I wrote this poem in January of 2024.
How long do I have to scroll before the algorithm fucks me up
Before the algorithm makes me feel like I’m not doing enough
before I lose my shit and say “this is bullshit”
and delete all of my social media apps
How long do I have to scroll before the algorithm makes me feel better
before the algorithm starts to validate my existence
Before some random stranger slides into my dms and tells me I’m pretty
I wrote this poem in January of 2024.
My body slowly starts to rebel against the daily stress
I put on it
It says, “stop this nonsense, you’re trying to do too much constantly.
hardly stopping to catch your breath
Constantly moving with a fast pace, tying up your worth
with how productive you can be
when just breathing, just existing is enough”
this poem is inspired by the 2006 poem “the light”
hope is found in a lucid dream-
It’s a whisper reminding me, “it won’t always be like this”
it’s my abuela telling me “tu vida apenas está comenzando”
and I wake from the fog of existential dread
I’ve been feeling lately-
I wrote this poem in January of 2024.
another new year is here
another season of my life
will soon be renewed
more chances for new experiences
and adventures
more opportunities to fuck things up
and give fodder to the inner critic in me
to emotionally beat me up
more time to question myself
am I doing enough for me and my kids
to prosper
more moments of joy and laughter
with my boys as they get older
and continue to find their autonomy
more grief and sadness as the working class
and marginalized communities
continue to be stepped on
more memories made that ignite a spark
of creativity within me
another new year
another transformation under construction
I wrote this poem in October of 2024.
just call me J.Lo without the ass because my ex
(if we can even call him that) came back to me
after 2 years of sobriety
we’re the low rent version of Bennifer
except we’re not millionaires
or celebrities (yet)
I’m just a working class immigrant poet
and he’s my ex whatevership Nordic muse
I wrote this poem in August of 2024.
August came and I hold onto
the few slivers of hope left in me
as I reach another rock bottom
self correcting and not making myself a victim
making sure I’m better than yesterday
Trying my best to control my emotions
knowing that somewhere in the wash
of this downward spiral
will come the biggest silver lining
I wrote this poem in December of 2023.
the future of me is not written yet
I have to understand that
all I can do is write for her
who will still question her existence
or why things happened the way they did
or what the fuck happened to her
I know myself too well
it doesn’t matter how far I’m in my self discovery journey
I’ll always have questions
Its my insatiable curiosity
I can only hope that the future me has leaned into self love
More than ever before and still understands
she and her kids are her top priorities
Anyone else is expendable in her little universe of love
I wrote this poem in December of 2023.
I swipe and swipe on anyone who looks appetizing,
on anyone who looks interesting
and then the messages swarm in-
I must be honey to the bees who buzz and buzz around me
and I’m not impressed
Hey, beautiful says the guy with his catch of day
in his profile pic –
Are you DTF? Says the zoomer almost young enough
to be my son-ew-blocked
insert a pretentious line with a quote
From a Wallace Stevens poem , it’s the Genxer
who’s gross-ethically non monogamous-
I must not have been paying attention
while I was swiping
And the messages keep coming
And I’m overwhelmed by the amount of them
and underwhelmed by quality of them
and I’m nauseated and want to vomit
at the thought of giving any of these men
an ounce of my energy
maybe a past version of me
would have given them a chance
but this new and empowered version of me
Nah, none of them seem worthy
so I deactivate my profile
and uninstall the app
Understand I’m too evolved to find love online
and put my trust in the universe that one day
The right guy will find me
and I won’t even have to try
and until that time comes,
I’ll keep being an independent Peruvian Queen
Focusing on myself and my kids
without any mediocre energy
trying to intervene
I wrote this poem in December of 2023.
the breakup was always a larger than life event in my mind
because of the catastrophic pain it caused
because it was someone I thought could be my forever
so when he gave me the electronic pink slip
I used it as a catalyst for change
I broke away with my idea of what made me attractive
and accessible to men, and instead, I focused on what made me feel good about myself
and learned to accept myself as the complicated and crazy
woman that I am
I finally understood I was always a Queen
Underneath layers of princess skin
Armed myself with poetry and confidence
that breakup changed me like previous breakups did
however, this one was the key to the transformation
I needed to become the woman I was always meant to be
I wrote this poem in December of 2023.
I listen to the universe without a hint of defiance
I listen carefully and with intention
to understand my next blessing
and the message is, continue to be vulnerable
with the world
you’re leaving a blueprint for the next one
keep leaning into your craziest and most authentic self
there’s someone somewhere who’s paying attention
and may be falling in love with you one poem at a time
but too scared to make a confession
I wrote this poem in December of 2023.
me and my ex drive towards the moon in silence
accepting we were always meant to be friends
no longer harboring resentment about our failed story of romance
Focusing on the long road ahead of us
Divorced and raising kids in a world full of oxymorons,
in a world that will try to make them fit
into unrealistic expectations of what it means to be human
me and my ex drive towards the moon in silence
putting away our differences and any conflicts
And putting our childrens’ best interest first
understanding they’re the best thing
to come out of the failure of us
I wrote this poem in December of 2023.
my culture is not up for appropriation, my culture is not up for colonizers to profit off from it
I can hear my ancestors cursing in their graves
haunting white people in their dreams over the atrocity they’re committing
it’s blasphemous to use their most sacred ceremony for the business of “healing”
why must white people in 2023 continue to steal from the indigenous community?
it’s the same white people who forced assimilation on us
the same white people who made us give up our religion and traditions
the same white people who shamed us for our indigenous traits
and the reason I don’t know how to speak quechua today
why can’t the white man stay in his lane instead of trying to profit from our culture
and the insecurities of others
how is it possible that in this day and age
these so called enlightened and elitist whites are still fucking over the indigenous community?
I wrote this poem in December of 2023.
silence is no longer an option
if I continue to do so, I’d be suffocating the part of me
who needs to be heard in order to heal
I’d be failing myself, my ancestors, and future generations
silence is no longer an option
to do so is an act of violence against the writer and poet in me
whose purpose is tell my story, my truth
I wrote this poem in December of 2023.
abandonment wounds run deep in my bloodline
I’ve lost count of how many woman in my family
whose lovers absconded, who’s lovers left them
for their own version of Heather-
maybe this explains my epic overreaction every time a lover absconded
their departure triggers trauma in my DNA
from the abandoned women ancestors before me
I wrote this poem in December of 2023.
in my island of solitude, I drift further
and further away from romantic love
when I’ve tried to invite others to my island
they always left, and it drove me into hysterics
making a catastrophic emotional mess of me
so now I float alone on my island of solitude
and have erected walls of strength and confidence around it
I will not allow another soul to break them down
only to later leave on a whim, leaving me in pieces once again
Life on the BPD 