© Copyright 2018 Giselle Melendres - Mad Sounds Magazine

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Where It All Came From

April 29, 2017

Photo by Yuri Orozco Rivera | @yuri_orivera on Instagram 

 

When they ask you if you are a lover or a fighter, I hope you can leave a fingerprint on a fragment of your life, as if you confirmed that the physical people around the dinner table are not just a concept to fight for, but an entirety worth defending.

 

I’m done with trying to squeeze into someone else’s high-heeled shoes of opinions. The threads of my nostalgic memories and the needles in some of my relationships fabricate the breadth of my poetry.

 

I’ve been told I’m cut from a different cloth.

 

I have inherited kaleidoscope eyes that seek both sides of a story and still have much to say. I never want to be familiar with the concept of refrained speech. I want to spread myself gloriously thin just to interrupt the so-called aesthetic. I cannot whisper away my hometown lingo and the people that have spoken into my life.

 

I make sure to mention the gut-wrenching heartbreaks I’ve encountered. I can hear my smart ass brother telling me to “try turning my heart off and then back on again.” I’ve memorized footsteps and jangling keys around the house. The smell of German baking and the distant hums from my mom in the kitchen. My dad’s hands teaching mine on six simple strings of an instrument we now belong to. I’d etch our initials into the side of the mahogany just to prove the start of something great that was written down.

 

I include the lyrics to the first song a boy wrote for me. A warm, giddy love I’m hesitantly becoming acquaintances with by writing my own words into song to reciprocate.

 

So if you point at me with greasy fingers assuming I’m the one that is supposed to be “good” with words and writing, here’s to my humbled brilliance to recollection actual people. Maybe I just love the sound of more voices in my head, rather than just my own.

 

When the world rejects to publish the bona fides of your life, when they rip all the ink and paper into confetti, I give permission to throw a dinner party, inviting all the brutal yet beautiful truths, all of whom your words came from.

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