I wrote this poem in January of 2025.
can’t shake the stink of death
and while I know it’s inevitable
and I need to radically accept it
it still doesn’t soften
the explosion of grief
that follows and leaves me wrecked
it still follows me everywhere I go
perhaps this will be the biggest lesson
of 2025
to spend time with my loved ones
while they’re still here
instead of waiting until it’s too late
and live in regret while we drown
in condolences and eulogies
I wrote this in January of 2022. I was mad about everything. Lol.
Judgment feels like harsh criticism dressed up in “good intentions”
“you have a college degree, you should be doing better”
or “I’ll respect you when you drive”-thank you for the support sister
Ignorance taste like harsh criticism dressed up “in good intentions”
“I’m saying this out of love, you should be like other latinos
and work and don’t go to college” -thanks for the encouragement coworker
Judgment feels like impossible standards I can never measure up to
it’s an ocean of emotional abuse dressed up as “good intentions”
by calling out my insecurities and pointing out how I’m not enough
I wrote this poem in January of 2025.
when I’m in mourning, I want to do crazy things
like dye my hair blonde, cut my bangs,
adopt a new identity
anything to escape the grief that wants to set in
I actually started writing this poem sometime in 2017 and finished it in January 2020. A big part of my identity is being an immigrant. This poem was inspired by the hardships and struggles I’ve seen my parents and other immigrants go through. This poem was also inspired by the Trump administration and the xenophobia that was felt in my life during that time.
Here is an audio link to my family’s immigration story: https://www.mixcloud.com/rabbitbox/rb50-stranger-in-a-strange-land-immigration-stories-patricia-tacuri/
immigration leads to discrimination
of immigrants into this so called united nation
the ones with brown skin and dark eyes
justice to them is greatly denied
xenophobia is the driving sensation
their bosses sing a song called exploitation
and they hum along to it to live in this democratic nation
they leave their language and culture behind
to endure the american lie
but don’t quite fit into the gringo equation
Is their sacrifice worth so much separation
from their families, their language, and their nation?
Ah-America – the land of the free
yet none of them are truly free
living in a soulless and consumerist society
I wrote this poem in January of 2020. Maybe I was mad at the patriarchy or just feeling weighed down by the expectations that society has on women. I know that for me, it has been a huge burden at times to constantly keep up an appearance that I am put together balanced woman even if I am falling apart.
The strength we have to carry as women
is obscene
Endless expectations weigh on us
generation after generation
We are buried in the burdens
that society has placed on us
since before we were born
Be pretty but don’t show your body
Be smart but we don’t want your opinion
Be motherly and nurturing
but still a working and productive member of society
It is a never ending nightmare to try to reach
the ridiculous standards placed upon
our beauty, wealth, and motherhood
Some of us seem to do it with grace
Some of us are barely hanging on by a thread
Quite a few of us would rather die
than continue with the facade and the myth
of a balanced woman.
I wrote this poem in December of 2024.
on hinge, I became unhinged
some man child told me
I should thank him for expressing
his desire to fuck me
within 5 minutes of talking to him
I wanted to obliterate him completely
cuss him out for how disrespectful he was being
but instead bowed out gracefully
told him, “naw, I’m made for victorian courtship”
he thought I was strange for wanting something
with more substance than casual sex
with a guy from a dating app
told me, “good luck with your AI boyfriend”
and the interaction leaves me sour once again
wondering if I was born in the wrong era
if I’m asking for too much in asking to be
respected and seen as a real person
instead as a temporary toy for men
to play with
I wrote this poem in December of 2023.
the more I disconnected from motherhood and compartmentalize my life
the more damage I did to myself and others
taking accountability and bonding with my children
is necessary for healing
I wrote this poem in December of 2024.
I used to find it romantic and endearing how in Hollywood stories
the protagonists triumphs over insurmountable obstacles
to find their happy endings
until I notice there’s always a third party who’s left behind
a third party who’s expendable and the cost
of the happy ending the protagonist are granted
it makes me wretched with empathy and feel grief for them
because too often, I’ve known what it’s like to be left
for someone prettier, shinier, easier, MORE EXCITING
and I wonder if it’s time to write stories about them
the third parties left behind who didn’t make the cut
in their lover’s love story
I wrote this poem in December of 2023.
