I wrote this poem in October of 2023.
I was in distress the other night
but I wasn’t the damsel who needed to be saved
I was a friend who needed a friend
and maybe I was expecting too much
but you could have done better
than some two word awkward text
as I was breaking down in the diner
I wrote this poem in October of 2023.
I cry over my fries while I write nonsense
because nothing makes sense
I’ve worked so hard to change my narrative
of mental illness
so hard to create a new story of strength
and resilience where I’m the heroine
but tragically I’m a falling victim again
to depression, anxiety, BPD, and whatever
the fuck else it is wrong with me
and I wish to make myself small enough
to disappear into a mist of nothingness
because lately it hurts too much to exists
I wrote this poem in October of 2023.
in the juxtaposition of the karens and working class
I find sympathy for both
it’s hard to explain this in between-
it’s an exhausting struggle of understanding
the complexities of the human condition
of wanting to be seen
of wanted to be heard and respected
and I stared in horror, almost breathless
as the karens and the working class
exchange verbal hostile fire
and almost throw hands at each other
as one threatens the other’s livelihood
and the other stood their ground
and I –
was just a witness to the epidemic
of anger in America
I wrote this poem in December of 2022.
I try on grace and self compassion thinking of the many times
I wanted to be someone else
Mirroring my sister and my best friends to escape from myself
never thinking I was enough-
I even tried to be like my former metamours-
so smart, so pretty, so American
they were placed on pedestals by my exes
so of course I wanted to be like them-
never understood how I never stood a chance
and how nothing I did would matter
my exes always chose them
they were safe,predictable and shared their background
everything I was never going to be
so I chose to embrace who I really am
a woman with a chaotic history who feels everything with a magnitude of intensity
a woman who no longer mirrors others to gain a sense of identity
I now stand firm in the authenticity of my duality
I embrace my God given gift of my creativity and share it shamelessly
there’s no turning back now that I’m fully me
and I no longer care who loves and accepts me
I wrote this poem in September of 2022.
I longed and longed and longed to feel whole
until I planted my feet on the soil I was born on
until I breathed the air my parents and ancestors inhaled
until I tasted flavors from almost a lifetime ago
I longed and longed and longed to feel whole
until I returned to my homeland
and it was the piece of the puzzle found
I needed to finally complete me
I wrote this poem in September of 2022.
and the roses never wilted,
they just transformed into flowers
never seen before
for a while it looked like they were dying
as they slowly turned gray and then black
but then they bloomed into something different,
a unique kind of beautiful
I wrote this poem in September of 2023.
today I woke up overwhelmed, exhausted and in a fit of rage
feeling underappreciated in all of my efforts
to move my family forward
not remembering the last time I had a full day of rest
wondering how to continue this existence
of 60 something work weeks,
and of course the guilt over not spending enough time
with my kids-
I was downtrodden with grief and mad at the world
until my abuela’s story made its way to a conversation
with my coworker and a small light of hope dawned on me
if my illiterate and indigenous abuela Mercedes,
alone in the world could make generational wealth
in the early 1900s
despite the racism, the obstacles, and many tragedies faced
I, too. will not only survive but will also thrive
and continue to shine my light
it’s in my bloodline, my ancestry to evolve,
push myself forward despite obstacles, mental illness,
or life’s tragedies-IT’S UP TO ME!
as a Peruvian woman living in America in the 21st century
to make the best of what’s been given to me
which sometimes feels like the sourest of maize
and turn them in the sweetest and tastiest Chicha
I wrote this poem in September of 2022.
gratitude taste like mami’s sopa de pollo
gratitude smells like my lover’s cologne
gratitude feels like a warm hug from my son
gratitude sounds like my sister’s car in my driveway
gratitude looks like me looking at the Goddess in the mirror
I wrote this poem in September of 2023.
