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Ivy

9/30/2023

Tell us about a time when you felt out of place.

the ceilings of America are laced with poison ivy
every time I act out of the norm or forget to code switch
people tell me I’m too dramatic -ouch-
accused of being toxic and crazy-damn
and a rash of doubt takes over my mind
I’ll never fit it, no one will ever love or accept me
and I turn down who I am
but even that doesn’t work
it makes things worse
and I explode and project-
fuck you, you’re blocked
then I discover therapy -slowly I heal
accept the pieces of myself that will never fit in
exhibit myself in my most authentic form
and slowly the poison ivy becomes an ivy of love and growth
and I understand that to be happy
I need let go of normalcy
and embrace my unconventional and eccentric self

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poetry: brush your teeth

I wrote this poem in September of 2024.

I tell my son I’m proud of you
and he’s like why, because I’m alive
I nervously laugh even though
my heart aches over what he said
Why does America like to play
Russian roulette with its children
Why can’t I have a normal conversation with
my kid over too much screen time
and reminding him to brush his teeth
instead of conversation over what
he should do in a mass shooting

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poetry: under

I wrote this poem in September of 2022.

me with one of my voices of reason

I feel left out by my friends and I cry and whine
“they hate me, I’m not good enough for them”
my voice of reason tells me
“it will be okay, you don’t need them”
it’s my sister

I break down in the middle of the sidewalk
and cry and scream
“I’m unworthy of love, I’ll be alone forever”
my voice of reason tells,
“that’s not true, you just need to focus on you boo”
It’s my son

my voice of reason has comforted me and loved me unconditionally
my voice of reason keeps me from going under

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poetry: modesty

I wrote this poem in September of 2022.

me in September of 2022 before boarding a plane to Lima

my mother tells me to dress modestly
no loud lipstick, short skirts,tight or revealing clothing
I represent my family and currency in my country
is prestige and social status-
so I need to dress like the hija del ingeniero-
it’s the remnants my parents hold on to from their former lives
so I’ll put on my mask of señora de la sociedad
pretend I care about trivial things
mask my true identity of being a socialist, a feminist, and a crazy bitch
It’s the least I can do for the people who sacrificed themselves
for a better life for me

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poetry: pieces

I wrote this poem in August of 2024.

given the role of cycle breaker

pieces of my abuela bleed into my mami which bleeds into me
and I’m the vessel of the generational trauma inherited
and given the role of cycle breaker
I go against societal norms and conventions
and I’m always the odd one out
always the one who never belongs, who never fits in
until I find sanctuary in poetry, friendships,
and my own creative community
and while the trauma inherited still lives in me
I find a purpose for it as i share abuela’s, mami’s, and my stories
through poetry and slowly those generational wounds
start to heal and turn into scars

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poetry: marionettes

I wrote this poem in August of 2024.

AI Generated Liz Taylor

Mae West and Liz Taylor knew how to take up space in a man’s world
and that was the problem with them
it intimidated the fuck out of the men who worked with them,
who loved them
so they were ostracized, made to be cautionary tales
the minute they got out of line
so much beauty partnered with intelligence
made them a target in a patriarchal society
that like their women cute and mute
like the marionettes they can pull strings on

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poetry: day of the dead

I wrote this poem in August of 2024.

this day of the dead, I’ll pay reverence to my female ancestors
i’ll build a shrine with their pictures and letters to honor them
it’s the least I can do do the generational gifts passed down to me
this day of the dead, I’ll pay reverence to my female ancestor
write down their stories and later on share them
remember that doing this heals something in me,
something in them

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poetry: pick me girls

I wrote this poem in August of 2024.

the pick me girls of the 60s

haven’t we all been pick me girls at the same point in our lives
with our push up bras, our twirling the hair, our miniskirts,
our not so subtle flirty behaviors
it’s the ways the patriarchy conditioned as to be in order
to find love, to find companionship in order to have a life
worth living in a society that tends to value women
according to who’s she’s holding hands with
haven’t we all been pick me girls at some point in our lives
have we all been brainwashed by the patriarchy?

Posted on by pattytacuri · 2 Comments

Obsession

Daily writing prompt
What are you passionate about?
View all responses

My yen to better myself is has become an obsession
causing me constant frustration
being so self aware of my unhealthy patterns
leads me to self flagellation
Oh another poem about how I’m so toxic
or I’m a perpetual love addict
or I do everything wrong when it comes to love
When will I reach a point of enough
Enough with pointing out my faults
Enough of feeling my self imposed emotional claws
Enough of acting like I’m a monster
and how I’m consumed by anger
I know that healing means being self aware
but there’s gotta be something on the other side
of this constant despair

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poetry: when

I wrote this poem in August of 2024.

trying find balance among the chaos

lately life has been a most unfortunate chain of events
and my universe is upside down
can’t tell which way is up, which way is down
I just want relief from this elephant of pressure
that sits on my chest
I know that it will get better
I know a sudden rush of clarity will come after this
but the not knowing when is killing me

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poetry:not right now

I wrote this poem in August of 2024.

trying to be logical

love will have to wait while i switch the gears from survival mode to triunfadora mode
right now I can only concentrate on existing and putting one foot in front of another
right now I only have the energy and time to focus on myself
and digging myself out of the latest catastrophe I find myself in
right now is not the time for crushes or new relationships
it wouldn’t be fair to him to invite him into my current chaos
right now I stand alone, get myself together
before trying to fall into the magic of love again

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poetry: timid

I wrote this poem in August of 2024.

in the thick of my depression

I feel timid lately and want to hide in a tomb
the kind of tomb you’d find on the grounds
in some decrepit motel
there I wouldn’t have to function at all
there I could get lost in my thoughts
and make up scenarios in my head
There’s no one’s energy would impact me
in a way that makes me feel hopeless and worthless

Posted on by pattytacuri · 3 Comments

Poetry: Hysteria

I wrote this poem in August of 2022.

me in August of 2022

guilt and despair fills you up from the pain you’ve caused
and you’re in the thick fog of darkness
so you write poetry and cry and idealize death
because in your time-therapy was still a new thing
and the cure for your hysteria was a lobotomy
and there was no such thing as DBT
and no one to tell you that feelings are temporary

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poetry: olympic sport

I wrote this poem in August of 2024.

big mood

if self sabotage was an olympic sport, I’d win the gold medal
so many times I’d been close to reaching my potential
only to screw it up later
maybe it’s the insecure and anxious little girl
who still lives within me
who’s scared of conquering fears and chasing her dreams
I need to figure out a way to quell her
to give her closure and peace so she’ll let me be
live in peace and stop sabotaging everything

Posted on by pattytacuri · 3 Comments

Poetry: My Love Costs All the Pretty Things

I wrote this poem in August of 2022.

goals -in my fur coat

Give me a man who will buy me everything
and I will accommodate to him-
Because unlike JLo my love costs all the pretty things
dresses, jewelry, vacations in the caribbean
give it all to me and you can be my king
because if I’m going to be treated like shit by a man
in a relationship, at least let it be on a cruise ship