What was the last thing you searched for online? Why were you looking for it?


What was the last thing you searched for online? Why were you looking for it?


I wrote this poem in August of 2023.

the passage of time is a bitch
That Iβm 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 Iβm 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 Iβll make the best of the time
I have left
and become selective of what and who
I give my energy and time to
What TV shows did you watch as a kid?


I wrote this poem in August of 2023.

No one is coming to rescue you, princess
no matter how much you wish to be saved or try your hardest to manifest
a prince to carry the heavy burden of responsibility
youβre constantly lifting
No one is coming to save you, princess
Itβs up to you to save yourself
Itβs up to you to continue to work hard
and be selective on what you expend
your energy on
No one is coming to help you, princess
Youβre no longer relying on others
for a sense of identity or security
and youβre now an independent Queen
whoβs learned only she herself
can save herself and is wise enough to block out
any negativity or toxicity
that threatens her autonomy
or wants to bring on another
Emotional relapse
I wrote this poem in August 2023.

Iβm curious about the aliens on earth
and if theyβre into NSA, telepathic sex
the kind where I get to lie down
and sleep, and they come into my dreams
and make me have multiple orgasms
Over and over again
perhaps these are crazy thoughts
from a middle-aged woman
whoβs been celibate for more than a year
And is oh so thirsty for intimacy
but canβt stand the thought of a man
getting near me
it makes me want to vomit
at this point Iβd take some extra terrestrial
Out of the universe sex without any feelings involved
the kind that fixes my craving for connection
and intimacy
the kind that doesnβt bring me another episode
of psychosis
I wrote this poem in August of 2023.

anything resembling love threatens the home Iβve built
over the past two years
and yet the romantic threads in me wonβt disappear
they want to weave another love story
they want to be pulled into the magic to getting know
someone new
and having arms to call home
I wrote this poem in August of 2023.

Am I doomed to men trying me on
just so they can change their minds-
days, weeks, months, years later
is it some kind of karmic energy in me
I still havenβt found the remedy for?
Perhaps I really need to stop trying
to find hope in love
and stick to whatβs working for me
and thatβs being alone
I wrote this poem in August of 2023.

Children should be seen, and not heard is one tradition Iβll never keep
It would mean invalidating my childrenβs feelings
It would mean for them to have years of therapy trying to find their sense of identity
It would mean to reduce them to shadows who only speak when spoken to
It would mean passing them the torch of a generational curse that makes them question their self-worth over and over again
So everyone can judge me or criticize my parenting all they want
I like my children to not just be seen but also heard
even if itβs sometimes loud and boisterous
even if it sometimes sounds disrespectful
Itβs important for their emotional growth, for their confidence
and to break and heal the generational curse where children are silenced
Here’s the English version of this poem:
Poetry: Dying Innocence
Temblaba con vergΓΌenza por la electricidad
que sentΓa entre sus piernas
serΓa esto la maldad del cual las monjas
que le habΓan advertido
estaba desesperado por parar
pero no podΓa
seria que acabarΓa quemΓ‘ndose en el infierno
por ser adicta al placer que sentΓa
cada vez que se entregaba a Γ©l
una caricia de Γ©l y ella
se convierte de santa a pecadora
I wrote this poem in August of 2023.

could we have done more?
could his story have had a different ending?
could we have all been more compassionate-
more open instead of entrenched and absorbed in our own worlds?
all of these questions are asked, days or week or even months
later, wondering-if we carry any blame or responsibility
when someone ends their life with their own two hands
here’s the English version of this poem:
poetry: short circuit
tuvimos un cortocircuito
y nuestro lucero de amor
se apago
ni siquiera queda una chispa
de la pasiΓ³n que alguna vez
compartimos
y me pregunto una vez mΓ‘s-
ΒΏSerΓ‘ que para mi, el amor
Siempre serΓ‘ algo como agua
que se escapa de mis manos?
I wrote this poem in August of 2023.

complaints about the Barbie movie appear
only from the privileged white men on my timeline
and I shouldn’t be surprised
even if those men call themselves allies or feminist
it speaks volumes to me that they voice their opinion at all
about it and decide to post their sexist bullshit
and maybe this is coming from a middle-aged woman whoβs crazy
but itβs hard to see that in this instance
Why men canβt stay in the backseat and allow women to shine brightly
without the patriarchy trying to dim their light