https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AVXMne8hWAY
I really like this video, I found so many cool, interesting poems while watching! Being a Sagittarius sun and Capricorn moon, the Sag and Cap poems she chose really stuck with me and I found them so beauitful. I shared the Capricorn poem with my friend who is a Cap sun and she loved it too! The poem is called “How to Triumph Like a Girl” by Ada Limòn and I found it very empowering as a woman. Check out the video and let me know which was your favorite
Poison Ivy
A Short Story By Mia Elias
I sat down on my old rocking chair that was passed down from generation to generation. The old chair had a hole in it and a pillow cushion that said, “ I heart Grandma.” Spending most of my days looking through old photo albums of the past, I look at myself in my younger years and think the craziest thoughts. I look at my hair from my youth and think to myself, Why was my hair so oily? Where did all of my oil go? When I was young, I would never have thought about oily hair or wrinkles. But now all I do is avoid looking at myself and sometimes even avoid these photo albums because it makes me depressed. Whenever I looked at the photos albums, I instantly called my daughter. I ask her bizarre questions about how I looked when I was a young mom. It is almost as if I forgot a bit of myself. I got lost as I got older. I always thought you found yourself as you get older. The truth is, I ran away from myself and old age a long time ago. And now I sit alone in an old ranch in an old rocking chair thinking about my youth.
I flipped through the polaroids and albums, smiling at some and crying at others. When I got to the end of the photo album, I found a dead leaf, picked it up, it crumbled in my hands and dissolved into dust. It must have been there for a long time to instantly turn into dust, falling through my hand onto my kitchen floor. I looked at it in confusion. I almost felt bad for that poor leaf falling to the ground. I instantly started laughing in surprise. Why would a dead leaf be at the end of my photo album? I wiped the tears off my eyes and tried to look back in my old mind. I sat there confused and then got up, walking back and forth, trying to think to myself why there would be a dead leaf in my photo album. I am the type of person that feels that everything has a reason, the leaf is there for a reason.
After drinking a coffee in my Christmas mug with a shot of whiskey, I remembered. I turned to my corgi Jameson and picked him up placing him on the couch next to me.
“Jameson, this is the reason I tell you never to go near poison ivy.” He frowned at me even though I knew he had no idea what I was talking about; he was the only one I spoke to. I placed him on the floral couch next to me and lifted the coffee mug to my lips, smiling. I knew why the leaf was there. I never put it there. My aunt was the one who placed it at the end of the album. When I was a small girl, I would get these terrible reactions when coming in contact with poison ivy but I never listened. I never listened to my aunt because playing in her yard was more fun than having a bad allergic reaction.
I remember the day as if it was yesterday, even though it was 50 years ago. I was ten years old at the time, wearing a One Direction t-shirt and pink pants. That was the band at the time, but there are not any bands anymore. It was a typical day. My aunt picked me up from school and took me back to her house. I waited for her to let me outside because she always made me eat before going to play in her backyard. My aunt had two giant golden retrievers (probably where I got my love for dogs from). I would run in the backyard with them, pretending I was a dog. Well, her two dogs always were getting into everything, so that meant I was getting into everything. I would pretend to pee like them and wag my tail. I forgot a lot of times that I was even a human when I would play with them.
So her two dogs decided it was a great idea to go running in poison ivy. I forgot at this point I was a person who was allergic to poison ivy. In all honesty, I forgot what poison ivy even looked like or resembled. So I started running like a madwoman. My aunt was in the house, making dinner, so there was no one to stop me from performing this action. I ran through the poison ivy until I started to break out in hives realizing what I have just done. My aunt came running through the 3-acre yard with a pot in hand, screaming my name. All the dogs went running to me as I felt the itchy, stingy feeling run up and down my whole body. I started to cry in fear of not knowing what was happening. My aunt ran over to my side, a little angry.
“This is the 3rd time this month you have run through this poison ivy patch,” she screamed in my face while wet tears dripped down my stinging red cheeks.
“ I know, please, I will not do it again,” My aunt picked me up by my armpits and carried me into the house. I laid down on the couch. She brought me Benadryl and ice. I watched her run back outside quickly. I assumed she was going to get the headband that I dropped but I had no idea. She came back holding a three-leaf plant in her palms. I had no idea what she was carrying until I looked closer and saw that it was poison ivy. I thought that she was insane to be holding a poisonous plant in the palm of her hand.
“Where are your photo albums,” she said, standing over me in anger but also concern. I pointed to the chair in her kitchen. She sat down next to me and showed me pictures in the album.
