Posted on by pattytacuri

poetry: sister loretto

I wrote this poem in April of 2025.

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short gray hair, steely blue eyes, red nose, transparent white skin
stern hands with a wooden rules in them
always ready to correct an unruly and wild child
who talked too much, who wiggled in line or at their desk,
who walked a thin line between angel and mortal
her presence intimidated me and scared me to tears
and a Godly fear of disappointing her quickly set in me at age 6
and quickly I learned how to swim
found that the key to never feel her wrath was silence
and unconditional obedience
by blending in with the walls, with my desk, only speak
when spoken to, ask permission for everything
even to breathe, become a good little soldier of the Lord
forget Spanish and leave my immigrant identity at home
it’s how I survived 5 years of religious indoctrination
it’s how I became an american

Posted on by pattytacuri

Poetry: Morning 2021

I wrote this poem in April of 2022.

When I open my eyes,I whine and grunt
Another day where I whine,whine, whine
Working to live? Or living to work?
I can’t remember which is better
Living is really just guesswork
Maybe today I won’t feel so much anger
Perhaps I should find hope in this new day
Instead of living in doom and gloom
Maybe the darkness will stay away
Or I’ll cry at work in the bathroom again

Posted on by pattytacuri

poetry: holy spirit

I wrote this poem in April of 2025.

ese escote es pecado

my first lesson in forgetting spanish came at age 6,
that first week in first grade at holy spirit
when Spanish came out of my mouth and sister Loretto screamed at tme
and threatened me with the ruler
I don’t remember what she said bu t I was deeply impacted
learned to be good, to be obedient was to forget who I was
and quickly I made my brain believe English was better,
English was the language for survival in my adopted homeland
and like a sponge, I absorbed it
I didn’t lose heart when I was placed in the lowest reading group,
didn’t cry when I mispronounced a word, and my classmates laugh
I just kept on going
understood that my parents sacrifice in coming here needed to be worth it
there was so much pressure on my shoulders to succeed at age 6
instead of playing make believe and getting lost in disney fantasies
my priority was to learn English and become my parents american dream

Posted on by pattytacuri · 1 Comment

poetry: searching

I wrote this poem in March of 2023.

let’s go hurtling into a glass door together ….

a lot of us search for someone or something
to complete us or make us feel like we are enough
we’ve been brainwashed by society’s conditioning
that we’re incomplete without a lover
or without our career goals satisfied
and this is really toxic and false narrative
we need to stop believing in
we should look instead for the amazing in the ordinary
and appreciate how it’s a gift to just be human and exist

Posted on by pattytacuri

poetry: lies we tell ourselves

I wrote this poem in March of 2023.

the sexual tension between me and ghosting everyone is insane

we lie to ourselves continuously about our needs
to save face, to avoid conquering our fears
to not feel insecure
we’ll tell ourselves we are better off alone and independent
when in reality as humans
we are meant to be social
we are meant to share ourselves with others
but it’s cooler to say, “I’m good with my solitude,
I’m my own best friend”
because deep down inside we don’t want to get hurt again

Posted on by pattytacuri

Poetry: EL (part .2 -L.B)

I wrote this poem in March of 2025.

subtitles jump from my phone screen violently
one of the few films from 1950’s mexico
that address domestic violence
one of the few films to portray the man
as the crazy one
but instead of him going to prison
for his many crimes against his wife
he ends up locked up in a monastery

Posted on by pattytacuri

poetry: heather

I wrote this poem in March of 2023.

before I was diagnosed with BPD, I was very sick
I wished and wished to be anyone else but me
I really wanted to be a middle class white woman
the kind who grew up with 2 parents in a 2 story house the kind who never had to assimilate to fit it
the kind who never had to to fill out a FAFSA application the kind who was never neglected
and whose feelings were always validated
the kind who writes stories or poems about her favorite horse instead of stories or poems about constantly feeling like a stranger in your adopted homeland
the kind who is mostly respected by men
and not fetichized or called exotic
the kind who’s never had 2 jobs to survive
in this capitalistic society
before I was diagnosed with BPD,I was very sick
I wished and wished to be anyone else but me
but three years into recovery
I’ve healed and wouldn’t want to be anyone else
because while it’s true that many people don’t struggle as much me everyone (even middle class white women)
still have their own set of insecurities and trauma
I know nothing about
I’ve learned I need to focus on myself,
feel gratitude for everything I have
as I reach my goals and chase my dreams
and most importantly
I now love and embrace who I’ve been,
who I am, who I will be
I no longer play a game of envy
and view myself as a broken mess
of who I’ve been or what’s happened to me
I was never those things
I’m a beautiful mosaic of everything
I’ve endured, experienced and lived

Posted on by pattytacuri

poesía: esto va a matar a tu padre

escribí este poema en marzo del 2022.

Me convertí en la oscuridad para mi papá
la Luz que brillaba en sus ojos por mis apagón
y lloré Lloré lloré
sentí que había matado el amor
que sentía por mí
pero no era así
Si lo había Herido bastante
pero me perdonó cuándo
le de otra razón de amo

Posted on by pattytacuri

poetry:check your privilege

I wrote this poem in March of 2022.

Check your privilege at the door
every single white person who comes
asking for my opinion
I can’t be your agreeable POC anymore

Check your privilege at the door
I’m not the voice for my community
with you, certain topics I can’t explore
don’t use me as another learning opportunity

Posted on by pattytacuri

poetry: for once

I wrote this poem in March of 2025.

one day in bed and my son acts like its the end of the world
demands I get up and act like an adult
like the mother he’s used to seeing
but in defiance, I stay in bed
reading poetry and allow the muse to come and allow me
to pour out of me and land on paper
for once I won’t allow the patriarchy define how I should act,
who I should be
for once I allow the poet me to be my first priority