I wrote this poem in July of 2024.
these must be the new dark age of my life
where I can’t find my life’s purpose,
where I cry because I don’t think
I’ll ever be loved
where the sleeping pills in my drawers
are tempting me to end my misery
It could be worse they say because I could be dead
my children left without a mother
my parents left without a daughter
My friends and coworkers left without entertainment
of my emotional and dramatic hijinks
And I left without fulfilling my potential or life purpose
It could be worse they say because with me gone
Who else will give you my special brand of crazy?
I wrote this poem in July of 2024.
their used knicknacks, their used clothes
their used whatever is taking up too much space
in their closet or garage
all of this is given to their browner and poorer
counterparts
act like ever act of charity will bring them
one step closer to heaven
when at times their recipients feel
like it’s a act of condescension, arrogance
a way to remind them where they belong
a way to remind them of their working
class status
the haves need the have nots to have someone
to feel superior to
while the have nots cannot escape
the cycle of poverty
due to the greed of the haves
I wrote this poem in July of 2024.
I’m not the one you want
or the one you’ll ever take home
to meet your mama
but I’m the one etched in your mind,
the one who appears in your dreams
the one you will never forget about
and one of your few regrets
and you,
you were another story among many
another obsession of my past
I hardly ever think about
I wrote this poem in July of 2024.
it wasn’t until today I realized how ordinary you really were
It wasn’t that you were ever that interesting or special
It was me with my lovergirl delusional glasses
refusing to see past what was in front of me
Seeing and getting caught up in fantasies
of who you could be
when really you were, the most ordinary of men
not malicious, not especially intelligent
not really helpful
just kind of existing without any spark
without anything that would make me
look twice at you now
I wrote this poem in July of 2024.
to see my american dream I just need to step into my backyard
and look at my holy trinity who call me mom
they’re the ones I try to better myself for
they’re the one who make my immigrant existence
worth living for
they’re my american dream wrapped up in burps, dark humor
and love
I wrote this poem in July of 2024.
july, july, july
it’s the month where I lose my mind
the heat gets to me and turns up the BSC in me
you won’t find me sweet and eager to please in July
you won’t find me full of ruffles and flowery phrases
in poetry
you’ll find me being a ball of immigrant rage and fury
you’ll find me a woman who’s had enough
of the American dream bullshit
and ready to roar and scream out everything wrong
with this country
I wrote this poem in June of 2024.
as long as there is breath left in me
I will try
try to be a good mom to my kids
try to tell my story
try to love everyone the best way
i can
try to find understanding
for what happened to me
try to find joy in the most ordinary
of moments
try to dance my way through
my most depressive episodes
try find my inner peace and calm
the story continue from 2007 on with this poem.
caught up in a cycle of nostalgia
old letters and photos and 90s music
trying to remember who I was
before I became someone’s mom
I wrote this poem in June of 2024.
lately I hate everything I have written
Sometimes I get the urge to burn
Or delete everything
but something tells me
this is how I know I’m growing
I’m evolving in my craft
I wrote this poem in June of 2024.
my body feels like a rundown shack
that’s crumbling down slowly
I can’t get up in the morning
without my knee or hip
bitching and moaning
without me groaning in pain
and mumbling to myself
“Omg, another stupid day”
and cursing my genetics
that make me watch everything
I eat
and again I wonder
am I paying a karmic debt
for my colonizer ancestors
I wrote this poem in June of 2024.
you’ve change from spring to autumn within moments
never knew if I should wear my feelings on my sleeve
never knew if I should wear layers of cynicism
I’ve made it as simple as possible for you
and nothing happens
and slowly my hope of love recedes in the background
I wrote this poem in June of 2024. It was inspired by the disappearance of little Latina girl in my area that I didn’t feel was getting enough media attention.
I pray for the little brown girl lost in Gainesville
the one that’s my son’s age
the one that looks like my sister at that age
the one who has my mami’s name
I pray she’s found alive
I pray that she finds warmth in her parents
arms soon
I pray more of a big deal is made out of
her disappearance
and she’s found quickly
because I’m sure that if this little girl
had been a jonbenet look alike
more would have been done to find her
and bring her back to her family
her community
that’s been missing her greatly
I wrote this poem in May of 2024.
I wanted to kill my sex drive so I stopped taking buspar
and while my sex drive has finally waned
the side effects are slowly killing me
between the mental fog, the constant headaches,
the nausea followed by the loss of appetite
there’s a reason they tell you to wean slowly
from psychiatric drugs, to do it under the care
of a medical provider
stopping cold turkey lends to a spiral of madness
and a physical ailment I never intended
I wrote this poem in May of 2024.
everytime you disappear, I lose an ounce
of the fondness and affection I hold for you
this last time,I didn’t even notice
I thought, good for him
he found someone else to stroke his ego
and validate him
but here you are again
everything I once felt for you
has dried out
and I have nothing left to say
as you try to nonchalantly come back into my life
I’m filled with indifference this time
holding onto my new sense of empowerment
careful to not again fall under your spell
once again
Life on the BPD 