The Duartes
my family is quiet about their sorrows
they put up a mask of strength and resilience
its not that they hide their tragedies
they talk about it openly
but heal with energy from the trees,
with their busy and monotonous routines
on their farm
with the understanding that terrible things happen
in their lives and finding resilience
in the most extenuating of tragedies
in order to move forward
I wrote this poem in December of 2023.
me and my ex drive towards the moon in silence
accepting we were always meant to be friends
no longer harboring resentment about our failed story of romance
Focusing on the long road ahead of us
Divorced and raising kids in a world full of oxymorons,
in a world that will try to make them fit
into unrealistic expectations of what it means to be human
me and my ex drive towards the moon in silence
putting away our differences and any conflicts
And putting our childrens’ best interest first
understanding they’re the best thing
to come out of the failure of us
I wrote this poem in December of 2023.
sorry for sleeping with your husband
I was raised better than to covet my neighbor’s spouse
I knew better than to listen to my impulsive and drunk hormones
and while I could say I was caught up in the moment
of music and alcohol
it’s not an excuse for the sin I committed
it’s a misdeed that I still regret 22 years later
because I hate to think that maybe I was the final straw
that broke up your marriage
because guilt sits at the bottom of my stomach
wondering if I wrecked an otherwise happy home
and ruined an epic love story
and if it eases your mind
karma did get me in the end
I married the wrong person
and suffered through toxic codependency and polyamory
Eventually having a mental breakdown
because of how overwhelming it all got
and ending up divorced with me alone
without any romantic prospects
I learned 22 years too late
what is done secretly and illicitly in the heat of the moment
comes back later to haunt you
comes back to haunt your subconscious in dreams
until you’re ready to acknowledge it and make amends
I wrote this poem in December of 2023.
my culture is not up for appropriation, my culture is not up for colonizers to profit off from it
I can hear my ancestors cursing in their graves
haunting white people in their dreams over the atrocity they’re committing
it’s blasphemous to use their most sacred ceremony for the business of “healing”
why must white people in 2023 continue to steal from the indigenous community?
it’s the same white people who forced assimilation on us
the same white people who made us give up our religion and traditions
the same white people who shamed us for our indigenous traits
and the reason I don’t know how to speak quechua today
why can’t the white man stay in his lane instead of trying to profit from our culture
and the insecurities of others
how is it possible that in this day and age
these so called enlightened and elitist whites are still fucking over the indigenous community?
I wrote this poem in December of 2023.
even the spambot body shames me
and I hate my body all over again
wanting to eviscerate that pudge
that’s been there since after my first son
hiding the flappy wings of my upper arms
wondering why God gave me my stupid curves
I’m constantly trying to hide
and every excess of skin I see in the mirror
That makes me wish I’d cease to exist
why can’t I be a skinny white girl?
instead of this pudgy mess of a woman
with body dysmorphia
who still uses the scale to determine
her WORTH
I wrote this poem in December of 2023.
I have a bad habit of making poetry out of almost anything
it’s annoying, it’s cringe, and downright embarrassing at times
how shameless I can be
it teethers between the line of genius and insanity
This monster of creativity of mine
from trauma to my kids to childhood memories
To the latest villain in my story to office supplies
To my dreams to the trees to the clouds
To my kroger apron to energy drinks
To that ex from my 20s
No one and nothing is saved from being used
as a fountain of inspiration for my creativity
Sometimes it’s a curse, sometimes it’s a blessing
Most of the time, it’s just downright entertaining
I wrote this poem in December of 2023.
silence is no longer an option
if I continue to do so, I’d be suffocating the part of me
who needs to be heard in order to heal
I’d be failing myself, my ancestors, and future generations
silence is no longer an option
to do so is an act of violence against the writer and poet in me
whose purpose is tell my story, my truth
I wrote this poem in December of 2023.
abandonment wounds run deep in my bloodline
I’ve lost count of how many woman in my family
whose lovers absconded, who’s lovers left them
for their own version of Heather-
maybe this explains my epic overreaction every time a lover absconded
their departure triggers trauma in my DNA
from the abandoned women ancestors before me
What is one thing you would change about yourself?
Are you more of a night or morning person?
I wrote this poem in December of 2023.
in my island of solitude, I drift further
and further away from romantic love
when I’ve tried to invite others to my island
they always left, and it drove me into hysterics
making a catastrophic emotional mess of me
so now I float alone on my island of solitude
and have erected walls of strength and confidence around it
I will not allow another soul to break them down
only to later leave on a whim, leaving me in pieces once again
I wrote this poem in December of 2023.
I never asked to be born, much less to be a mosaic of trauma, insanity, and creativity
I prayed many times to be normal-to be someone else
but the day came when I had to embrace the masterpiece of duality and insanity that I am
to understand not everyone will understand me
to do the best I am with the deck of cards I’ve been handed
I wrote this poem in November of 2023.
abuela Gaby sends me hints that she wants her story to be told
but I can barely remember her
she tells me to still try with the bits I have
I ask her for patience
I want to get it right, I want to do her story justice
she tells me, “hemos vivido vidas paralelas”
las palabras te vendrán fácilmente pronto”
and adds, “es como vas a sanar, es como
empiezas a entenderte”
and I don’t understand what it means,
I don’t understand her interest in me now
and how I became a messenger of her story,
“ni siquiera pensé que me querías Abuela,
you always pulled my hair”
and she replies,
“es que era duro ver nacer y crecer a alguien
que se parecía tanto a mi, me traía
demasiados sentimientos encontrados,
porque sabía que tu espiritu seria
difícil de dominar”
and while I try my best to comprehend
what she tells me –
it’s hard to wrap my head around her message
and all of the conflicting stories about her
from my family
so I’m going to make it a point
to find out her story through her letters
and pictures-
abuela, I want to do your story justice
I can’t rush through this
yours is one of the most important stories
I’ll share in my lifetime
I wrote this poem in November of 2023.
Is it really so bad to assist others in ending their lives?
couldn’t it be seen as a final act of love?
to help them die with dignity and on their own terms
without machines and tubes delaying the inevitable
without anyone’s say over the little autonomy
they still have left
I wrote this poem in November of 2022.
In my children’s bible I was introduced to Jesus
and his love for everyone
I wanted to be like Jesus-
and love and accept everyone as they are
but I’m human and I can’t
especially as the years pass by
and I’m harmed by those who claim to love me
it’s when all of my dreams quickly dissipate
and slowly I grow bitter and full of mental illness
maybe this is my tragic destiny
from wannabe saint to a scorned woman
who only dreams of revenge
Life on the BPD 