Mel's Dreamweaving

I was fifteen and the world was still a secret.

Your voice came like a breeze in the afternoon,

light, dangerous, sweet, and uncertain.

I kept my silence behind my gaze,

young fantasies that spoke to no one.

Your laughter felt like a promise in the wind,

a forbidden game suspended in time.

Years passed, the calendar turned,

each of us walking our own stage of life.

Yet sometimes memory returns uninvited,

like an old song that still holds its spell.

And so we meet again, adults now, changed,

with new stories and different roads.

What once was desire is now only memory...

a brief chapter drifting through history.

One day, while walking around Camp Greynolds, I found a porcupine quill. This made me ridiculously giddy, even though I was looking for bones. Usually, when I went camping, I tried to find anything that I wanted to incorporate into my life/Art. My grandmother always said that everything has a will, including the things we insist on calling inanimate. I was ecstatic the quill said yes, but sad that I’d have to take it back.

I pitied anything that entered that house filled with sharp edges and a decaying foundation. Old age is a son of bitch when it hits families with a strong dynamic held together by one person. It was like living in a spider's web that just unraveled one day by someone pulling on the thread. Especially after she got sick, and even moreso after she died. My mother used to stand by my bed at night, plotting my demise, because I reminded her too much of her own mother—the woman who ran our lives. When my grandmother passed, I pulled the Tower card and fell straight into loneliness. Collapse. Sudden ruin. The loss of structure. I lost my biggest fan. She was all of our fans. She loved us fiercely. She only wanted us to be happy. She wasn’t perfect, and neither was I, but her love was real.

My mother, though, held a darkness. Cold and circling, the kind only sharks have.

I was miserable, thinking about returning home at night, so every time I went out in public, I lived like Iggy Pop in the song "Lust for Life." Full of and possessed by reckless, wired, desperation to consume every second before it could be taken. Man, did I want to live to the fullest, because every time I slept, I wondered if lung cancer was stealthily hiding inside my body, or if my mother would finally plunge the knife she held by my bed into my eye. Finishing our Greek tragedy.

It was par for the course. I was a product of interesting times: the hippie movement, my mother's choices, and my father’s infidelity/criminal misdemeanors. C’est la vie. Damn CPTSD, going somewhere else when I should be here, enjoying my porcupine quill.

I think back to my family and realize maybe that’s what sums us up. We’re a family of spiky people—pricks raising more pricks—who only know how to hurt one another because pain was the language we inherited. The kind of family American politics loves to turn into cautionary tales, caricatures, and dumpster fires. I am a child of refugees. All that sharpness, all that survival, all that love and damage crossing oceans to live forever inside us like a gaping maw...

And still, I found a quill.

They drape themselves in white gloves,

but their hands smell of black river oil.

Maps fold like paper cranes,

pointing talons at hungry mouths.

Democracy wears a masquerade mask,

smiling through a glass of spilled crude.

I am called ivory,

though my veins carry sunset fire,

a ghost wandering lands I cradle in my bones.

I dream we are rain,

not thirst!

building rivers that lift,

not dams that steal.

The world promises gardens,

but sows ash.

And when the smoke curls,

they clap for smoke,

They call it peacekeeping

with clean suits and dirty hands,

a lullaby sung by drones

hovering over red earth and rumor.

They speak of stability

while maps are unfolded like napkins,

oil fields circled in careful ink,

as if borders were suggestions,

as if hunger were accidental.

Democracy becomes a costume—

pressed, rehearsed,

worn just long enough

to step in front of cameras,

just long enough

to smile beside sanctions.

Behind closed doors,

peace smells like crude,

thick and ancient,

pulled from the ground

with the urgency of a thief

who swears he’s only borrowing.

Venezuela, they say your name

as if it were a problem to solve,

not a people breathing,

not mothers rationing hope,

not children learning the language of waiting.

They promise order,

but bring appetite.

They promise help,

but count barrels.

And when the chaos they planted blooms,

they point and say, See?

as if the fire were proof

Sagittarius Crystals 🏹✨

Citrine – A stone of joy, confidence, and abundance. Boosts optimism and helps Sagittarius follow their brightest path.

