I’m a real monster when I can’t see past my anger I want to burn you down I want you to drown And at times I can control my impulsivity and revenge But sometimes my anger can’t be caged And I try to keep it in between the pages of my journal and notebooks but the resentment becomes too loud to let you off the hook So a passive aggressive status post happens with an intent to insult and offend I want you to feel my anger all the way revealed Maybe one day I’ll get much better not allowing my anger to turn me into a monster
I’m not the one you want or the one you’ll ever take home to meet your mama but I’m the one etched in your mind, the one who appears in your dreams the one you will never forget about and one of your few regrets and you, you were another story among many another obsession of my past I hardly ever think about
lately I take the biggest bites out of life and flaunt it in front of everyone for too long I suppress my hunger for experience, For adventure thought I was crazy for trying to explore my curious nature So instead I took small bites here and there thinking it would be enough but it wasn’t who I was a little bird taking nips naw I’m a condor reading to pounce and satiate my hunger my big ass appetite ready to be satisfied with the unpleasant and pleasurable things in life
another 4 years of trump and who knows if America will still be standing if anyone who’s not male or white will still have rights another 4 years of trump and I see a future of fascism and dictatorship and U.S born citizens being sent back to their parent’s country of origin another 4 years of trump and I’m not sure I’ll still be alive or at very least still maintain a semblance of my sanity
Home is my son’s laughter after a hard day home is the sun on my skin while I run home is peace and Tranquility after years of Chaos home is letting other see the real me and not some fake personality
it wasn’t until today I realized how ordinary you really were It wasn’t that you were ever that interesting or special It was me with my lovergirl delusional glasses refusing to see past what was in front of me Seeing and getting caught up in fantasies of who you could be when really you were, the most ordinary of men not malicious, not especially intelligent not really helpful just kind of existing without any spark without anything that would make me look twice at you now
Pretty gets me in a man’s door but also makes me feel like a whore I’ve been pretty sexy, pretty nice, pretty sweet I’ve also been pretty crazy, pretty Petty, and pretty mean men love me when I’m pretty and submissive but not when I’m pretty reclusive men want the pretty girl who’s fun but not when I’m a pretty girl who’s a selfish cunt pretty gets me notice but also gets me dismissed
with this new strain of COVID, all of my cell are mutating and regenerating and making be at a standstill where I have time to sit and think about what I really want, about whether or not I’m doing enough to live a life worth living or if I’m just existing in a routine of monotony that leads nowhere in a routine I’ve deluded myself into calling healthy but really it’s far from it
Men love a pretty mess like me especially the nice ones who want to fix me and save me I’m their pretty princess who’s so lovely and sweet And for some, my pussy makes them think or say they love me but when I turn from a pretty mess to a crazy and chaotic hurricane they can’t stand to be around me and run away “I never signed up for this, you’re toxic” and I cry and then laugh at the absurdity you don’t get to choose just to love the fun part of me because that’s not love that’s their primal need and lust for me disguised as loved because real love accepts everything about me
the day I was told I needed a total hip replacement surgery
my body has betrayed me one last time and this time I’ll take charge of it and control what’s happening this time I’m old enough to stop this nonsense and kill what’s causing me the most insufferable pain and I’ll replace the hip that’s the vane of my existence, the diseased hip that must be sacrificed for me to stop the curse of martyrdom passed down for generations
I am a powerful force in this complicated world full of intelligence humor and intense sexuality men want to fuck me, women want to hate me both want to get near me I’m an Amazon goddess in a millennial mom bod I try my best to stay humble but have you ever been called the most beautiful woman in the world or has your power make grown men cry and run away from you it’s hard to stay down to earth when I hold so much power between my legs and my hands Soy una a mujer, made up of chaos and trauma who carries strength and resilience as her armor
to see my american dream I just need to step into my backyard and look at my holy trinity who call me mom they’re the ones I try to better myself for they’re the one who make my immigrant existence worth living for they’re my american dream wrapped up in burps, dark humor and love
If you were forced to wear one outfit over and over again, what would it be?
This is the most terrible prompt on WordPress to be honest. Perhaps this is coming from a place of vanity since the only thing that made me seriously consider the convent was the thought of wearing the same outfit the rest of my life. In fact, here’s a poem I wrote about it.