“You look at this every day, don’t you?” referring to my album. I nodded my head because it was true. I looked at it all the time. I enjoyed taking photos of everything. I sat there watching her flip through my photos while sipping on my juice box.
“Since you look at this every day, I am going to place the poison ivy in here so you know what it looks like and so you stop crying every time you get attacked by one. It will only attack you if you go towards it. You understand?” I nodded my head again because I was scared if I said anything else she was going to get mad at me. She then placed it in my photo album, handing it to me.
After my aunt did that, I never went near poison ivy ever again. I made sure to avoid it at all costs. If I went hiking or camping with my kids, I did everything in my power to avoid it. My aunt put the fear of God in me. She made sure I was scared so I would never go near it again and have an allergic reaction. But now, in my old age, I think back. Did I need her protection? The response looking back was not terrible but I remember after that day, I never pretended I was a dog. But even now, I wish I was a dog. I wish I could live freely without worrying about getting poison ivy on me or if I don’t take my medication, what will happen?
When we’re younger we fear the unknown but sometimes we test the unknown? I was the kid who tried all the unknowns. I was inquisitive. I miss being curious. I think allergic reactions are right; I believe pain is fitting. But even though I was not afraid of death when I was young, that one memory of my aunt made me fear poison ivy the rest of my life, even though I would only get hives. Looking at the crumbled leaf on the ground brings up that one memory bringing chills down my spine. I feel the stinging now. Even though this is an item in my photo album, I see this plant as a photograph. Photographs can have a dramatic affect on many people. In my old age, I decided to throw away that photograph.
I threw out the crumbles that were on the ground. The remaining poison ivy death crumbles ended up in my garbage. I poured myself another glass of whiskey and coffee and ventured to my back deck overlooking Southern Vermont. I walked down the steps walking through the yard. On this day, I pretended to be a dog. I might have also stepped in poison ivy too.
“Daddy”
A short reflective story by Mia Elias
Like most College Students, I found myself in a rut of trying to find myself; secretly, I have not succeeded in that department yet. At 20 years old, I have kept a strong head on my shoulder while dealing with an alcoholic mother, a father’s escapist, and a republican brother. I have managed to run away from labels like Dyslexia, ADHD, Bipolar Disorder. I have run into unwanted pregnancy, Unsafe sex, Emotional abusive men, and financial problems. While all these things have landed at my feet, I still managed to lift myself and try again. “Try again” by Aaliyah was my senior year’s anthem and famously still is my anthem today. Over these years of dealing with men, family, and friends, I have a pretty good idea of what many people want. While growing up in an affluent area, I have learned what people desire most in life (and no, it is not money). What people want most is love, attention, and appreciation. Many will go so far as to get love because they did not get it most of the time. Men are the culprits of these issues. So many men find themselves daydreaming about a new woman, new love, and of course, admiration.
I hate working. No, I do. I love schoolwork, but the thought of having a 9-5 working at some fast food place sounds mind-boggling and dreadful. I looked at myself and understood one of my gifts. I took a hard look at myself as a sensual, sexy, and dangerous young woman and realized my power is to take advantage of older men with good credit and a bad marriage. I know you probably have never heard anyone admit that one of their strengths is manipulating older men, but it is effortless. I was told how good I was by my pimp who goes by the name “Jon Slang,” who barely knows I have manipulated him into giving me as much as I need with a little price. But before I get into my pimp, I should tell whoever is reading this why I even started getting sugar daddies in the first place and how in the hell did I do it and pull it off.
So if you did not know, now you see many girls my age have sugar daddies. One of my friends has many, and I asked her how she got them. Of course, the first website she gave me was “Ashley Madison.” Ashley Madison is a pool of lonely old men who need sex, attention, love, and someone to speak to. The thought of going on this site at that time disgusted me. I knew half the men would be jerking off to photos of me. I knew that I was now a sex worker and kind of sex trafficking. But I also knew that I could make a lot of money with little time, so I was willing to degrade myself. So we ended up making me an account, and within two days, I made 500 just from taking pictures, talking, and texting these men. To be honest, the whole thing was somewhat stressful; I found myself bombarded with messages and a lot of dubs (men who wanted to have sex).
