Terms and Conditions

 

Until now, now that I’ve reached my twenty first year:

All my attempts to impress the male sex have been criminal:

From initiating proposals to accepting their terms,

I’ve seceded from my expectations.

 

A cooperative agreement is what they call it:

my current, compliant state.

I’ve known this agreement between the genders goes

Back to one bite of an apple. Some things never change.

 

Is this who I am? To permit a first kiss

between sips of Keystone?

To submit to a “hey” at three in the morning?

According to this agreement, this is.

 

I’ve failed to go through the fine print, the very words

that, looking long and hard you read:

“Send nudes.” Somehow, there must be more than this.

 

There is more. 

 

This agreement has opened more doors for me, not limited

To the following: my rented bedroom, the back

Of my station wagon, and a boyfriend’s fraternity.

 

Is this really me? I’ve entered into a contract where

I’m applauded for grasping how light bulbs work and

Where I’m afraid to walk home in a grey sweatshirt.

 

I’m just staying in this weekend. 

 

“Want to hang?” he asks.

Okay. 

“Just let me know.”

Okay. 

Read: 12:21 AM.

 

–Elizabeth Lacey

(inspired by Solmaz Sharif)

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I am Better

I talked about how this time last year I was hospitalized for severe depression (in Who I am Not). My favorite uncle had recently passed from colon cancer in April. School was hard for me, between counting thousands of flies and writing out organic chemistry reactions. It was easy for my anxiety to take over and send me into a depression.

It was after my sorority’s formal that I intentionally stepped in front of a moving car. I told my therapist and she suggested that I go to the hospital. I told my mom and soon her and my father were up at school, ready to take me home.

After the hospital, I spent the summer in an intensive outpatient program. With five hours a day, five days a week, there was barely any time for me to enjoy myself. Not like I could remember what I enjoyed doing.

Even last semester, I entered into a two week depression. Taking forever to leave my bed, forgetting how many days it had been since I had showered, failing to reach out to even my closest of friends. It was all so hard for me to even think about.

Despite all that I have gone through in the past year, I am now in good place. I’ve regained my characteristic motivation. I am motivated to do well in my classes, reach out to friends and family, and do the things I know remember that I love.

This time last year, sitting in the psychiatric ward at the cafeteria tables looking out at the rain, I would’ve said I’ve been better. But now, looking at those same water droplets hit the Ithaca soil, I can say I am better.

via Daily Prompt: Better

Heard From Here

I pull the dirtied string, the window nude,

Stripping left blind higher, faster than right.

Space well-hidden between homes exposes

A tree stuck thin between the house cracks.

 

Laughter unleashed into streets, hyenas

Howling at the moon from the pavement.

A year ago my laugh was with these above,

Our sound in unison with pitch and tone.

 

It is a song best sung together. But now

Depression sings the taste of sour grapes.

Here, dried fruit falls from vines onto the floor,

Ants circling around the concord spheres.

 

I can still hear those laughs from here. Yet

If I push myself, it’s only back to sleep.

 

–Elizabeth Lacey

Stylish/Boujee Life

Boujee. You hear that term first coined in the Top 40 song, “Bad and Boujee” by Migos. We all know what bad means, but what does the latter mean?
Boujee is an abbreviation for bourgeoisie, a “elite demographic defined for a need for luxury and material items” (Refinery 29). Basically, boujee– or bougie– means being materialistic af. And guess who is bougie? Yours truly.
I have an Erin Condren planner and buy custom-made stickers on Etsy. I buy acai from Wegmans to make acai bowls.  I use wireless Beats earbuds as I listen to podcasts and Spotify premium. I purchased purple Tevas from Urban Outfitters so that my shoes could match my purple Kanken backpack.
Now tell me I’m not bougie.
But is there anything wrong with being bougie? I wouldn’t say so. There is so much more to me than using speech to text on my gold Apple Watch.
Bougie is simply one lifestyle, not an entire life.

via Daily Prompt: Lifestyle

with me

with black, with white, with used to be white,

with few miles on carpet, with tumbleweeds of dust filled

brown hair, with a trim every six months. with pepto-bismol,

with grandpa’s stethoscope, with a bottle

of rumchata, with hazy memories of last night, with a full

face of make-up. with thirty-six ddd, with gender,

with romance, with sandalwood, with eponine in the rain.

with obsessive, with compulsive, with disorder.

frustration, stress, hope.

with acceptance, with freshly plucked

eyebrows, with forehead kisses. as fourth cousins,

as pisces, as killian jones. with sandy ankles,

with high-waisted jeans, with left leg falling asleep, with

insomnia. with thinking, with over-thinking,

with remembering, with small gold hoops on the first day of

school, with samantha the american girl doll, with toys

used when feeling lonely. with swiping left,

with a closed mouth smile, with two

different ears. with the same thirteen colonies,

with an inside porch, with the powerhouse of the cell, with

mitochondria. with eczema, with prescriptions at

CVS, with medicine, with confusion about the future, with fear

of being second place. with disregard, with an

order of pad see ew, with ice left from a thai iced tea.

— Elizabeth Lacey

(inspired by canvas and mirror by Evie Shockley)