I wrote this poem in November of 2023.
I hold hands with my trauma and show her off to everyone
most people look at her with curiosity
some people are horrified
my family cringes and and whispers to me,
“it’s embarrassing, showing her as some kind of trophy”
I get mad and flip everyone off
and me and my trauma link arms and skip on our way
to share her story and create drama and chaos
who cares if no one understands our process
of healing and recovery by sharing our story
I wrote this poem in November of 2019.
He comes with false promises of respect
and easy and uncomplicated lust
He promises never to hurt you
but it’s all a game to get for him to get laid
He just wants to use you for a hit and run
Once he’s done with you
He’ll discard you like trash
He’ll never see you as a person
He’ll only see you was a receptacle for his cum
He’ll only see you as an object of lust
and at times he’ll even claim to love you
when he sees he’s losing the toxic spell he’s placed on you
but once he’s got you in his bed
He’ll forget about you the next day
So it’s best to stop his emotionally poisonous game
that leaves you always feeling worthless in the end
and delete and block his number
and forget about the fuckboy once and for all
I wrote this poem in November of 2023.
today I feel the presence of my ancestors more than ever
they praise me for breaking through the bullshit
that society tried to sell about what it means
to be a woman and mother-
they love me despite my many sins and that mistakes I’ve made
they scold me when I call myself a monster or an atrocity
they encourage me to continue on my path
they tell me to trust my intuition more
and to take more risks with my art and in my life
it’s a disservice to myself to doubt my creativity
this only hinders me from fully expressing myself
and keeps me from being authentic and honest
when I share mine and their stories
I wrote this poem in November of 2019.
Loving you is like being in a fog
of continued self destruction
It destroys my inner being
It destroys my soul
And yet I continually do this
to myself
Love someone
that continues to discard me
Over and over and over and over
again
Love someone
who doesn’t even love himself
Waiting for the fog
to clear is the worst part
Because my heart doesn’t know
how to listen to my head
my heart continually refuses
to let go of my self destruction
that is being devoted to you
But I must, I have to, I need to
allow the fog to clear
To make room in my heart and mind
for someone that truly wants to love me
I wrote this poem in October of 2023.
I come from a line of women who were never afforded
the privilege of telling their stories and speaking out their truths
they simply accommodated and according to the expectations
from their parents and husbands
they had no choice but to shut up, obey, breed, and stay
like docile animals whose spirits are beaten out of them
and with each poem, each blog post, each social media post
I feel a part of them heal because I will be the last in my lineage
to have followed suit and the first one to break out of the toxic narrative
where women should only be seen and not heard
where women should be limited by their gender
where women are only good for one thing
I’m the red herring, the hair out of place,
la malcriada-
who’ll scream as much and as loud as I have to
to tell mine and their stories
even as my family cringes
and accuses me of being dramatic and crazy
because to not do so would be a disservice to them,
to me, and to future generations
lean into your inner child, let your spirit once again
be filled with awe and wonder
forget society’s rules that tells you to act your age
to control yourself,
who determines these stupid conventions and norms
anyways
sing out loud at the table, dance in your office
tell a stranger you’re glad they exist,
run in a field of flowers and giggle
lean into your inner child, let your spirit once again
be filled with awe and wonder
I wrote this poem in October of 2022.
Beneath the fallen leaves lies my footprints
and the footprints of lives unknown
on roads taken with regrets
Beneath the fallen leaves lies the stories from the trash
not picked up-a used condom here, a hair tie there
a letter lost
Beneath the fallen leaves lies everything unsaid
and tears that have fallen
I wrote this poem in October of 2023.
honest nonsense is spilled across my blog
honoring who I have been, am, and will be
a former chaotic mess who’s tried her best
to turn her victim story into a narrative
of empowerment owning everything
that’s happened to me,
not caring what anyone else thinks-
if some people are offended,
they should have acted better
I wrote this poem in October of 2023.
I’m not for the tender and meek
and because of that I might end up
lonely for the rest of my life
and before, it used to bother me
but lately I don’t care
I’d rather be alone facing the world
and my fears without anyone
who’ll judge me or give me
his unsolicited opinion on my life
I finally hold the reins of my autonomy
and I’m not giving that up for anybody
I wrote this poem in October of 2021.
Bleak and rainy days
used to make me sad
and squeeze the life out of me
But now
I think of all the
sunshines and rainbows
in my life
three souls I gave birth to
the friends who accept me
my parents who continue
to be loving and nurturing
my coworkers whom I’ve
Shared a pandemic war with
But mostly, the new version
of myself who might feel
despair and sadness on some
days but keeps going
This new version
that loves herself fully
for once is enough
I wrote this poem in October of 2023.
a pledge of allegiance full of lies
brainwashes us with promises
that will go unfulfilled
the rest of our lives
the pursuit of happiness
doesn’t exist in this country
that treats its marginalized communities
as subhuman
we can say God Bless America until we’re blue in the face
it still doesn’t change a damn thing
about a country that’s fucks over
its most vulnerable communities
I wrote this poem in October of 2023.
I’m starting to radically accept someone like me
will always be judged differently from my peers
it doesn’t matter how many degrees I have-
how much I code switch to fit in-
it will never be enough to be truly accepted
so I’ll smile and nod while they complain
about ivory tower problems
while I roll my eyes inside my mind-
man, I really wish I had your problems Susan
but I got to go to my second job now
I wrote this poem in October of 2022.
the river of my love for you dried and at first I cried
but then it felt like freedom, it felt like happiness
to no longer obsess over someone who treated me like shit
to feel nothing for someone who caused me a world of pain
over and over again
Does this mean I finally learned my worth?
I wrote this poem in October of 2023.
I give you a yard, and you give me an inch-
it’s a game of back and forth nonsense
one where I respect your unspoken boundaries
and need for space
until one day the push back from you
pulled back into a dark place I haven’t been in a while
a place where my confidence breaks, a place where I start to question my worth
a place when my sense of self breaks once again
and I know right there, and then, it’s better to give up
whatever this was
I’ve outgrown men who send me mixed signals
I wrote this poem in June of 2023.
every time I drive somewhere new I’m beyond terrified
doubts about driving skills cloud me and I want to break down
and panic in the middle of traffic
but I push through my fears, my insecurities, and keep driving
I can’t be weighed down by who I used to be
A woman reliant on the transportation of others
A woman fearful of living a full life
that is my old story
and it’s not that I hate that version of myself
I just refused to hold myself hostage by my past
which tries to hold me back from
being the independent woman I was always meant to be
Life on the BPD 