I met someone on there who was essentially a pimp/sex trafficker. His name was “Jon Slang.” He was interested in speaking on the phone. He was an attractive young male who thought I would be significant to “sex traffic.” While speaking to me, he noticed I was way too smart to sex traffic, and I already knew what I was doing with my Sugar Daddys and men in general. When I mean I knew what I was doing; I knew precisely how to manipulate men and get them to fall in love with me to get everything out of them. He went about things in a dirty, illegal, and uncontrollable way, but that was never my thing. I went about things in a lawful, business, and professional manner because you are essentially selling yourself when you are a sugar baby. If you know yourself and confident enough, you can market yourself. If you barely know yourself, you can not sell yourself. You have to find the best thing about you and make that your selling point. Mine was always “I am not like other girls. I grew up in a rich area. I know how to look good with you.” I grew up with men like Ashley Madison, Seeking arrangement, and Millionaire match up. I knew how all these men worked because I saw them my whole life.
All men ever want is their Ego to be fed. Most of the time, a pretty young girl usually feeds a man’s ego and will do anything to get a pretty young girl. Most of the time, money is involved when trying to get their ego fed. But some of the men I spoke to could tell they were indeed just lonely, hated their wives, needed love, and were insecure. These were the saddest, the ones who would give away themselves just to be loved because they do not feel it. Even though this whole essay I spoke about how cold I am and manipulative, I truly felt bad for some of the men and developed a friendship with them. But the ones with the enormous egos who only would speak about themselves were the worst. They were the ones who wanted to take advantage of you. They saw me as an investment when they had no idea that I saw them as an investment for me.
Some of the men-only wanted nudes, some of them love, and some of them sex. But all these men had a common interest, and that was to be loved because they did not even know who they were. Yes, a lot of them are businessmen, but that’s it. They did not have anything else besides the title “Bussiness men.” They weren’t interesting beyond that. If they had any interests besides their business, it was nothing intellectual or exciting things like golf, wine, shopping, and looking at naked women in their 20s while they touch their semi-soft penises. I found myself feeling inadequate and hating men like this and never wanting to end up with some savvy businessmen who live in Hoboken, Manhattan, Long Island, or Brooklyn. I developed a hate for them, and the only thing peaking them taught me was their weakness, and most of the time, their fault would be death.
But another thing I noticed about a lot of these is that they were so infatuated with my beauty. My young thoughts made them happy, and they thought to themselves, “maybe there is hope.” But in a different place and a different world, they wondered if they would have fallen for me. The thoughts of them falling for me crept into my head at late hours in the end. I wondered why no one my age was infatuated with me the way they are. While they slept with their wives in bed, I slept alone, eager for their life one day. But one thing this whole process of being a sugar baby taught me, it taught me that life is all about perspective. That marriage is not always a happy ending, nor is being alone like me or the pimp, fighting for the freedom these rich older men have.
La Luna
A Short Story by Mia Elias
A white desk sat in the corner of the darkroom. Moonlight illuminated through the side window where she sat. Underneath her, the earth became silent and dreaded living another day. The earth went on though living for her, living for the woman who ruined the earth. The earth wanted to dispose of this woman. The earth wanted nothing to do with her. But even though the planet wished only nothing to do with this girl, it still found itself obsessing every night. Every 24 hours, the girl brought darkness to the earth; the darkness loomed over each city, plants, people, and useless objects each person had in their home. Most humans on the planet knew nothing about how hard the earth worked to keep them alive while they threw their toxins into it. The toxins were not just waste and littering, but the toxins came from within. These toxins made hell on earth.
Earth became a hell. No one created hell on earth, only the humans that were inside. The humans were the parasites. Before modern times humans created new materials to benefit the collective and now they were creating materials to benefit them and not the collective. The Earth noticed that the girl who sat on her white desk everyday smoking a cigarette only ingested the toxins. The girl’s name was dread. Guilt, shame and dread believed the toxins were good, bled for other people at times of hell. She let herself live in a nightmare that she thought was home. She felt her house was home, but it was only a matter of time until she realized that she was not a place or a person; it was her. She tried hard to forgive herself. Earth watched her closely. Earth was afraid the girl would lose touch with herself or lose herself in the hell of society. Earth watched as the girl sat there every night, staring up at the sky. The girl always looked up. On this particular night, the girl was not looking up at the moon but looking down at a phone screen, which showed flashes of disturbing images.
Lazuli
A short story by Mia Elias
A lonely childhood bedroom awaits a now young adult as they spring out of their innocence. It is only human nature for us to see new beginnings. Are they new beginnings, or are they an end? Is an end just a start to a new beginning?
