I wrote this poem in January of 2020.
She’s an American
I’m an immigrant
She loves Trump
I’m a borderline socialist
She believes in money and brand names
I believe in love and poetry
Born from the same womb
But living in different worlds
She’s upper middle class
I’m working class
She’s latina when it suits her
I’m latina every single day
She’s the definition of assimilation
I get called out by HR for being too Peruvian
She’s the American Dream
And I’m the immigrant
I wrote this poem in January of 2025.
el tio Julio always spoke English to us, the kids
didn’t matter who we were with or where we were
I think he was an advocate of assimilation at an early age
I think he wanted all of us to have a fighting chance
in our adopted homeland
perhaps this was an act of kindness on his part
he knew that in order to survive in the USA
we had to leave behind the part that made us seen as a foreigner
and become as American as possible
I wrote this poem in January of 2025.
my uncle’s death has awakened something in me
and while I think he was mostly good and don’t judge him
I’m sad he didn’t live his life authentically
I’m sad he couldn’t bring himself to leave his loveless marriage
I’m sad he hurt his second wife by cheating on her with the first
I’m sad that for more than half a century he was deeply in love
with a woman he could never have
I wonder what would have happened if my uncle made it to therapy
and tamed his demons
I wonder if eventually he could’ve found some happiness and love
in his life or perhaps I’m wrong
and he was content with the mess he was inside
I wrote this poem in January of 2025.
under a tequila sunrise in L.A,he breaks apart once again
she committed the ultimate act of treason against him
and he couldn’t forgive her again
this time he couldn’t put a bandaid of his love
to make it all better
this time he had a son to think about
this time his family would disown him if he stayed with her
so he packed up her stuff, put the boxes and suitcases
of her belongings outside
changed the locks and filed for divorce
even as he broke inside, he held all of his emotions in
and even though he considered her the grand love of his life
he had to cut all ties with her
this time she hadn’t just broken law of not just decency
and morality with her actions
this time her horrid actions made her beyond redemption
this time she had gone too far
I wrote this poem in December of 2023.
the more I disconnected from motherhood and compartmentalize my life
the more damage I did to myself and others
taking accountability and bonding with my children
is necessary for healing
I wrote this poem in December of 2024.
a moment of serendipity happened when we ran into each other
Christmas shopping
You struck up a conversation and helped me with my bags
and I told you about my plans for higher education
and you said you wanted to help me and got my phone number
we didn’t know at the time, one day we’d form a family
get married and divorced within a span of twenty years
isn’t life, so, so crazy?
How ten minutes of conversation ended up leading to the beginning
of one of my most important stories?
I wrote this poem in November of 2022.
sometimes I wish you were here-
so you could share your wisdom, so you could explain your truth
I followed in your footsteps of being a teenage mom
And it would have ripped me apart to have abandoned my son
so I’m wondering how you did it-
were you full of guilt or was it because of your lack of options
how did you survive being away from your child
and go on with your life as if he was an afterthought
Perhaps I’m judging you harshly
and I don’t understand the whole story
I just want it to make sense
I wrote this poem in October of 2024
is it the gods of bpd and pmdd or the men in my life with 3 of swords energy
making me extra hateful and moody today
are my standards too high because I’m obsessed
with conan gray, joji, and yung gravy
and none of the men in my life seem to hold a flicker of a flame
to the Gods of music I worship
is is the gods of bpd and pmdd or my chronic pain making me a moody bitch
today or is it me not being selective enough with who I’m allowing
into my inner circle and allowing clowns to pollute my energy
because lately my poetry isn’t hitting like it used to
or maybe I just need to uninstall all of my social media apps,
turn off my phone for a few days, and read books and listen to my vinyls
to reset and recharge
I wrote this poem in October of 2019.
And just when I think I have it all figured out–
Everything falls apart again
the universe has a funny way of humbling me
just when I think I finally have it together
When does it get easier?
Am I being punished for not conforming
to society’s expectations of me?
Should I be sorry for not wanting to just be
a wife and mother?
Will I ever be free of society’s shackles
thrusted upon me?
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
I wrote this poem in September of 2022.
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
I wrote this poem in September of 2022.
the prodigal daughter returns to a homeland that she barely remembers
it’s been 32 years since she stepped foot on Peruvian soil
and this feeling is unworldly-indescribable-unimaginable
she was a child when she left
never quite understanding the whys or hows of her family’s immigration journey
in her adopted homeland, she suffered through hardships and failures
but the ancestors always protected her
from drowning in the immense waves of chaos and disasters, she ended up being tossed in
and she’ll go to their graves and pay reverence to them for shielding her from danger
the prodigal daughter returns, and she feels nostalgia rushing into her body and mind
she is finally where she belongs
I wrote this poem in August of 2024.
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
I wrote this poem in July of 2024.
these must be the new dark age of my life
where I can’t find my life’s purpose,
where I cry because I don’t think
I’ll ever be loved
where the sleeping pills in my drawers
are tempting me to end my misery
I wrote this poem in July of 2024.
with this new strain of COVID, all of my cell are mutating and regenerating
and making be at a standstill where I have time to sit and think
about what I really want, about whether or not I’m doing enough
to live a life worth living
or if I’m just existing in a routine of monotony that leads nowhere
in a routine I’ve deluded myself into calling healthy
but really it’s far from it
Life on the BPD 