I’m a sadist when it comes to you.

I can’t stay away from thoughts of you.

I look for glimpses of your face through pictures and videos,

Fully knowing she might be there.

And it stings every time she is.

I pretend she isn’t more often than not,

And when reality forces its way in it’s like the oxygen is sucked out of me


I watched you play today.

Searched for your face in every video frame.

Took in every image of your broad shoulders doing what you love most.

I watched your eyes close and you bite your lip as you threw your head back and lost yourself to the music.

And then…they zoomed in on your hands.

And I felt it again,

That constraint in my lungs as I tried to breathe but couldn’t.

Instead i found myself crying…grieving…remembering…

Those hands.

Hands that swallowed up mine at one point.

Hands that touched my face an played with my hair.

Hands that explored every inch and crevice of my body.

Hands that parted my thighs and plunged into me.

Hands that made me feel safe and wanted.

Hands that felt like…home.

They zoomed in on your hands and it literally took my breath away.


I miss those hands.

Beauty To My Madness

Preface: this is another piece written by my 13 year old. This particular one was a descriptive short story she had to write for class. I remember her sitting in the living room with tears in her eyes freaking out because she didn’t like the first couple of sentences and had writer’s block. As usual we went through the motions of talking her off the ledge. I find that talking her through these panic attacks she has and helping her find some sort of structure in all that noise she has in her head when she is under pressure sometimes helps her. The finished product of what came from a long night of her scratching out words and crumbling up paper was this story, one which I can say is my favourite thing she’s written so far.

Lewis brushes the last of the girl’s thin blonde hair and adjusts her black headband. “You look absolutely stunning, Alice.”
The tall man smiles and walks to the other end of the long rectangular table, mint green tablecloth chasing his thin form with the wind of his sudden movements. He sits in a chair identical to Alice’s. Mahogany wood polished to a shine, carved into intricate designs that seem to dance along the sides and legs of the gothic looking seat. It is time for tea.
The peculiar pair sit in a dark unswept room, light only coming from a large panelled window to the left of the endless table. The thick red drapes are peeled back to reveal a steep hill on top of which a towering oak tree rests, and empty land as far as the eye can see, as the grand mansion sits alone. Everyone is afraid of Lewis C. Hattington and his absent daughter. The floor has a checkerboard pattern and Alice’s fingertips drag along a cold white square next to her chair. Clocks of all sizes are hung haphazardly on the walls, a ghastly reminder of how little time Lewis has with his girl. The table is the only furniture in the room.
Clink clink. Just as Lewis is about to pour the tea into his own cup after filling Alice’s, the lid on the teapot starts rattling. Clink clink clink. He hesitantly lifts the lid off of the pot, only to reveal a brown skittish rat with a long scaly tail. It releases a hiss and scurries to the other end of the table, climbing up on Alice’s shoulders and head. The girl does not react. The man chuckles and reaches over the table to shoo the pest away, knocking Alice’s hot tea over and spilling it on her lap in the process. The rat jumps down to the armrest of the chair, then the floor, and runs into the shadows lurking in each corner of the room. Alice does not react. Lewis sighs and looks to the nearest clock. The big hand is on the twelve and the smaller on the three. There is no point in continuing this tea party now. It is time to say goodbye.
“I suppose tea time is over then. Don’t fret, young one. This time I am coming with you.”
The tall man stands from his seat and trips over his own feet as he walks towards his limp daughter. He picks her up carefully and grabs the shovel leaning on the doorframe on his way out. As he slowly walks towards the back door of the mansion, Lewis observes every dust filled room, old fashioned chandelier and worn down floorboard as he passed. This is the last time he would see any of them. As he walks up to the big tree on the hill a grave comes into sight.
Alice’s bed. Lewis lays her down on her back and crosses her arms over her chest, as he has done for many months before. Every Sunday at noon, Lewis was reunited with his daughter, but today was the last time they would have tea together.
Once Alice’s coffin is buried in dirt for the last time, Lewis lets out a shaky sigh and looks up at the branch next to Alice’s grave. Swinging back and forth like a pocket watch in the hand of a late hare, there hangs a noose. The noose that will bring Lewis C. Hattington to his beautiful daughter.
“They called me crazy, Alice, for keeping you with me for so long. ‘Mad as a hatter’, they said. They were right, my dear Alice. I see that now. I am mad. But all the best people are, now aren’t they?”
written by Juhlyza Baldelomar

The Sexualization of Summer

Preface: This is actually something written by my 13 year old daughter. In class they have been listening to some of Rick Mercer Report’s rants and as an assignment they had to write thier own and keep at the minute mark or just under. They will be filming their rants and compiling them together as a class.
I always encourage my kids and try to teach them as much as possible. I’m sure like most parents I have my moments when I question how effective my parenting is not just as a mom but as a woman…a guide. This is a short piece but it’s yet another small piece of evidence for me that I’m not doing as bad as I think I am sometimes.