Libra season is upon us as summer turns to fall-
a year ago, I was returning from my homeland
recharged and determined
2 years ago, I was angry and using my rage
to fuel my creativity and train for a 5k
and 3 years ago, I was a hot and exhausted
Emotional mess among the madness of COVID
And this Libra season, I’m entering it free from
the chains of matrimony
and every expectation my parents and society
has placed on me
This Libra season, I will honor and pay tribute
to my abuela Mercedes
for the independent and strong woman that she was
and celebrate my friends Melia and Quinn’s birthdays
show them how grateful I am for their existence
This Libra season, I’ll set intentions and manifestations
for the next 6 months for the life I dream of and envision
For myself and my sons
This Libra season I’m determined more than ever
to make miracles and magic happen-
And prove to myself and anyone who ever doubted me
that I’m not just a crazy and savage bitch
but I’m also a magical and intelligent one
who’s constantly evolving
I wrote this poem in September of 2022.
the plane slowly takes off
and I take flight with it
I leave behind past troubles,past trauma
and go on an adventure
to find healing and the best version of myself
I wrote this poem in September of 2023.
Susan from Oconee County calls concerned about the smell in the air
from the sludge in the farms-
and my Latina working class immigrant self rolls her eyes in disgust
silently mouthing off-
“are you fucking kidding me? another rich bitch on a mission
to solve her problems of discomfort in her every day
bane of existence”
but I quietly listen to her as she talks about how
it’s impacting the environment
and the drive to the pilates studio
because she just has to drive with her windows down
to breathe in the autumn air as her PSL cools down
in the drink holder
but now she can’t enjoy her drive because of the sludge
and then she breaks down and cries
because of the inconsiderate farmers
and I think of 1001 ways her privilege white woman ass
is being a bitch and the audacity of how, me,
a Latina immigrant working class woman is being forced to listen
to her idiotic and inconsequential problems
but rent needs to be paid and my kids need to be fed
so, instead, I say
“m’amn, I understand”
in my best and whitest customer service voice-
while calling her a pinche estupida pendeja
in my head-
and I reassure with a smile in my voice and tell her,
“I’ll make sure someone get your messages
which is of utmost importance, and calls you back”
and as I hang up the phone,
I want to scream and vomit at the same time
thinking
“I don’t think this was part of my American Dream”
I wrote this poem in September of 2023.
I’m looking forward to that pisco sour I’ll have
after the judge declares me divorced and free to remarry
-ha- that’s the biggest joke ever
maybe I’ll land in someone’s bed once again
But a ring on my finger -NEVER!-
not in this lifetime, not as long as I breathe
instead I’ll claim my single status
And relish in it as long as I can
I wrote this poem in September of 2023.
September comes in with a rage and determination in my heart
to keep on moving with a new purpose
to heal and evolve into the healthiest version of myself
without condemning myself over my past misdeeds
and obsessing over how toxic I once was
so what if I allowed myself to be a doormat,
to be stepped on over and over again?
so what if I wasn’t the mom my kids deserved?
Every day is a brand new start to live a life
Intentionally and with purpose
to continue to grow, build, and expand exponentially
because while my past has impacted me
and I’m still dealing with the consequences of it
I need to move past it, leave it behind
I’ve learned everything I need to learn from it
now it’s time to build my present for the future
I deserve to live in
I wrote this poem in August of 2023.
the passage of time is a bitch
That I’m reminded of
with every one of my wrinkles I abhor
The passage of time is a bitch
and I desperately want to hold onto my beauty
wearing clothes I’m too old for
and taking an obscene amount of pictures and posting them to validate my self esteem
the passage of time is a bitch
and I self flagellate for not doing enough
to improve myself
and still deal with the same bullshit day in,day out
I thought I would be done with after years of therapy
and introspection
the passage of time is a bitch
and while I could wallow in defeat
thinking of all I could have been
instead I stand proudly and declare
I will no longer sit still and watch life happen to me
from now on I’ll make the best of the time
I have left
and become selective of what and who
I give my energy and time to
I wrote this poem in August of 2022.
the consequences of being a hopeless romantic outweigh any rewards
everytime I start to believe in love it never works out
Everytime I start to believe in love it ends up in chaos and destruction
and i try and try again only always to have the same ending
and after 26 years of doing this-I don’t have it in me
to endure around love failure
someone who appears sure of me-only for them to change their mind
about me on a whim
the consequences of being a hopeless romantic has filled a dozen
notebooks and journals with sorrow and grief
Life on the BPD 