I wrote this poem in April of 2025.
saliva drips from my month as a gentle desire overtakes me
tacos de carne asada with onions and cilantro in front of me
he knew exactly how to start melting the jaded and bitter bitch in me
he knew how to lure out the romantic in me who’s terrified to start anew
and while to some it may seem like a simple gesture
he knew that to me it meant everything
I wrote this poem in April of 2022.
I never belonged to you or him
I belong to the world, the universe
and God
I belong to myself, to my ancestors
I belong to my words for better or worse
I belong to poetry and prose
I wrote this poem in April of 2022.
I summon success and wealth
I summon good energy
I summon letting go of unhealthy patterns
I summon a life without grief and strife
I wrote this poem in April of 2022.
I exist between stocking and typing
I exist between boxes and documents
I exist between hip pain and carpal tunnel
I exist between grocery clerk and receptionist
I wrote this poem in April of 2022.
I never would change
I find you
I need you
Hey wake up
You can’t be here
I wrote this poem in April of 2025.
Downloaded hinge to become unhinged
the fountain of inspiration was waning
and I needed a dose of new character energy
even if some of those characters are icky and shady
even if some of those characters annoy me
I can’t keep writing about the same old repetitive stories
reheating old trauma for the purpose of making art
after a while, it gets exhausting
after a while, it makes no sense since I’ve forgiven them all
and honestly, I can’t do another 4 years of Trump
Celibate and devoid of any romantic energy
I wrote this poem in April of 2025.
tower records at 14, the beginning of my double life
the one where I went strange boys and smoked cigarette with them
the beginning of a mental illness
I wouldn’t get diagnosed with almost 30 years later
I wrote this poem in April of 2025.
the nuns and mami started into obedience and I reverted into a world of silence
And everyone praised mami about what a good little girl I was
and no one thought much about this
until my parents demanded answers for the rebellious streak in my teens
couldn’t understand the numerous absences, the subpar performance in school,
why I sulked in my bedroom for hours on ended, the disrespect from my mouth
as I stood up for myself, they wondered where their sweet and quiet princess went
all the while they should have looked back 6 or 7 years ago
when they indoctrinated me to hold it all in or else they wouldn’t love me
should have known one day I’d rebel and explode as I was finding my spirit,
my voice once again after it had been buried under layers of good behavior
I wrote this poem in April of 2022.
I am a witch and sometimes a bitch
if you’re lucky
You’ll see the sweet side of me where I’m your real life magical wet dream come true
If you’re unlucky, you’ll meet the BPD me
the worst bitch you’ll regret meeting in your entire life
because if you treat me badly, I’ll make sure
you’re laugh at when I read a poem about you
at open mic
I wrote this poem in April of 2022.
If failure was a task I would be the poster girl for it
I’m a failure at love, I’m a failure at life,
I am a failure at Being Human
but all of these are thoughts of the past me
the new me doesn’t see herself as a failure
or that she has ever failed at life
she sees failure as a stepping stone and learning curve
the new me sees herself as a winner of life
and not the loser of 1
because she never gave up or didn’t give in
or because she’s a resilient queen
I wrote this poem in April of 2025.
short gray hair, steely blue eyes, red nose, transparent white skin
stern hands with a wooden rules in them
always ready to correct an unruly and wild child
who talked too much, who wiggled in line or at their desk,
who walked a thin line between angel and mortal
her presence intimidated me and scared me to tears
and a Godly fear of disappointing her quickly set in me at age 6
and quickly I learned how to swim
found that the key to never feel her wrath was silence
and unconditional obedience
by blending in with the walls, with my desk, only speak
when spoken to, ask permission for everything
even to breathe, become a good little soldier of the Lord
forget Spanish and leave my immigrant identity at home
it’s how I survived 5 years of religious indoctrination
it’s how I became an american
I wrote this poem in April of 2022.
When I open my eyes,I whine and grunt
Another day where I whine,whine, whine
Working to live? Or living to work?
I can’t remember which is better
Living is really just guesswork
Maybe today I won’t feel so much anger
Perhaps I should find hope in this new day
Instead of living in doom and gloom
Maybe the darkness will stay away
Or I’ll cry at work in the bathroom again
I wrote this poem in March of 2023.
a lot of us search for someone or something
to complete us or make us feel like we are enough
we’ve been brainwashed by society’s conditioning
that we’re incomplete without a lover
or without our career goals satisfied
and this is really toxic and false narrative
we need to stop believing in
we should look instead for the amazing in the ordinary
and appreciate how it’s a gift to just be human and exist
I wrote this poem in March of 2023.
we lie to ourselves continuously about our needs
to save face, to avoid conquering our fears
to not feel insecure
we’ll tell ourselves we are better off alone and independent
when in reality as humans
we are meant to be social
we are meant to share ourselves with others
but it’s cooler to say, “I’m good with my solitude,
I’m my own best friend”
because deep down inside we don’t want to get hurt again
I wrote this poem in March of 2023.
before I was diagnosed with BPD, I was very sick
I wished and wished to be anyone else but me
I really wanted to be a middle class white woman
the kind who grew up with 2 parents in a 2 story house the kind who never had to assimilate to fit it
the kind who never had to to fill out a FAFSA application the kind who was never neglected
and whose feelings were always validated
the kind who writes stories or poems about her favorite horse instead of stories or poems about constantly feeling like a stranger in your adopted homeland
the kind who is mostly respected by men
and not fetichized or called exotic
the kind who’s never had 2 jobs to survive
in this capitalistic society
before I was diagnosed with BPD,I was very sick
I wished and wished to be anyone else but me
but three years into recovery
I’ve healed and wouldn’t want to be anyone else
because while it’s true that many people don’t struggle as much me everyone (even middle class white women)
still have their own set of insecurities and trauma
I know nothing about
I’ve learned I need to focus on myself,
feel gratitude for everything I have
as I reach my goals and chase my dreams
and most importantly
I now love and embrace who I’ve been,
who I am, who I will be
I no longer play a game of envy
and view myself as a broken mess
of who I’ve been or what’s happened to me
I was never those things
I’m a beautiful mosaic of everything
I’ve endured, experienced and lived
Life on the BPD 