I’m not into being fake happy. I seldomly show excitement, half a smile is just as good as a full one and don’t expect my voice to go an octave higher than my normal tone. Resting bitch face is a natural state of being for me. I don’t do it to be shady or for any petty reasons. Shit, I don’t even know I do it until it’s pointed out to me! I’m always told I don’t show feelings, to smile, to not be such a bitch…since apparently not smiling equates to being “a bitch”.

People have caught feelings about giving me gifts because I haven’t shown levels of excitement that were acceptable to them. People have called me heartless, bitter, cold, bitchy (they love that one) and whatever other adjectives suits them at the moment to point out the fact that my demeanour makes them uncomfortable.

Well guess what bitch? I’m me. That’s it. I don’t smile because life has conditioned me not to smile. I don’t smile because I don’t fucking feel like it. I don’t smile because I’m not obligated to make your insecure ass feel better about yourself if I flash you some teeth and gums. I don’t smile because I’ve gone through so much hurt and have so much inside to deal with that my half smile is all I’ve trained my mind to project just to feel a little bit normal at times that a smile would be warranted. I don’t smile because it’s not a welcome sign for men to approach me or talk to me when all I want to do is get to where the hell in going!

So if you ever do see me smile and even more rare hear me laugh out loud…then know that you’re truly appreciated and your presence is indeed a present.

Hard Knock Life

Those closest to me know my rough past. They know a blue bandanna was a staple for me. Despite going to a catholic school with uniform we still managed to make it look as hood as possible. Thick black eyeliner, curly hair, blue bandannas and white K-Swiss kicks paired with a very short kilt and with a white button up or over sized white golf shirt. That was the look that set the cholas apart from the predominantly white population of the high school I attended. The school was mostly full of Italians and Polish kids. Most of the coloured kids concentrated their lockers in one or two hallways. If we were assigned lockers somewhere else we either traded with someone or ended up with two lockers for the year. The hallway was dubbed “the night hallway”, it was where you found all the black kids, Filipinos, Latinos and the white kids that grew up with us. It was the hallway where you found all the singers, the breakers, the star athletes and the roughnecks in one place. We were a family. It was us against them. You call one person a n****r, you call all of us a n****r. You call one person a s**c, you call all of us a s**c. We were like a swarm of angry bees if you disturbed the nest. We used to go to each other’s court dates. If someone thought she was pregnant, we’d borrow a health card so she could go to a clinic. If we knew you were gonna get your ass beat at home for whatever reason we’d walk you home in hopes that your pops or mom would forget why they were mad in the first place. When the time came to go home we’d let you know that if shit went down we’d have a bed ready for you. We looked out for each other because nobody else was doing it. The other kids would call us juvies, short for juvenile delinquents. Teachers would always be trying to catch us in something to suspend us or telling us we would end up like our parents if we didn’t smarten up. As if it was the worst thing in the world. Cops would target us and follow us home. It was always us against them. Some of us made it…others didn’t. It’s a hard knock life.

7 Ways People Who Have Been Emotionally Abused Love Differently

The scars are internal.

When it comes to abusive relationships, it isn’t always just physical abuse. While this isn’t meant to detract from the issue of domestic abuse that far too many women have suffered (and still suffer), it’s to address the fact that emotional abuse can be just as damaging, but in completely different ways.

When you’re in an emotionally abusive relationship, it’s not always noticeable right away. You don’t bear the bruises of a physical attack, but you’re still scarred in many ways, and that scarring leaves an imprint that can affect every future relationship.

It’s hard to love again after you’ve been manipulated, put down, controlled, belittled, and made to feel worthless by someone who was supposed to love you and care about you.

As someone who’s been emotionally abused in the past and can now clearly see it, I’m also able to see how it changed my idea of relationships and my approach to love. Here are seven ways those of us who have been emotionally abused love differently:

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