I wrote this poem in August of 2023.
anything resembling love threatens the home I’ve built
over the past two years
and yet the romantic threads in me won’t disappear
they want to weave another love story
they want to be pulled into the magic to getting know
someone new
and having arms to call home
I wrote this poem in August of 2022.
Flowers bloom with patience and care
where there is sunlight and love
Flowers remind me of relationships
when relationships are not given
the right environment or patience and love
They die
I’m a failure at both-
I wrote this poem in August of 2022.
My love data tells me I shouldn’t try again because every time
I crash and burn and cause trauma and drama
because every time it ends, I get hateful and want revenge
and While I do appreciate the poetry that comes
after every broken relationship
I don’t think I can withstand the heartbreak and hardship
the next time it ends
I wrote this poem in August of 2023.
Am I doomed to men trying me on
just so they can change their minds-
days, weeks, months, years later
is it some kind of karmic energy in me
I still haven’t found the remedy for?
Perhaps I really need to stop trying
to find hope in love
and stick to what’s working for me
and that’s being alone
I wrote this poem in August of 2023.
Children should be seen, and not heard is one tradition I’ll never keep
It would mean invalidating my children’s feelings
It would mean for them to have years of therapy trying to find their sense of identity
It would mean to reduce them to shadows who only speak when spoken to
It would mean passing them the torch of a generational curse that makes them question their self-worth over and over again
So everyone can judge me or criticize my parenting all they want
I like my children to not just be seen but also heard
even if it’s sometimes loud and boisterous
even if it sometimes sounds disrespectful
It’s important for their emotional growth, for their confidence
and to break and heal the generational curse where children are silenced
Here’s the English version of this poem:
Poetry: Dying Innocence
Temblaba con vergüenza por la electricidad
que sentía entre sus piernas
sería esto la maldad del cual las monjas
que le habían advertido
estaba desesperado por parar
pero no podía
seria que acabaría quemándose en el infierno
por ser adicta al placer que sentía
cada vez que se entregaba a él
una caricia de él y ella
se convierte de santa a pecadora
I wrote this poem in August of 2023.
could we have done more?
could his story have had a different ending?
could we have all been more compassionate-
more open instead of entrenched and absorbed in our own worlds?
all of these questions are asked, days or week or even months
later, wondering-if we carry any blame or responsibility
when someone ends their life with their own two hands
here’s the English version of this poem:
poetry: short circuit
tuvimos un cortocircuito
y nuestro lucero de amor
se apago
ni siquiera queda una chispa
de la pasión que alguna vez
compartimos
y me pregunto una vez más-
¿Será que para mi, el amor
Siempre será algo como agua
que se escapa de mis manos?
I wrote this poem in August of 2023.
talking about how mental health is health is useless in times like these
times when someone takes their own life
not enough actions or preventative measures were taken
it’s always too late to say “this was preventable”
when really we’re all too selfish, too lazy to extend a helping hand
to someone in pain, to someone who is an enemy to himself
I wrote this poem in 2006.
we short circuit once again
and back to our monotonous
everyday existence
passion once again becomes
an abstract thing of our past
and I wonder
if this is all there is to love
I wrote this poem in August of 2023.
complaints about the Barbie movie appear
only from the privileged white men on my timeline
and I shouldn’t be surprised
even if those men call themselves allies or feminist
it speaks volumes to me that they voice their opinion at all
about it and decide to post their sexist bullshit
and maybe this is coming from a middle-aged woman who’s crazy
but it’s hard to see that in this instance
Why men can’t stay in the backseat and allow women to shine brightly
without the patriarchy trying to dim their light
I wrote this poem in August of 2023.
all of us have been or will be dumpster fires
it doesn’t matter who you are
man, woman or non binary
white, black or brown
with or without a mental health diagnosis
working class or upper class
at one point or another we’ll all be toxic to another person
or to ourselves
some of us admit it and cringe
some of us will ignore it or blame someone else
all of us have been or will be dumpster fires
it’s a rite of passage
here’s the English version of this poem:
Poetry: Risen
la pared de hielo entre los dos se está derritiendo
me miras como si soy lo mejor que te ha pasado
poco a poco se enciende un fuego de las cenizas
de lo que alguna vez fuimos
I wrote this poem in August of 2023.
she makes paper flowers in reverence for a love that died-
for a love that never deserved her goddess energy
it’s grieving a past, present, and a future
with a lover
who brought toxicity and comfort
and it’s almost indescribable how she feels
it’s mourning a love story she was never ready to end
here’s the English version of this poem:
Poetry: Risen
había perdido toda mi fe
hasta que sentí tu caricia sobre mi mano
me miraste con deseo y sonroje
nuestra pasión se despertó
después de haberse dormido por años
¿será un ensueño corto o la posibilidad
de una nueva realidad para nosotros?
Life on the BPD 