Amethyst – Calms the restless Sag mind and brings clarity, intuition, and emotional balance.

Lapis Lazuli – Enhances truth, wisdom, and communication so Sagittarius can express their authentic voice.

Moonstone – Supports intuition, emotional flow, and inner guidance during big life changes.

Clear Quartz – Amplifies intentions and increases energetic clarity for manifestation and creativity.

maggots rattling up my windpipe

like a warning I learned too young.

You were too busy smoking,

calling Uncle Gus a faggot,

never pausing to see

that your child would reap

what you sow.

You offered me a smoke‑filled apple—

menthol and carcinogens gleaming

where innocence should have been.

Snow White never had a chance,

and neither did I.

You let my childhood home collapse

under the weight of your ashes,

your cigarettes burning holes in the walls

and in me.

Yet somehow you crowned yourself the victor,

claiming survival as if it were a prize

you ever earned.

You took from me

the chance at a healthy life,

two packs a day

and never once caring

that it would follow me

like a shadow, Diana.

Still—

I refuse to despise you.

I will fight this.

I will purge the poison

you sowed inside my body,

pulling out each toxin

like thorn after thorn.

Because you swore

I would never escape you.

But I do—

every day

I wake up

farther from your smoke,

and closer

to clean air.

You hid your friend button,

like the world was begging for a chance—

as if crowds gathered at your doorstep

just to glimpse your boring stance.

You lock your dusty profile

like it's some priceless artifact,

but everyone scrolling past it

knows that confidence is all an act.

You move like you’re untouchable,

like royalty on a crooked throne—

but your kingdom is a newsfeed

no one’s bothered to call home.

You guard that empty fortress

like you’ve got diamonds in the walls—

but it’s giving echoes, tumbleweeds,

and four neglected group calls.

So stay gated, stay “exclusive,”

keep pretending you’re supreme—

’cause nobody’s knocking, darling—

you’re the legend only you believe.

in the ground,

like serving them wasn’t enough,

like perfection was something I owed.

I was only a shop attendant,

clocking in, clocking out,

trying to keep my spirit clean

in a place where everyone needed

saving

but hated you for it.

They wanted to drink the red

from my tired face,

take every last drop of patience

I had no business giving.

People make gods

out of the ones who simply

show up,

who answer the phone,

who smile,

who don’t crumble fast enough

to make them feel better

about their own collapse.

I never claimed to be holy.

I never claimed to be strong.

But they looked at me

like resurrection,

like I was built to fix

what they broke

on their own time.

And when I wouldn’t carry

their bitterness,

their laziness,

their cheap cruelty—

suddenly I became

the villain.

“Too good,”

they spit.

“Too perfect,”

they sneered.

As if responsibility

was arrogance,

as if doing my job

was a threat.

Low lives don’t love mirrors.

And I was one—

standing there,

showing them who they were

without even trying.

So they tried to bury me.

Not with dirt,

but gossip,

resentment,

their own shame

projected like graffiti

on my skin.

But I learned something

in that fluorescent light—

You can’t save people

who are committed

to drowning.

And still,

some fragile piece of me

wanted to try.

Wanted to reach out.

Wanted to be the one

they didn’t destroy.

But I can’t fight wars

no one else is willing to win.

I can only stand,

steady,

watch them burn their bridges

to ash,

and refuse to take the blame

for their fire.

I survive.

I rise.

That’s what scares them most.

is like speaking to voices behind closed doors,

splintered by fists,

echoing with the bruises of my own pounding.

Please talk to me.

Stop looking down at me.

Why do you all hate each other?

Why does your anger spill onto me,

a punishment I never earned?

And now you stand stunned,

cracking the door open only a sliver

to stare at the little girl

taught to be seen, never heard,

a perfect doll with strings tied tight.

You were surprised

when red threads slipped from my wrists,

when the role unraveled,

and the script you wrote for me

bled through my hands.

And as soon as I began to speak,

you shut the doors again.

My childhood slipped out of my hands

like water across a shattered floor

as I drifted across the room,

a small moon crossing a dangerous tide.

My uncle’s voice cracked the air—

a storm declaring it would swallow my mother whole.

I ran toward thunder

armed with nothing but a broom,

a thin wooden prayer.

