I wrote this poem in September of 2023.
my heart is full of what ifs? What if it works out?
What if I’m not as dumb as I think I am?
What If I stop listening to the voices in my head
that taunt me-telling me I’m not good enough?
What if I’m brave enough today
and chase my dreams despite my haters
and my inner critic?
I wrote this poem in September of 2023.
today I woke up overwhelmed, exhausted and in a fit of rage
feeling underappreciated in all of my efforts
to move my family forward
not remembering the last time I had a full day of rest
wondering how to continue this existence
of 60 something work weeks,
and of course the guilt over not spending enough time
with my kids-
I was downtrodden with grief and mad at the world
until my abuela’s story made its way to a conversation
with my coworker and a small light of hope dawned on me
if my illiterate and indigenous abuela Mercedes,
alone in the world could make generational wealth
in the early 1900s
despite the racism, the obstacles, and many tragedies faced
I, too. will not only survive but will also thrive
and continue to shine my light
it’s in my bloodline, my ancestry to evolve,
push myself forward despite obstacles, mental illness,
or life’s tragedies-IT’S UP TO ME!
as a Peruvian woman living in America in the 21st century
to make the best of what’s been given to me
which sometimes feels like the sourest of maize
and turn them in the sweetest and tastiest Chicha
I wrote this poem in September of 2023.
the evidence of my emotional affair stares back at me-
taunting me with a smirk-
sexy photos exchanged while both of us were legally bonded
to other people
flirty emails sent back and forth to satisfy my craving for attention
I couldn’t get from my husband
It was fun and sexy, wasn’t it?
We were our own Gen X, low rent version of Ashley Madison
seeing how much both of us could get away with-
except that for years, it hurt me and caused me so many trust issues
after learning you had been married the entire time
of our decade long flirtation
and you acted like a psychopath when I confronted you with it-
like my feelings of betrayal weren’t valid,
and you tried to gaslight me into believing I was a crazy bitch
and a few years later, I’m divorced and reflect on our torrid affair
and shame takes a hold of me
as well as regret over that day in the parking lot
of second and charles when I gave
into my yearning for you-
I try to hold compassion for the atrocity of our infidelity
and for the younger version of me who was so selfish
and allowed her ego to guide her
And allowed herself to continue her pseudo friendship
With you-
allowing you to use me for emotional labor
while you slept next to your wife and lied to her and me
I’ve tried for years to find forgiveness for you
even empathy, tried to not always see you as villain
in my story
But forgiveness, compassion, and empathy for you
Evades me
And I’ve come to the conclusion-
You’ll always be the most toxic story in my life-
One of the three things in my life I’ll forever regret
the one who should have left my life
once I made vows to my husband
but instead you stood there selfishly
pushing your lust driven agenda on me-
not respecting my marriage or yours
one of the three people in my life
I’ll never forgive
for the impact of trauma
You made on me
I wrote this poem in September of 2021.
I long to run free in a world free from prejudice and pride
I long to run free in a world free from judgment and ignorance
I long to run free in a world that accepts people like me
I long to run free in a world where I’m not hypervigilant
about toning myself down
I wrote this poem in September of 2021.
I looked for a sense of home,
a sense of identity
in all of the wrong
Places –
man after man
Shopping spree after shopping spree,
drink after drink
all were temporary fixes
for something I never had
a stable home, a true
sense of identity
until one day I realized
these temporary bandaids
were never or will
ever be my home
because that sense of
home, that sense of identity
lies within myself
I wrote this poem in September of 2023.
I’m looking forward to that pisco sour I’ll have
after the judge declares me divorced and free to remarry
-ha- that’s the biggest joke ever
maybe I’ll land in someone’s bed once again
But a ring on my finger -NEVER!-
not in this lifetime, not as long as I breathe
instead I’ll claim my single status
And relish in it as long as I can
I wrote this poem in August of 2023.
what cannot be said aloud will be written in a poem
for better or worse
I have a tendency to process my emotions
in metaphors and verse
and while many wouldn’t call what I write poetry
because I lack technique or an MFA
or whatever else I’m missing
I’m going to keep writing my raw emotions
Down and sharing them
My words hold value,
My words have power
And it has helped and a few other souls
when our feelings lack logical explanations
and reasons
For better or worse I’m going to continue
to tell my story in poetry
I wrote this poem in August of 2022.
Flowers bloom with patience and care
where there is sunlight and love
Flowers remind me of relationships
when relationships are not given
the right environment or patience and love
They die
I’m a failure at both-
I wrote this poem in August of 2023.
all of us have been or will be dumpster fires
it doesn’t matter who you are
man, woman or non binary
white, black or brown
with or without a mental health diagnosis
working class or upper class
at one point or another we’ll all be toxic to another person
or to ourselves
some of us admit it and cringe
some of us will ignore it or blame someone else
all of us have been or will be dumpster fires
it’s a rite of passage
I wrote this poem in August of 2023.
she makes paper flowers in reverence for a love that died-
for a love that never deserved her goddess energy
it’s grieving a past, present, and a future
with a lover
who brought toxicity and comfort
and it’s almost indescribable how she feels
it’s mourning a love story she was never ready to end
I wrote this poem in July of 2022.
this time when I plant my garden of love
it will be a solo project
filled with seeds of only me
Seeds of my grief, seeds of my joy
Seeds of my sadness, seeds on my anger
Seeds of inspiration and it will bloom
into flowers of self worth
trees of empowerment
and plants of self love
this time when I till my garden
I won’t allow anyone to distract me
This time when I maintain my garden
I’ll water it with the essence of myself
I wrote this poem in July of 2022.
When I fall in love, I lose control, and I lose my power
and it’s painful
because now I have someone to lose
and I don’t deal with loss very well ever
and suddenly I’m all about them, them, them
be understanding, be sweet, be accepting
Be everything
I’ll go to the depths of hell and back for them
but most of the time, they won’t even cross the street for me
I wrote this poem in July of 2023.
My bones did not bend back to how they used to be
after you left, they hardened, became dense
and formed a circle around my heart
And every time I try to soften them
to allow the potential of a new love in
it stubbornly refuses to soften a single bit
no matter how amazing that new potential may be
I wrote this poem in July of 2023.
I’m trying my best to find gratitude for this trauma anniversary
trying to let go of that catastrophic day
trying to quell the anger, rage, and grief, my body kept score of
it’s going to be a day of triggers and emotional dysregulation
it’s going to be a day where traumatic memories take up space in my mind
and body
the best I can do it try to take comfort that every year it gets easier
And some day it will be unimportant
that someday I’ll find a way to write about this day without breaking down
that someday I’ll forget that this day meant anything
but today I’m acknowledging one of the worst days of my life
honoring the rollercoaster of emotions that still comes up
and make me want to vomit
and find compassion for myself and the person
who drove me from the edge of my sanity
I wrote this poem in July of 2023.
I want to be dripping in velvet and have the problems of the rich
like finding a new pool man
because the last one got sick of my condescending and pompous ways
or cry because I’m bored and can’t figure out how to fill up my day
in a way that keeps me entertained
but instead I’m stuck in my working class cursed life
where my joints and bones ache in chronic pain
from constantly over working
where I’m constantly fighting to make ends meet
without losing my sanity
And constantly questioning my existence because of my suffering
Life on the BPD 