‘My vice
On a sunny day, I was angry and running and said, “who the fuck needs men” and I thought about joining the convent I could definitely take a vow of celibacy but then I remember their vow of poverty And I can’t become a poor person again Sure God will understand I’m made for starbucks And pretty dresses from amazon And to take a vow of modesty would feel like an atrocity a crime against my humanity I could never tone down my beauty I look too good in a bikini so for now I’ll have to settle for a secular life because being a spoiled and pretty girl is my vice
I couldn’t even wear this banging outfit the rest of my life.
Anyways, WordPress needs to do better with their prompts. 🙂↕️🙂↕️🙂↕️
As I’m thinking about this answer, two teachers come to mind. One is my 11th Grade English Mrs.Idica and the other is my college professor of creative writing, Dr.Blais.
Who knows what would have happened to these two if it wasn’t for Mrs.Idica 😭😭😭
I took Mrs.Idica’s Asian American Lit and Creative Writing class my junior year of high school. I did really well in my creative writing class but almost flunked the Asian American lit class. I remember not liking her too much at first because she pushed us to do our best and was strict. I think I did well in the creative writing class because I really loved writing poems and little short stories. At the time, I didn’t think it was something I’d ever be passionate about but of course the class did have a great impact on me, here’s a poem I wrote in that class:
Mrs.Idica ended up being my homebound teacher when I was on maternity leave with my first son at the beginning of my senior year. That meant that for 6 weeks, she came to my house to give me my school assignments and helped me with them if I needed help. She would stay and talk to me and always encouraged me to drop out of high school and to continue on. This was important for me to hear as there was pressure from people in my family to drop out and work. She could have easily just dropped off my work and not have these conversations with me but instead she showed up with the compassion and grace I needed during a really dark time in my life. She also had the patience of the saint as I trudge through my school assignments since I was an terrible student. She never gave up on me or told me my life was ruined because I had a child at such a young age. In fact, she was one of the few people who didn’t shame me and reminded me my child was a gift. The encouragement from her and her belief in me really made a difference in my life. I don’t believe I would have put so much effort that last year in high school and graduated on time. I think what made her not just a great but exceptional teacher was that she was caring, had the patience of a saint, and was this light of compassion and encouragement for me when I needed it. This is a poem I wrote about her:
I also want to say that I’m still in touch with her through social media where I share updates about my life and my writing. Even now, she tells me she’s proud of me and that means a lot to me.
Right after taking Dr.Blais class
Another teacher in my life who was exceptional was my creative writing professor Dr. Blais. Like Mrs.Idica, she pushed us to do our best in the class and provided a safe space for us to express ourselves creatively.I also learned to be super disciplined with my writing in her class and the editing process. She was very patient with us and in her class I wrote 3 plays and both of them won 2nd and 3rd place in the college writing competition which meant a lot to me since it was the first time I was writing plays. She also encouraged me to continue writing and even invited me to one of her playwright workshop groups but I couldn’t go due to family obligations. Also, her class was my favorite escape from my busy mom life that included 2 small kids and 3 part time jobs at the time. It was a crazy time in my life where my mental health was a bit touch and go but going to Dr.Blais class helped me cope. Like, Mrs.Idica, Dr.Blais saw potential in me and encouraged me and was incredibly patient in kneading the writer out of me. I think taking her class validated my passion for writing. Especially when the last assignment was making a book which I titled “My Quarter Life Crises” . I felt accomplished in making that little book of my poems and plays. Here’s a link to one of the plays I wrote in her class:
Unfortunately, I lost touch with my Dr.Blais after college and can’t seem to find her anywhere. Last I heard is that she’s had success as a playwright in New York.
I think I’ve been incredibly fortunate to have had two educators show up in my life who made a positive impact on effect. It doesn’t always happen that way (thinking about my super condescending English professor at UGA- but that’s another blog post) . It’s hard to imagine who I would have become without both of them.
july, july, july it’s the month where I lose my mind the heat gets to me and turns up the BSC in me you won’t find me sweet and eager to please in July you won’t find me full of ruffles and flowery phrases in poetry you’ll find me being a ball of immigrant rage and fury you’ll find me a woman who’s had enough of the American dream bullshit and ready to roar and scream out everything wrong with this country
Life on the BPD 