The windows were all wide open as 16-year-old Michelle Marks walked into her room. The wind drifted throughout her room like a whisper. It was a 60 degree October night, just before Halloween time. She strutted happily into her room, looking at herself in the mirror. Her room was dim. Red filled the room. The lights from the full moon sprawled out throughout her bedroom. There was no need to shut the shades; she wanted everyone to see her change her clothes and stare at herself. The room always had an eerie familiarity; even Michelle felt it at times. Even her best friend wouldn’t like to go to her place. There always seemed to be some spirit in there. It felt like someone was watching them. Over the years, Michelle stopped caring about who was watching her. At times she liked the feeling of being watched. It made her feel validated. Something seemed to be magical about the aura. A long time ago, she decorated her walls with memories of the past. Whether these memories were posters or her thoughts or something else, they were all over the walls.
She stared directly into her eyes in the mirror as it got later and later. Her face looked so interesting she could not take her eyes off herself. Her face felt like it was clay that, with every smile, every cry, she could mold it. Midnight turned into 1 am. When she usually gets home at night, she goes right in the shower, but tonight she wanted to sit in her filth. She liked the feeling that she did something wrong. Instead of rushing to the shower, she liked living with her bad choices. It was nice to have the pain carry itself into the night—the pain of all her decisions following her back to her house. She used to think taking a shower would wash away all her problems. She later found out that a shower only masked those feelings. Her choosing to make bad choices made her feel that she was free. She was always curious where she inherited her dark brown eyes. Tonight they looked darker. She stared at herself for about 10 minutes until a thought entered her mind. Someone told her a long time ago you look different after you do something significant in your life. She did not feel different but almost awkward, standing there staring at herself. She then took each bit of clothing off her; sweater, pants, panties, and bra. Her body shook as she stared at her naked self in the mirror, feeling like she was crumbling down into a dark winding spiral. She could feel chills up her spine as if someone was breathing on her neck. It felt as if someone was breathing all up and down her body, a hot, heavy musty breath.
Her face turned from pale to blue. The mirror started fighting with her slamming itself against her—it or what began to develop a face that seemed to look familiar and inviting. A look Michelle had only seen in dreams. But to Michelle’s surprise, her frail body got pushed on her bed. She grasped her mirror, fighting with it some more, wailing. As she looked deeply into the mirror while fighting it, she saw a girl in pain. A girl that looked so similar to her. The girl facing her seemed to be a destructed version of herself. It was not the mirror attacking her that made her so fearful, but it is what she saw. She saw the girl looking back at her. Michelle started to get angrier and angrier while fighting. She fought so hard that she placed the mirror back on her dresser.
Michelle tried to grab her desk chair but felt the pressure of her mirror on her chest. She screamed for her mom or brother, anyone that was in the house. But no one answered. Her mind wondered why her mom or her brother was not coming to save her. But they never saved her before; why would they save her from her mirror now? Who could ever believe a girl was getting beat up by a mirror? Michelle reached for her phone but could not get a hold of it. Her reflection stopped fighting with her. Once she was comfortable and stopped fighting, her mirror went back on her dresser. She spread out crying on her bed in fear. Her bed felt warm compared to her cold naked body. Her bed started to feel like a cloud. While she laid there shaking, trying to sleep so she would go far away from the nightmare in her room. Michelle sunk her hands into the sheets with tears running down her ears. She was not crying so much in fear but was crying in sadness and pain. She knew why her mirror attacked her. When she looked in her mirror, all she saw was broken dreams, broken glass, and broken wishes. She barely saw her body; she saw all of herself come out. She saw nothing but sadness. What others saw was a girl who was confident, satisfied with her decisions. She was not happy with herself at all. Her body felt cold, laying there naked. She allowed herself to curl up in a ball but felt selfish for doing so.
Her childhood room turned to dirt. Dirt from her garden came zooming through her window, falling aggressively on her carpet. When Michelle heard the havoc coming from her window, she awoke from her fetal position. Looking nervously around, she quickly got up to put on clothes. The earth felt silky underneath her feet. Her room became a jungle. Instead of gray walls with posters, birds came out from the windows. A pack of hummingbirds flocked into her room. The hummingbirds surrounded her like they were her guardian angels. As soon as the lilacs, hibiscus flowers, and salvia appeared, the hummingbirds went running to drink all the nectar. Michelle looked around in awe, tumbling in the dirt. A place where birds and flowers were blooming. A place that used to feel so lifeless to her now felt like life. Her room became her secret garden.
