Works by Mitchie Torres

(the following works are meant to be untitled for the reader to create their own)

Untitled #1

when did it become okay

when did it become okay to be not okay with ourselves

when did it become okay to nit pick at every detail of ourselves

when did this happen

why is it cool and trendy to self hate

why is it more common to see someone hating themselves than loving themselves

why do we picture ourselves as nearly perfect but say otherwise

what can we do to begin a positive change

what caused this negative aura in our society

what would happen if your mother heard what you say about yourself

would your grandma approve of your obsessive nit picking to be the ideal you

would your brother or sister like to hear the obsessive slander of yourself when they look up to you

would you dare say any of the negativity to your own idol

what is self love to you

what can you do to begin self love in you and others around you

what will become of our society when everyone begins to love themselves again

self love, many people need you. it starts with you peeking in now and again.

Untitled #2

the cigarette man is tiny but powerful

enchants you with the stench of tobacco

with the lies of quitting

the cigarette man releases smoke

the warm smoke dancing out of his mouth along with the lies of quitting

the smoke dances along my nose and twirls it’s fingers in my hair

the cigarette man is defined to a smell

a smell i smell in strangers i walk past

maybe they know the dangers of the cigarettes

but not of the cigarette man

the smell of the cigarette man is not one i miss but i get sad when i smell the stench of the dancing smoke frozen into the threads of clothes of strangers walking by

the cigarette man takes the ashes and piles them oh so beautifully into a ceramic bowl along with the withered smoke that once danced beneath my nose

the ash from the stick falls and burns my lip and i was told the cigarette man would quit

but the smoke still danced along my nose

the smoke still twirled it’s fingers in my hair

and the smoke is still dancing in the threads of strangers clothes

in hopes it’s not the same cigarette man that i know