attention and approval of others. I enjoy inside jokes. I’ve seen the ying and yang in my elders — some bitter, some better. My heart is warm. I like to write notes, lay on my bed naked & listen to music, & give flowers to strangers. I don’t take things too seriously, although I know some of my peers do. They think that’s what the future will demand from them. I’m enjoying breaking the rules, cherishing my friendships, living for my favorite things, and having a good laugh. The tests will always be there.

strange fruit


i’ve always despised labels when associated with people. they make me cringe. i don’t even like when people ask me where i’m from. it’s like my identity is at the mercy of whatever stereotype they have formed about americans or people who were born in massachusetts, or people who were raised in the atlanta, or people who move to los angeles — and of course — i’ve been at the mercy of whatever stereotypes people have associated around people with my skin complexion, people who are gender fluid, women of color, and women. it can be a mind fuck.

labels and categories are boxes that have always been difficult for me and at times have made me very uncomfortable. i’ve felt self conscious, wondering if i would be accepted, afraid that i didn’t fit the mold, concerned that i would be put on a pedestal, fearful that i would be outcasted, ostracized, judged, hated. i’ve felt paranoid and on the edge of insanity. i was overly concerned about the fact that i felt like i didn’t fit anywhere.

i would be proactive about everything. analyzing my own thoughts before i said them to possibly forecast all the ways that what i said could be perceived. i wanted to be understood and i wanted people to feel good around me. i wanted to connect with people. i wanted people to like me. i thought “how could this happen if my thoughts make people uncomfortable? how can i connect with people, if they think i’m a fucking weirdo?”

the world we live in creates this dynamic where many of us feel like who we are isn’t good enough because we are not deemed normal or ideal. some assimiliate. some try to flee society. there are so many paths in between; each path with its loopholes and each path with its challenges.

i knew this as a child somehow. i was so confused as a young girl. the concept of normalcy taunted me. haunted me. consumed me at times. i didn’t know which path to take. i just knew that i wanted to feel good about life but i didn’t know if i would chose the “right” path.

my neighborhood friends were popular and super into boys in elementary school. they were forming crushes and wearing lip gloss. i was tall, slim, had dimples, and a bra size. i had to like boys too, right? of course, i HAD to want their attention. i had some of what society brainwashes us to identify as desirable physical traits. my neighborhood friends would play fortune telling games to predict who they would marry and what kind of house they would have. i just wanted to ride my bike, watch cartoons, eat cereal, and read goosebumps. yet, i tried to affiliate with something that didn’t exactly align with who i felt i was, as many people do.

despite my attempt at oblivion, i remember at a young age feeling very misunderstood. not only was i not boy crazy, i had this infatuation with the human body, specifically the female body — my body. i would sit in front of my full length mirror, lock the door and explore myself with intrigue. i grew this appreciation for my body at a young age. in hindsight, it was innocent but in the mind of my father, i was sick. my father’s discovery of my adoration provoked him to give me a beating so horrific that i had to sit in a bathtub filled with chilled water and ice to soothe the bruises and welps. the teachers at school noticed. child protective services warranted a protective order from my father. a child psychologist said i needed therapy. my grandmother wondered how to show me love. my grandmother’s sister proclaimed i was a lesbian. i wanted to die. i was 10.

misconceptions, labels, categories, stereotypes have really fucked me over. it caused me to have some dark thoughts and i experienced gender violence at an early age because i didn’t behave in a way my father understood. he didn’t know how to love me and my love for myself began to be in question and in jeopardy.

the abuse i received began with my father, continued with the world, and ended with a past lover, keenan uriah girard, whose demons sent me to the emergency room. he had an evil inside of him that i hope he has overcome. it is an evil that i can never forget or forgive. it is an evil that i have learned to accept that exists in the world. it is an evil that i will never sacrifice myself again to try to understand. it is an evil that i will never empathize with. it is an evil so horrific that the people who possess it should not be considered human. it is an evil that makes monsters of life. it is an evil that i hope dies within itself, never to manifest again, never to be able to disguise itself again. it is an evil that i burdened myself to protect until now…

father figures

i have this reoccurring dream of my dad. it escalates with intensity each time. i wish it was with pleasant imagery — him walking me down the aisle, like i had the pleasure of witnessing recently as a maid of honor. i wish it was something as simple as him giving me a warm embrace, kissing my forehead, and telling me that he knows i’m special and that my happiness is important to him. 

instead, my dream is painful, disturbing, and disruptive to my logical tranquillity. 

the sequence of nightmares have always involved him hunting me. sometimes i’m with a group of people. sometimes i’m alone. i’m always trying to avoid him. i’m usually prepared to defend myself verbally and physically. the most recent hunt was more dramatic and resonated the most. he had used every source of global surveillance possible to hunt me and he succeeded and i found myself startled in my sleep to see him sitting feet away from me. he was in disguise and speaking words to me that made me feel as though satan had possessed the man that aided in my birth. in my sleep, my father embodied every characteristic that was synonymous with the anti-christ. 

he hurt me. he cut my hand with the sharpest blade i had ever seen and i bled. 

i felt it in my sleep and it transcended.  

i awoke from this torment and didn’t know how to feel. for years, i’ve battled with where i stand on my relationship with my father. at times, i feel offensive and bold. my attitude is “fuck him. he can fuck off. he can die.” other times, i feel defensive and ready to protect myself but still very respective of the fact that he’s my father. i wish the best for him and hold on to the glimmer of hope. i’d humble my feelings in an attempt to embrace him, if that opportunity presented itself. yet, in both circumstances, i am always on guard.

my father is someone that i try to not think about. i try to feel numb towards him. i try to be indifferent. i try to be strong. i try to wish him well. i try to imagine what i’ll do when i see him again. i try to prepare myself for what he might say & do. i try to not cry when i think about him. it’s a constant battle that might not go away.

i wish my father respected me. i wish my father didn’t physically abuse me as a child. i wish my father didn’t verbally abuse me an young woman. i wish my memories of my father didn’t cause my emotions to whirl randomly. i wish there was a way to be over it but still human about it. i wish there was an end to the story while i’m still alive. 

i love him and that hurts me. 

i hate him and that hurts me.

i wish this father figure didn’t have the ability to taunt me anymore. figuratively or emotionally. i’m grateful in some way. this frustration and experience has caused me to become a complex person — someone who doesn’t tolerate bullshit; someone who values herself; someone who has struggled with identity; someone who can step outside herself to imagine the perspective of others; someone who is empathetic; someone who is apathetic; someone who’s not afraid to fight; someone who knows how to love hard.