I wrote this poem in 2021.
Even after she’s destroyed
she goes to work the next day
plasters a fake smile on her face
Even after she’s devastated
she gathers the pieces of her heart
and reluctantly shows up
where she’s needed
Even after she’s knocked down
she gets up cloaked in strength
and continues to move forward
with a brand new determination
I wrote this poem in January of 2025.
my uncle’s death has awakened something in me
and while I think he was mostly good and don’t judge him
I’m sad he didn’t live his life authentically
I’m sad he couldn’t bring himself to leave his loveless marriage
I’m sad he hurt his second wife by cheating on her with the first
I’m sad that for more than half a century he was deeply in love
with a woman he could never have
I wonder what would have happened if my uncle made it to therapy
and tamed his demons
I wonder if eventually he could’ve found some happiness and love
in his life or perhaps I’m wrong
and he was content with the mess he was inside
I wrote this poem in January of 2021.
I live in a constant world of confusion
Confused about who I am-
Confused about who I should be-
I live in a strange world of confusion
Confused about how I feel
Confused about how I should feel
I live in a crazy world of confusion
Confused about who I love
Confused about who I should love
I live in a chaotic world of confusion
Constantly and pathetically confused about who is the real me
I wrote this poem in January of 2020.
winter comes with the iciest winds
and everything inside me freezes and I fawn
is this what they call seasonal depression
yet it’s much more than that
it’s a “what’s the point” status
it’s a “I’m looking forward for this day
to be over as soon as I wake up”-
my bed becomes my church, my family, my community
where I find comfort in not thinking,
in ignoring the noise of the world
winter comes with the iciest winds
and it’s hard to function but yet I do
and I feel like a fictional character playing my part
in a society fueled by greed and capitalism
I wrote this poem in January of 2022.
They’re typically blond and white
and think they’re entitled to every fucking thing
they always want to speak to the manager
their names sound like Karen and Susan
they’ll pretend to have loads of empathy
when what they really have is tons of judgment
they’ll hide behind a pseudo wokeness
when underneath they’re racist as fuck
they complain about the unfairness of their lives
when their lives are the definition of privilege and luxury
they’ll shove their higher education in your face
when their ignorance shows in their actions
they supposedly live, laugh, and love
when they really hate, judge, and shame
their names sound like karen and Susan
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
Life on the BPD 