Ti Ana

Ti Ana

Writing: surreal poetry, random thoughts, and more.

Insta: tianaishere

Wanna tell me something? Email [email protected]

How does it work?
  • Ti Ana
    Published 2 years ago
    My Mother Is a Saint

    My Mother Is a Saint

    My mother is a saint,
  • Ti Ana
    Published 2 years ago
    Give Me a Day

    Give Me a Day

    Give me a second. Let me learn about the crevice of your face, learn the way you raise your eyebrows when looking at me as the odd girl who tripped and luckily found her way in the center of your universe. Let me remember the way you brush your hair back when contemplating the simplicity of this moment in the glistening sun and allow me to examine the way your eyes expose the motor car of reinvigorating joy in your soul, how it drives the electric energy between us.
  • Ti Ana
    Published 2 years ago
    Me, You, and the House

    Me, You, and the House

    So immersed in the flavor of smoke,they called it the bakery.Tasted like warm comfort on a Sunday afternoon,they practiced it like it deserved mastery.Hearing midnight chatter in the basement,they sought petty secrets through the wallsand each quiet argument was coupledwith two strangers making out in the halls.The paint is chipped in the bathroom,your roommates thought the neon Budweiser sign would be cool.College life is sometimes a mystery,since you never know what people will call you.After the 2:00 a.m. rush of flailing white girls running out the bathroomand into the dark ether of regrets.I sat in the bedroom,told you to get a new place or deal with setbacks.Someone forgot to turn off the bass next door.The mold on the carpet screams rookie mistake.It’s suddenly another night of our quiet sharped tongues,it’s suddenly another break of day.I was so fed up,I threw the pizza boxes onto the street.I was a grenade in the lawn of disappointments,exploding whenever we couldn’t take the war heat.College boyfriends.The only ones I ask myself what I was doing with.But I knew sure as hell that during many nights,I lied in my dorm room, smiled, and knew this euphoria was no myth.We were everything we could be.We were everything we shouldn’t have been.I didn’t know who I was.No one knew where you were goin’.Slamming doors in the hallwaysnever added up to much.We’d like to think it was worth it,but we were moving this relationship with a crutch.Now it’s a distant memory in the lit sky.I wake up in my own apartment with curtains over the window.Some days I wonder where you are.Some days I understand it’s best not to know.
  • Ti Ana
    Published 2 years ago
    PMDD

    PMDD

    I know that soon it is time for the cocoon, an entrapment that determineswhat my body will do for me.My apartment is the perfect place for hibernation,ready for the changes that are about to take hold.
  • Ti Ana
    Published 2 years ago
    Finally, a Show About the Midwestern Pushover

    Finally, a Show About the Midwestern Pushover

    In the Netflix show, Love, which just recently came out with its third and final season, the main character Gus is a blubbering fish outside of the fish tank of Midwestern niceness, the monotony of small town life, and the flourishing naivety that spawns rural sidewalks. The fictional character Gus grew up in the same small town that I did—Brookings, South Dakota—and moved out to Los Angeles—a city that many of us who grew up in the rural Midwest thinks as some sort of far away country of luxury we’ll never step foot in for longer than a week. Not only does he attempt to maneuver his complicated love life, but also his seemingly out-of-place personality, as he tries to adapt to LA. I’ve never been able to relate to a television character more.
  • Ti Ana
    Published 2 years ago
    Cruella De Void

    Cruella De Void

    “Cruella De Vil, Cruella De Vil, if she doesn’t scare you,no evil thing will!To see her is to take a sudden chillCruella, Cruella…”Window curtains drape acrossmy Persian Sarouk rug in the bedroom.The bear head above my bed frame is my protector of the night.My bedtime routine includes my henchmen washing my face to clear out my pores,a personal percussionist to help chime my way to sleep,and a maid to smooth out my comforter that took 20 rabbits to sew.I am the worst,but I am also the best.My walk is as fierce as if I split open the Red Sea with satin leather heels.Every time I trot on London streets,you tell your children to not end up like me.I am a jailbreaker ahead of my time.I strut in the path of suburban sidewalksthat are tired of the housewife’s cackles in the morning.A pair of plyers spread your last logical reasoning for looking.I know you cook by the stove,your only subconscious wish is to be me.You cook the meatloaf for the 3rd time this week.You think, if only if you were as free.You are the neighborhood’s trophy of hushed whispersduring your summer porch get-togethers;I am every one of your guests’ secret daydreams on lonely Sunday afternoons.God only gives us wingswhen we are ambitious enough to use them.Each day is a flight worth taking.The wind between the feathers I wearbrushes off any ounce of care.I lie in bed by myself, emitting independence toward the sky.Each night I feel a calming breeze,knowing the only love I needis the comfort of rabbit fur beside me.How content I am in the basket of luxury.But certain nights are different.I smoke long Parliaments in bed, hoping the hours pass by quickly.The memories are movie screens that flash on the ceiling at 3:00 a.m.The letters, Winston Churchill, the Suez Canal.His sacrifice for them meant blood draining down the sand;the war never blamed the Italians enough.