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
I wrote this poem in June of 2025.
to inhabit and exist in my body is exhausting
it’s constantly being in fight or flight mode
constantly waiting in hypervigilance
for the next atrocity from this administration
wondering if my son will make it home today without incident
worrying if my parents or brother will be taken away by the American Gestapo
lighting candles and praying on my rosary for my family’s safety and my sanity
try my best to function as democracy is falling and continuously reminding people
yes, immigrants are human beings and deserving of respect and dignity
I wrote this poem in June of 2025.
floating in a neon pink haze , the afterlife awaits
no more suffering, no more mental health crisis
no more dark doses of reality
this could be lovely and nice
but I’m pushed out by forces beyond my control
wake up in a fog
my soul’s purpose has not been fulfilled
I must continue telling my story
I wrote this poem in May of 2025.
I need to exorcize you and you out of me before I step into a new chapter of love
It’s not fair to him to allow past chapters to haunt me and make me question my sanity
and maybe that’s ghosting you and sharing our story of toxic love in spanish
and while my methods may be a tad questionable
it’s the best I can do for now and for me, it’s enough
I wrote this poem in April of 2025.
some storms are worth the rainbows that come after them
like the first steps taken after an invasive and life changing surgery
like the victory dinner after the termination of a marriage
that never should have happened
like the first drive alone after beating a 15 year driving phobia
like the child graduating at the top 10 percent of his class
even though the odds were stacked against him
like the rainbow child born after enduring the nightmare
of losing one
like still being here and writing a poem about storms and rainbows
even though many times you’ve been tempted by thanatos whispers to end it
some storms are worth the rainbows that come after them
because rainbows are hope, magic, and joy that make a life worth living
I wrote this poem in April of 2025.
saliva drips from my month as a gentle desire overtakes me
tacos de carne asada with onions and cilantro in front of me
he knew exactly how to start melting the jaded and bitter bitch in me
he knew how to lure out the romantic in me who’s terrified to start anew
and while to some it may seem like a simple gesture
he knew that to me it meant everything
I wrote this poem in April of 2022.
I exist between stocking and typing
I exist between boxes and documents
I exist between hip pain and carpal tunnel
I exist between grocery clerk and receptionist
I wrote this poem in April of 2022.
I never would change
I find you
I need you
Hey wake up
You can’t be here
I wrote this poem in April of 2025.
my teenager gives my dating advice,
at 13, he thinks he knows everything
after watching an unhealthy amount of romantic animes
and getting his first girlfriend
says romance should be a slow burn
don’t hold hands until the twentieth date
and don’t think about the benefits of the men I’m dating
Concentrate on what my heart is feeling
and I don’t know if I should be offended or impressed
but then again at 44, I am the one divorced
with a trail of several trainwrecks relationships left behind
maybe I should take his words of wisdom seriously
I wrote this poem in April of 2022.
I divorce myself from drama
I marry the calm
I divorce myself from lies
I marry the truth
I divorce myself from faking it
I marry being authentic
I divorce myself from self hatred
I marry self love
I wrote this poem in April of 2025.
tower records at 14, the beginning of my double life
the one where I went strange boys and smoked cigarette with them
the beginning of a mental illness
I wouldn’t get diagnosed with almost 30 years later
I wrote this poem in April of 2022.
My heart blooms like a flower in the spring
taking in the beauty of everything
I’m no longer so angry
and feel a freedom to just be
I take things in stride
and no longer feel the need to fight
Is this what healing looks like?
I wrote this poem in April of 2025.
the nuns and mami started into obedience and I reverted into a world of silence
And everyone praised mami about what a good little girl I was
and no one thought much about this
until my parents demanded answers for the rebellious streak in my teens
couldn’t understand the numerous absences, the subpar performance in school,
why I sulked in my bedroom for hours on ended, the disrespect from my mouth
as I stood up for myself, they wondered where their sweet and quiet princess went
all the while they should have looked back 6 or 7 years ago
when they indoctrinated me to hold it all in or else they wouldn’t love me
should have known one day I’d rebel and explode as I was finding my spirit,
my voice once again after it had been buried under layers of good behavior
I wrote this poem in April of 2022.
I am a witch and sometimes a bitch
if you’re lucky
You’ll see the sweet side of me where I’m your real life magical wet dream come true
If you’re unlucky, you’ll meet the BPD me
the worst bitch you’ll regret meeting in your entire life
because if you treat me badly, I’ll make sure
you’re laugh at when I read a poem about you
at open mic
Life on the BPD 