He snapped it in half—

a tree struck by lightning—

and threw me like a discarded echo.

The world funneled into a dark tunnel,

narrow as a straw pulled tight around my breath.

In that dim corridor

I saw a future without her,

a house without a heartbeat,

a sky with no mother-sun.

So I became an unexpected force—

a hurricane born from a child’s ribs.

I pulled him off her

with strength I didn’t know

was buried like a hidden root beneath my fear.

Safety never grew back after that.

It became a ghost in every room,

a shadow sitting beside me

even in daylight.

That moment cast the mold—

a life forged in trials and thin gold,

in storms and blooming gardens

side-by-side.

Now I move through the world

with the sad smile of Ochún—

honey over salt,

sunlight over rising flood—

carrying beauty in one hand,

and the memory of the river

that almost drowned me

arrives as bells cross twelve,

a golden hour split open

on the eighth day of March—

the number whispered in honey,

in rivers, in every prayer

the women kept hidden in their beads.

One twin stays, one returns to the water;

yet both walk the world in the same pulse,

two shadows braided together

like songs heard through a closed door.

The elders call such children blessed—

guarded by those who left early,

guided by those who never leave.

There was once a trembling in the body,

a small storm breaking through bone.

Then a hand rose, steady,

pointing toward a truth buried too deep,

a truth no child should have to carry.

The ancestors spoke through that trembling,

moving memory back into the light.

And so the river kept flowing,

even when stones tried to claim it—

because sweetness survives everything

that tries to steal it.

Because gold always rises

from the darkest silt.

Because children born at midday

belong to the Sun-kissed Orisha,

and nothing hidden in shadow

stays hidden for long.

Born at 12:12,

midday on a Sunday,

a doorway of light opened wide,

as if the world itself paused

to witness the moment.

When the crowning came,

all the Santos appeared,

not to claim,

but to honor the brightness

already flowing within.

Ochún stepped forward first—

honey on her tongue, river in her breath.

Sweetness placed gently,

an invisible crown of warmth, protection, and blessing.

Laughter became a blessing,

tears carried cleansing,

and the heart beat like a golden drum,

drawing spirits and attention alike.

Sometimes water flowed smooth and gentle,

other times, the riverbed held weighty stories,

but the current never stalled.

The child moved with it,

like honey catching sunlight,

like a river refusing to be tamed,

like the one embraced by all the Santos.

Eyes followed without knowing why,

hearts were drawn,

hands reached for healing not yet understood.

Light shone around shoulders,

bright, tender, and uncontainable.

It healed, it hurt, it demanded attention,

it carried sweetness and fire in equal measure.

The child of Ochún

was protected, recognized, destined.

Every step was witnessed,

every presence a silent affirmation,

every breath a note in the song

the Orishas sang across the river,

and the world moved slightly in awe.

Even when shadows threatened,

even when stories grew heavy,

the river ran on.

Sweetness persisted.

Light endured.

The child carried it all,

a blessing and a mark,

an unmistakable presence

I found a red spider lily

growing where it should not be—

far from the island, far from abuela’s altar,

yet burning with the same fire.

Its petals curled like whispered secrets,

thin as the smoke from her candles,

the same smoke that taught me

how to listen to the dead.

I touched it, and it felt like Cuba—

bold, impossible, refusing silence.

A flower that blooms after storms,

just like every woman in my family.

I took it as a sign:

that even away from home,

the island finds me—

in red, in mystery,

in the stubborn beauty

Fluorescent dawn, another shift begins,

A plastic smile, the armor of the weary.

Names on tags, hearts on shelves —

souls folded neat like clearance denim.

They say it’s unskilled work,

as if endurance were easy,

as if swallowing pride all day

weren’t a form of labor too.

The customer is always right —

a gospel carved in neon,

yet no one asks what it costs

to kneel before that altar.

Dreams clock in at nine,

clock out at dusk, unpaid.

A poet rings up batteries,

a painter stocks the milk.

Still, in every “Have a nice day,”

a quiet rebellion hums.

We keep our humanity alive

beneath the hum of scanners,

soft as the sigh between receipts.

Because one day,

the world will see

that the ones who keep it turning