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 didnβt know at the time, one day weβd form a family
get married and divorced within a span of twenty years
isnβt 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 Iβm 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 Iβm judging you harshly
and I donβt 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 Iβm 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 Iβm allowing
into my inner circle and allowing clowns to pollute my energy
because lately my poetry isnβt 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 societyβs expectations of me?
Should I be sorry for not wanting to just be
a wife and mother?
Will I ever be free of societyβs shackles
thrusted upon me?
I wrote this poem in September of 2024.

I tell my son Iβm proud of you
and heβs like why, because Iβm 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 canβt 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 Iβll put on my mask of seΓ±ora de la sociedad
pretend I care about trivial things
mask my true identity of being a socialist, a feminist, and a crazy bitch
Itβs 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
itβs 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 familyβs 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 sheβll 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 manβs 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.

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 Iβm doing enough
to live a life worth living
or if Iβm just existing in a routine of monotony that leads nowhere
in a routine Iβve deluded myself into calling healthy
but really itβs far from it
I wrote this poem in July of 2024.

to see my american dream I just need to step into my backyard
and look at my holy trinity who call me mom
theyβre the ones I try to better myself for
theyβre the one who make my immigrant existence
worth living for
theyβre my american dream wrapped up in burps, dark humor
and love
So I wrote this essay a couple of years ago as I was reflecting about the end of my marriage:
As my eight year marriage comes to its inevitable end, Iβve been rewatching the series Mad Men. When I first watched the series, I admired Joan and Peggy for being strong female characters in the show but I always thought there was something about Betty Draper that I could relate to. Itβs strange to think about considering sheβs a white upper class sixties housewife in New York and Iβm a working class millennial immigrant Latina woman in Georgia. Itβs hard to grasp that there would be any similarities between but there are many indeed.

(Me and Hubs at my brotherβs wedding reception)
Betty feels trapped in her suburban idyllic existence and often times feels frustrated; Iβve also felt this way throughout the past fifteen years. Betty wonders if there is more to life than what she is living which is rearing children and being a good wife; Iβve constantly wondered the same thing except that I have the added burden of working.
Don, Bettyβs husband acts like she should be happy with her life and gets mad at her when she shows real emotion, kind of accuses her of being crazy and sends her to a psychiatrist that he secretly talks to about her sessions without her consent and knowledge. My husband never went so far but for most our relationship he did accuse me of over reacting and/or accuse me of being crazy if I got βemotionalβ about something and/or brought up needs that werenβt being met in our relationship. It always felt that I was expecting too much out of our relationship for wanting normal things in a relationship. My husband has also acted like I should settle for what the little he can give me in terms of companionship and be happy with that since he was. For a long time, I felt that maybe I could and should settle for this but settling made me miserable for several years.

Don also kind of stopped investing time and energy into his marriage. He took Betty for granted because they were married with two children and hid behind his work and his many dalliances. My husband was never one to make time for us or continue to woo me in any sense after we started living together. Instead, he hid behind the raising of our children and the fact that he was always tired. He could never spontaneously compliment me and I was always either too fat or almost too skinny for him. Betty overlooked Donβs lack of affection for several years in the same way I overlooked my husbandβs. I feel that this had to do with how women are conditioned to be polite and swallow their emotions because again–weβll be accused of being crazy and/or hysterical.

The beginning of the end of Betty and Donβs marriage started when Betty eventually gets fed up after having one of Donβs affairs rub in her face and throws Don out but later they get back together because she finds out sheβs pregnant with their third child. Don does try to be a somewhat better husband but eventually goes back to his philandering ways. There have been a few times throughout our relationship that I did try to break up with my husband but because he always apologized and said he would change, I always took him at his word and wanted to believe he would change. We even planned our third child and got married shortly after getting pregnant. I think I subconsciously did this because I thought a baby and a marriage would be the band aids that would fix βusβ.

Betty eventually gets tired of Donβs lack of effort and also his lies and eventually asks for a divorce, she tells him something like, βI donβt feel anything when I kiss youβ; it seems that this was when she knew that it was over for her and Don. For me, it took me a couple of years to be firm in my decision to divorce my husband. I think that I finally realized that there was no way I could continue the faΓ§ade of our marriage when I realized that I no longer cared that he didnβt notice me or felt anything remotely like romantic love when I kissed him. It took him a while to understand why I wanted a divorce since he was happy with βusβ and his main concerns were, βwhat about the taxes?β or βwhat about the kids?β. But like Don, he eventually agreed to it and said that he wouldnβt fight me about it. Itβs kind of eerie that women like myself can still relate to a sixties housewife when it comes to relationships, marriages, and the stigma of divorce. Iβm sure that people wonder why I would stay in a stagnant and awful relationship/marriage; thatβs simple; I loved my husband. I thought that loving him meant that I had to settle for a marriage devoid of any real affection. I thought that the love I felt for him would be enough to change him one day.



Iβm used to being a doormat
always allowing peopleβs energy to pollute
my life and take up my time
itβs the people pleaser in me who needed to fawn
be easy to get along with with,always avoiding conflict,
become the person they want me to be, always easy to digest and swallow
cutting away pieces of my authenticity-
never valuing myself or putting myself first
It was learned martyrdom from the women in my family
Internalized misogyny sold to me at young age
dressed up as selfless acts of love
but Iβm done sacrificing myself for others
Itβs time to unlearn this toxic way of loving and being
I refuse to passed this down to the next generation
of woman who come after me
Iβm here to take up space, roar like a lioness
and passed down a new legacy of self love
that took me 41 years to learn
I wrote this poem in June of 2024.

everyone I meet wants to fix me
my hair is wild and indomitable
my grammar is atrocious
my laugh is too loud
and we canβt forget about my crooked teeth
and while most of them mean well
I wonder whatβs so wrong with me
that people always fixate on my flaws