More birds flew into her room. Now there were robins, blue jays, and butterflies. Her brown hair became purple. The purple started at the root and went all the way to the ends of her hair. A surge of pain began to grow from her head. She winced in pain. The bird crowded her while she wailed in pain. It felt like something was growing out of her head. Then as she thought the problem would get worse, everything started to feel euphoric. It felt as if the sun was shining over her. While crying some more in pain or happiness, a blue lotus flower emerged from her head. It bloomed into a full-blown flower. She looked at it curiously as she has never seen a real live lotus flower before. She smiled up at the peak, growing out of her head. For the first time in a long time, she felt a wholesome smile. Michelle ran back to her reflection, which she was very fearful of at first but began to trust the demented inanimate object. She became the inanimate object. She is scared of her reflection. But when she finally saw herself for who she is, she grew into who she is. A blue lotus flower coming from murky waters.
Be good? The Man
A Non-Fiction Self Reflective short story by Mia Elias
Last night I was lying in bed sexting one of my favorite men. While doing this, I got a phone call from a man I never wanted a phone call from ever again. In the phone call, he asked me if I was good. I immediately became enraged with thoughts of what does that mean? Why would he care? And why does it matter to him? He is not in my life anymore nor does he matter so why does he want me to be “good” and what does that even mean. When I think of being good, I think of Am I getting good grades? Am I kind? Am I healthy, either mentally or physically? Am I just simply being a good person? And why do men have the audacity to ask women if they are good like he is my dad? Like he is asking me, “Are you good for me?” In some sick, perverted way.
I often tried to be saved by men and their notion of “Be a good girl princess” because I never was good. Either men try and sexualize you or save you and I do not want to be either (unless I ask to be sexualized or intend that to happen.) When he asked me if I was good I knew he meant if I was having sex with other people while we were not together. Was I selling my body for money? Was I selling Marijuana? Was I going out? He isn’t my husband or boyfriend though so none of things should matter and even if he was why would they? I never thought selling my body for money was wrong because I was doing it legally. I never thought that I was a bad person for doing so, even after countless times MEN telling me it was. I was comfortable with getting paid to do things on the camera. It is a job. A legal one at that. Making excuses only benefits them. Men.
Why would I sit here and write and make excuses for something that I am doing that is not under any circumstances illegal or wrong? Why am I sitting here explaining myself? But I am done defending the man….. Maybe I have a fear of getting judged. Perhaps I have a fear of not being looked at seriously because of my occupation at the moment. But I am more than a job and a body. Why do men think that life is limited for women and do jobs like that because of that? My life is not limited.. My life is complete, and I can make my own decisions. I am a grown adult with a brain. I do not need to be looked at like some case that requires analysis. I do not need saving; if anything, the man does. The words “be good” haunt me.
Whenever we would break up, he would say, be good mi Mundo (my world). Which once such a sweet word would now ring me out. Your world? I hope I am not in anyone’s world because I am not a food, water, or shelter. I am me. When he asked the question of “Are you still camming” I immediately lied to save myself the annoyance of stroking his ego because to him it makes him feel fucked up. I ignored my lying but there is something to be said about it. Why would I lie? I lied to save trouble. I never saw it as wrong but why do I feel I have to tell everyone all the time why it is right like I am convincing them to respect a human being’s choice. A constant convincing of respect like I am proving myself. But who am I proving myself to? The man?
“Kelly Clarkson”
Poem by Mia Elias
The love of my life is on a tip of a berg.
Send a mess of “judge me” flow down my breast.
He plants me in the depths of see and go
Tongues flip and flop in my mouth when they come.
Don’t fall in love with me I am not ours.
The soul I love drift me in harm the gale of the nigh.
I am a small bird drunk in the sky.
Fill me up with a gun to my heart.
My hair is dark but is not torn in men.
Love lie dead threw up in the sky you got me.
Right-back in the eye I climb the trouble.
I beat drums you are not the moon I know.
Break glass tore me in space drunk on cold rum.
Cold rum sweet drums that crow at the shock of cum.
Endless
Poem by Mia Elias
I turn into flowers then get bounded to powers.
Capability is my endowment.
Cranium overload judging my panic compass.
East, West, North, South, Anxiety, Bipolar.
Two girls one motherless the other childless.
Blank responses too many words meaningless.
Less of me less of the lotus inside.
I am letting him know I am discovered.
By me? Be me? No, I anymore just me.
Running towards endless no more constraint.
On the end of the road of desire.
Patting my drum looking out at the house.
Bulging lights from the distance of nature.
Poppy flowers to frolic in mindless games.
Welcome to my blog, portfolio and working creations. I’m a college student working on my blossoming writing career and exploring the depths of my creativity. Feel free to read and enjoy!
Thanks, M
Works of Mia