I wrote this poem in October of 2022.
I thought that for once I had a healthy kind of love but I was wrong-
Healthy doesn’t carry lies, toning myself down, or accommodate in extremes
Healthy is not running from conflict or avoiding hard conversations
Healthy is not hiding the worst parts of myself because I’m too scared to be alone
Even now, I’m not sure what healthy is-but I didn’t have it with you
here’s the english version of this poem:
todos nos envidian y me tiran indirectas y insultos
porque una generación nos separa,
porque dicen que no soy suficiente para ti
pero ellos no entienden que has sido el primero
en tratarme como un princesa,
el primero en amarme de verdad
I wrote this poem in October of 2022.
the nuns at Holy Spirit would be proud of me
if they saw me with my self imposed celibacy,
with the solitary confinement I’ve placed myself in
They’d mistake my vow of chastity
as me trying to get closer to the holy trinity
when it’s really me being dramatic
about my BPD recovery
I wrote this poem in October of 2022.
With excitement in his eyes, my son used to bring me pictures of made up monsters
Drawn with crayons-
With pride in his stance, he now brings me target sheets showing me how he’s well on his way
to becoming a decent shot with a revolver
When did my child go from crayons to guns?
It seems like I blinked and he went from four to twenty four
He went from being a rambunctious little boy who was hard to keep up with
to a strong and independent man who no longer needs me
And while I’m full of joy about this transformation-
I still miss the carefree days of crayon drawn monsters
here’s the english version of this poem:
Poetry: Strange
me tienes en la esquina de confusión y desilusión como un animal
tratando de entenderte, siempre persiguiendote,
Viviendo de los trozos de atención y afección que me tiras
cuando te da la gana
I wrote this poem in October of 2022.
Me and my teenage son fight and I regret it the next day
I’ve watched too many people mourn their sons this year
I’ve felt the screams of those close to me
asking God why he took their babies too young
Young men who will never be fathers,
Young men who will never see their children grow up
into rebellious and sassy teens
and while I understand conflicts happens between
parent and child
I also know we’re both on borrowed time
and I don’t want our angry words
to be the last exchange between us
if its his or my last day today
Life on the BPD 