You were one of my false starts this year
it wasn’t your fault though
I tend to get stars in my eyes
over any man who gives me attention,
And is equally emotionally unavailable
It’s a lethal combination for me
And even if I know better,
I always fall for it
except this time
I fell harder than usual
because you’re also a man
who calls me out on my bullshit
I wrote this poem in December of 2024.
ceo assassin come find me, I bet you’re a crazy communist who can match my bpd and bipolar energy
you leave me breathless with an insatiable sexual hunger to make magic between my sheets
ceo assassin come find me, let’s run away together from this capitalistic bullshit society
and form our own version of utopia
one where universal healthcare is a real thing, one where no one has to work 60 hour weeks to make ends meet, one where we are working to live and not living to work
ceo assassin come find me, I don’t care that you’re on the most wanted list,
I don’t care that they call you a murderous psychopath
all I can see in front of me is divine masculinity and bravery who’s fucking tired
of the trickle down economics false narrative this consumerist society conditions us to believe
and i, more than other people understand you perfectly
I can’t recall how many times I, too have found myself in a murderous rage wanting to turn
to violence to make my working class anger heard and seen to send a message
to the haves and the heathers, karens, chads, and brads of the world
fuck you and your vacations, your teslas, and your brand name clothing while the rest of us
have to settle for crumbs of the American Dream
ceo assassin come find me, between your anger and mine combined, it could be the match
that ignites an entire revolution not just against those who deny our insurance claims
but also going against the 1 percent who deny us the freedom to just exist without worrying
about how to make it in this consumeristic society and parasitic world without going crazy
I wrote this poem in December of 2023.
your boundaries are clear as spring water
I heard them between the gaps of silence
in our texts
you don’t want to encourage any attention from me
or send mixed messages
so instead, you don’t answer or initiate any conversations
and I don’t blame you for this-
After all, I am batshit crazy, I wouldn’t date me either
so I will no longer bother you
I’ll leave you alone
respect the professional boundaries and walls
you have erected
Take this as another sign from the universe
I’m still too damaged for another chance at love
I wrote this poem in December of 2024.
run away from your demons, run away from your trauma
by running away to the philippines and abandoning your 4 children
and playing happy families with the girl who’s only 2 years older
than your oldest son
run away and try to live out your own version of happiness
pretend your American nightmare was a nightmare
lived and already forgotten about
except your children’s faces and all of your misdeeds
will come to haunt you in your dreams the minute
you find sleep
it won’t matter how many trips, how many child brides you have,
how much you tell yourself “I’m great, I’m fine”
all of that guilt sits in your gut ready to burst
ready to explode and another bout of pleading forgiveness
will appear out of nowhere as you near 50
and after that happens
Karma will come around
you’ll sow what you harvest and reaped
I wrote this poem in December of 2022.
Like shipwrecks in a cavern, somehow we came together
putting bandaids of lust to sooth and cover our loneliness
causing chaos and rejecting each other
only to always come back to each other
and it was entertaining for a while
until we both realized it was a waste of time and energy
and fled to different caverns
I wrote this poem in December of 2024.
a moment of serendipity happened when we ran into each other
Christmas shopping
You struck up a conversation and helped me with my bags
and I told you about my plans for higher education
and you said you wanted to help me and got my phone number
we didn’t know at the time, one day we’d form a family
get married and divorced within a span of twenty years
isn’t life, so, so crazy?
How ten minutes of conversation ended up leading to the beginning
of one of my most important stories?
escribí este poema en diciembre del 2024.
magneto y locomía sale de la tele
mi tío me llamaba su condesita y mi tía me llamaba linda
y me río porque últimamente me siento como una extraña en mi cuerpo
y mami y sus hermanas me dicen que me estoy volviendo una señorita
pero lo único que veo es un monstruo fea y gorda en el espejo
y quisiera ser delgadita y fina como mis primas
pero por lo menos mi tío y mi tía no me miran así
me miran como un tesoro bello y valioso
Life on the BPD 