I wrote to this poem in March of 2022.
I should go back to where I come from and where is that exactly
here -is the only real home I’ve ever known
here – is where all of my babies were born
here- is where I’ve loved and I’ve mourned
so where is my place
because anywhere else feels like a home unknown
I wrote this poem in March of 2025.
hot summer nights on your porch
meant the world to me
and inspired an unusual amount of poems
I’m starting to think that writing poems
is how I hold onto the magic of our memories
escribí este poema en marzo del 2022.
Calladita calladita me quedo siempre
para no molestar a mami que viene cansada segundo trabajo
soy una chica que me trago mis palabras
acerca del chico que me pellizcó el trasero
aunque me siento sucia
no quiero que mami piense que
hice algo malo para que me falten el respeto
soy una señorita de una buena familia
calladita calladita escondo mis libras de más
bajo los Blue Jeans anchos de mi hermano
ni siquiera le mencionó a mi madre que hace meses
no me baja la regla
I wrote this poem in March of 2025.
longing to escape responsibility of my suburban life
I became 21 again and did drugs and fucked stranger men
I never meant any harm, I just wanted to know
what it was like to not be looked
at as someone’s mother, someone’s wife
Escribí este poema en marzo de 2022.
Soy el escándalo de mi generación
marcho a mi ritmo propio desordenado
sin pensar qué es lo correcto o moral
soy una mujer cachonda y alegre
que le gusta una variedad de amantes
porque la vida es demasiado corta
para seguir siendo una niña buena
soy una mujer caótica siempre actuando
sin pensamientos a las consecuencias
soy una mujer que ahora se arriesga
a vivir su vida con ganas y autenticidad
I wrote this poem in March of 2025.
in total darkness I fell for a while
for a year I didn’t listen to music
For a year I don’t remember being a mom
and while I still function and went to work
Several years later
I realize how I had forgotten all about
the darkness I had fallen in a while ago
my mind blocked it in an attempt to move on
in an attempt to heal
I wrote this in March of 2022.
When I was little, I was often lost in daydreams
about America
It was beautiful and blue
I pictured a celestial and warm ocean
where the waves tenderly touch my toes
I was taught it was a better existence than
the one we were living in
but no one told me that dreams sometimes
don’t come true
and the reality of America was filled with a hardness
that even 35 years later I’m still processing
indentured servitude, exploitation, depression,
addiction,racism, mental illness were just a few side effects
of going for the American dream
I wrote this poem in March of 2025.
kept the dead rose petals along with your note as long as I could
it was the first time a man had acknowledged me worthy enough
of a rose
and at 16, that was everything
I wrote this poem in March of 2021.
I don’t want to but have to be the boss
the boss of my family
the boss in my relationships
the boss of my life
it sucks to take charge and dominate all of the spaces
it sucks to have so many responsibilities thrust upon me
it sucks to always have to shrink myself for egos
it sucks to never be in a space where for once
I can be soft
I wrote this poem in March of 2025.
not much of choice, get married or become a whore
at 19, she was trapped between a sword
and another sword
either way she’s trapped and kept away from the life
she really wanted to live
either way, her fate would be sealed
with her ink of shame
I wrote this poem in March of 2021.
feeling my otherness feels like a full time job
not belonging to here or there
constantly in limbo wondering “where is my home?
they hate me here, they hate me there
I don’t belong anywhere but I remain here
it’s the only home I’ve ever known
America
home of the free, home of the brave
but never my HOME!
I wrote this poem in March of 2025.
flickering ashes, among them, the bride’s dress
dreams of a family
dreams of a white picket fence all went up in smoke
jilted and pregnant
bride cries on the floor, waiting for the sentencing
from her parents
now that her lover jilted her
and couldn’t make an honest woman out of her
I wrote this poem in March of 2019.
Feeling hopeless in a cesspool of a world
That will never accept you
-for your skin color
-for your accent
-for your nationality
-for your religion or lack of one
-for your independent thought
Anything that doesn’t fit the image
of white and Christian is blasphemous
To be an “other” is to carry the weight of racism,
discrimination, xenophobia
All the phobias on your already burdened shoulders
So they try to kill us with actual guns Or
metaphorical ones of insults,rejections or looks of disgust.
I wrote this poem in March of 2025.
kept trying to find the God of my youth in men
but instead I kept becoming a martyr over and over
again
I wrote this poem in February of 2023.
I’m soldier of love
too lost battles for me to count and recount
how many times I’ve had to stitch my heart over and over again
from the many knives past lovers have stabbed me with
with the last one, I almost lost all hope for love
It made me lose my sanity and almost gave me PTSD
Still the romantic in me refused to die
and resurfaced this year
Told me, “this time it will be different, this time you have self respect
and you’ll be choosy over who’s worthy of your love energy”
Life on the BPD 