Water Color Imperfections

I believe in imperfections.

I remember in third grade when I was handed a palate of watercolor paints, by my art teacher, for a project.

I made a painting of a koala in the woods. Then, I had the bright idea of making a burnt-out fire right next to this koala. I remember thinking, “What have I done?” In my mind, my koala painting was ruined by this fire. But, that’s the beauty of watercolor paints, they make things.

Looking outside, it’s as if someone gave Mother Nature a watercolor set when she was in third grade. It’s like all of the nature was created by the tip of her paintbrush running across the horizon as colors slowly dripped down below like rain.

However, like in my art, there are imperfections in nature. But that’s the beauty of it, watercolor paints create. And what would life be like if everything was perfect?

No snowflakes, people, or experiences are the same. No art or music exactly alike. And the differences and imperfections in all of us make us unique and independent. Imperfections make us our own people. And even if my watercolor set is broken, I can still paint my life.


Darling, Mama wants you to know that there will always be sunshine. She wants you to know that happiness is coming, that love and friendship is forever, and that her life can’t hurt you.

Darling, please don’t let her life hurt you.

Don’t let the people that you thought you knew know you better than you know yourself on only one side of your pendulum.

Don’t let yourself be stuck by their magnetic clockwork winding you up to the point that your green light eyes come on pleading “Unwind me!”

Darling, don’t let them continue to twist your gears until they snap.

Don’t let someone take you when you’re vulnerable with the breath half knocked out of you. Don’t let them pluck at your heart like a harp because

Darling, eventually they will start twisting those strings onto the braces on the teeth that weren’t good enough in the first place.

Darling, don’t let my depression corral you into a dark hole where you can only hear your mama’s voice.

Her breathing shaky and tight from being hit so many times by flung words of acid that silented her.

And darling, I’m sorry if when you lean against your mama’s chest you hear her broken heartbeat.

I’m sorry if you hear the rumbling of fear vibrating under her rib cage, the hate popping like rock candy, and the muffled cries for help from the days of her eating disorder.

I’m sorry if you only hear one side of your mama’s broken pendulum.

Home is Here

Home is…
The smell of bonfires lingering in the sticky air,
The chattering of rumbling car engines,
And the smell of barbeque sauce, burnt marshmallows, and chlorine.

Home is…
The sweet nectar of the rain,
Cake for breakfast on birthdays,
Traffic jams,
And wondering if you’ll make it to school on time.

Home is…
The Christmas day excitment when you wake up extra-early just to open the gifts that have been teasing you from under the tree.

Home is…
Lemonade stands that last all day,
And vanilla ice cream that you have to eat quickly to make sure that it doesn’t melt and slip onto the concrete.

Home is…
Music in the car after school,
Surprise hair cuts,
And creating chalk cities.

Home is…
Dogs chasing after tennis balls as they bound down the road.

Home is…
Sitting on the back porch in the evening summer heat washing fresh vegetables from the garden,
Fresh donuts from the local bakery,
And accidentally playing cricket at dusk in the cactuses.

Home is…
Family dinners,
And happiness.

Home is…
And here.

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