I wrote this poem in July of 2022.
we hear the ice cream truck and we beg mami for money
we tell her to hurry before the ice cream truck realizes he’s in the hood
she gives us all of the change in her purse
and all of us run to the ice cream truck
my favorite is a fudgesicle
it taste like an almost normal childhood
I wrote this poem in July of 2022.
Cochran street was supposed to be our bright new start in a new country
naive immigrants we all were thinking america would accept us
thinking our family would have our back
instead my parents were exploited and me and my siblings
were treated like indentured servants-
we never talk about how the toxic it all was
or the trauma it brought or how we tried to fit in a country
where we were squares in a peg holes
and how dad fell further into his addiction and depression
and we don’t talk about any of this because dirty laundry
is never aired out in public
I wrote this poem in July of 2025.
spring love happened unexpectedly
on our first date, he called me his Incan Queen
and sent jolts of electricity though my body
the first time he touched me
and even though it’s too soon to say
if this will be my last chapter in my book
of lust and love and we’re only almost 3 months in
what I can say is that this feel promising, worthy,
and something simply with pure intentions
that feels almost majestic
This is a poem I wrote in July. I was angry when I wrote it. Lol.
celebrating a country that rips babies apart from their parents
and takes away rights from the marginalized
and makes anyone who’s not white and christian feel unwelcome
feels like the cruelest irony
it’s celebrating genocide, racism, prejudice, xenophobia, and white supremacy
it’s celebrating everything atrocious and wrong about this country
it almost feels like a personal violation of my beliefs
to celebrate the hypocrisy of this country
founded on genocide and slavery
who claims liberty and justice for all
but “all” is really white, christian and male
so I’m passing on this year’s 4th of July celebrations
because except for a small portion of Americans
no one can claim true freedom
or independence in this American Land
I wrote this poem in July of 2025.
one day the weight of this burden I carry won’t feel so heavy
and it won’t be so tough to exist in a country that wants to exterminate
people like me or my family,
one day this nightmare will be over and the hypervigilance I’m living
will cease to exist
one day will come unexpectedly and I’ll find my way back to safety
and security
I wrote this poem in July of 2022.
even in our middle age, our mami still tends to us
calling us, asking about our eating habits and love life
giving bits of wisdom and encouragement
still worrying about us
she doesn’t have to
but it’s her nature to do so
it’s a habit of almost half a century that’s hard to break
it’s a tradition of an unconditional mother’s love
I wrote this poem in June of 2025.
When I’m 54, I want some things to stay the same and others to change
I want to love freely unafraid and unashamed and without apologies
without the anxiety I have right now that one day he’ll leave
I want to have the same creative energy that motivates me,
and continue to share mine and my family’s stories
that will continually be seen and make me succeed
I want to not worry so much if it’s a matter of when this epidemic
of violence and madness reaches someone in my family
or live with the fear one of my loved ones will be detained
I want to have hope for the future of my children and descendents
that when I leave this earth things will be better for them
because I did the work so they didn’t suffer and can enjoy life a bit more
also , I want to be filled with financial stability where I’m not doing financial gymnastics
to pay my bills on time and an no longer a slave to my debt
but mostly when I’m 54, I want to have evolved as a healer
who continues to share her light in this world as a poet, writer, and storyteller
I wrote this poem in June of 2025.
Hold onto joy and magic in times like these
pause, breathe, drink water
Remember your existence is resistance
all of that pain, sorrow and grief felt in your body
Alchemized it into poetry, art,a story
or you could just scream and allow it to exist
understand that the oppressors want to overwhelm you
And make you crazy and over react
using it as an excuse to frame you as the enemy
protect your peace at all costs
if someone threatens it, it’s a sign they’ve
handed you a match to light up
and burn their bridge to you
and finally,
Remember, the distress, the exhaustion is intentional
to burn out your light
Don’t let them
I wrote this poem in June of 2025.
dating a soldier in not for the weak in these modern time
especially now with a civil war and WW3 on the horizon
our new love story could be cut short if he’s deployed
Things can get complicated and messy
if end up dehumanizing or ripping apart families like mine
because its his job
it makes me wonder if we were foolish in the throwing caution
to the wind and getting into a relationship
it makes me wonder if we have any chance of working out
I wrote this poem in June of 2025.
compassion and hope appear in a phone call from my prima
right before I give in to my hate and anger
right before I let my rage control me and make it into a weapon
of destruction
she reminds me that this is not who I am and to choose forgiveness
and empathy for those who hurts us for they don’t know what they do
and I wonder if it was an intervention from God, the universe,
reminding me that revenge and the wrath of my anger is not the answer
and instead I should look to love and wisdom passed down from my ancestors
for the confusion and frustration turned into rage that lies within me
I wrote this poem in June of 2025.
my beloved LA is under siege
the place that saw my immigrant child self grow,
and learn English
the place my parents decided to make their new home
the place with tastiest hot dogs at culver city mall
my beloved LA is under siege
and all I can do is watch the carnage be livestreamed
and I’m transported once again to the L.A riots in 1992
when I was 11 and violence and madness
was a stone’s throw away from our small apartment
while mami pretends nothing’s happening
as she cooks dinner
and we’re all glued to the TV
my beloved LA is under siege
and I couldn’t be prouder of my people standing loud
and with a firm grip of love and justice
for the most vulnerable of us
whose only crime was to come this country
in search for a better life
I wrote this poem in June of 2025.
we get up and live our daily lives, work, go to school, show up to jury duty
while the new regime is on a warpath to destroy the lives of the most vulnerable
of the marginalized, of those who are not white, cis, and male
we get and continue to live as if the American Gestapo isn’t ripping families apart
and as if city after city isn’t been torn apart and turned into a warzone
I wrote this poem in June of 2025.
not feeling romantic lately as my community is torn apart
and cruelty is served to them by this administration with no end date
as I watch America’s Gestapo treat my people as worse than animals
but somehow I’m suppose to block this all out
and reply to your sext about all the ways I want you
to ravage me
I wrote this poem in June of 2025.
I try to banish the clouds of doubts and insecurities in me
everytime I’m in love, I get like this
everytime I start to feel comfortable in a new sanctuary
I start to question
if i’m worthy, if i’m deserving
is it possible that really, I’m the problem
and the one who sabotages everything
I wrote this poem in June of 2025.
my rage comes in like a bright orange burst and it explodes in social media posts,
my notebooks, and journal
it’s my inner child scared and anxious who feels threatened
and take it upon herself to call on middle age me
to defend her, to protect her from the cruelty and abuse happening in front of her
so many families like mine torn apart
so many immigrant children like me many years ago crying for their parents
not understanding why this is happening
and I feel the heavy weight of impotence not knowing how I can help
or what to do to stop all of this needless pain and suffering happening in front of me
and all I see is a bright orange burst of rage ready to punch walls
because my empathetic and soft heart feels the cries, the whimpers, the screams
of the parents and kids whose only crime was to leave their country
in search for a better life
Life on the BPD 