I wrote this poem in August of 2023.
Am I doomed to men trying me on
just so they can change their minds-
days, weeks, months, years later
is it some kind of karmic energy in me
I still haven’t found the remedy for?
Perhaps I really need to stop trying
to find hope in love
and stick to what’s working for me
and that’s being alone
I wrote this poem in August of 2020.
I met you on a cold January night at the IHOP
across your apartment complex
As I was eating up my loneliness
with scrambled eggs and coffee
I hoped you couldn’t see remnants
of tears that had fallen before you came
and you sat across from me
and as we awkwardly made conversation
I wondered if you would be the one
to breathe new life into my almost dead existence
I wondered if your kiss would help me
reignite a fire of desire, would remind me
I’m more than a wife and mother
But most of all I wondered if maybe, just maybe
someone would finally love me
I wrote this poem in July of 2023.
Could I be so lucky to ever become the muse
of one of your poems or songs?
or am I too ordinary to be inspiring enough
to be written about
I wrote this poem in July of 2023.
I collect crushes like little boys collect pokemon cards
I’m addicted to the potential of love
without doing anything about it
except to occasionally test their waters
Nonchalantly sliding into their DMs
And posting a thirst trap selfie
and celebrating with a love song
when one of them likes it
or comments on it
hoping one of them sees past my salty poetry
hoping one of them is brave enough
to ask me out for coffee
and wants to get to know the real me
I wrote this poem in July of 2023.
the tragedy of my anxiety is that I overthink things
until I sabotage everything
and while I’ve worked on this for a couple of years
I still have problems when good things happen to me
It’s the demon of insecurity coming back to fuck with me
who wants me to fulfill my self fulfilling prophecy of defeat
I wrote this poem in July of 2023.
I gave the middle finger to love for a few reasons
I like to stay emotionally regulated
I like to not be on the brink of suicidal ideation
Every other week
I needed to find out who I was
without anyone distracting me
And for once in my life
I needed to make myself a priority
I wrote this poem in July of 2021.
Seeds of resentment and anger creeps up in my throat
Men who claim to care and love me just want to control me
And me, well i’m just a weak thing, a rag doll
To be used at their convenience,
Be a nice girl, be a good girl, be a sweet girl
Work hard and play by the rules of their game
Be kind, be submissive, be sexy
Seeds of resentment and anger creeps up in my throat
And I want to be burn them all down
With my actions, with my words, with a tweet
I can’t be controlled or stay submissive
For I am too powerful, too crazy, too opinionated
To be tied to this illusion and false idea
They want to have of me
I am a bitch, a vixen, a bad ass
I own my sexuality, my independence, my life
And no one, no one can ever own m
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
mace sits next to my insect repellent in my backpack
gone are the days where I could go on a solitary walk
without worrying if someone evil is lurking nearby
gone are the days where I could turn the volume all the way up
in my earbuds and forget about everyone else
and meditate and write in nature
soon I’ll be looking up self defense classes
to cover all of my bases
I’m too important to fall victim to bad luck
and become another statistic in the epidemic of femicide
still I dare anyone to come at me
this time I’m armed with the rage of my ancestors and BPD
I wrote this poem in July of 2023.
I don’t recognize the woman I was two years ago
and I’m most grateful for that
always dependant and clingy
always insecure, always settling for the trifles of attention
given to her by men
and never confident to share who she really was
always suffocating her needs and wants for the benefit of others
the woman I was two years ago didn’t know
the magical and powerful creature she was
and how even despite her issues
she was a heroine in the making
I wrote this poem in July of 2023.
she thinks she should be thanked for flexing her confidence
clothed in privilege and luxury by posting advice to women
about how dining alone in a fancy restaurant is women’s empowerment
and I have an adverse reaction that makes me want to vomit
it feels like a modern day Marie Antoniette moment
perhaps it’s because I’m a working class immigrant woman
who struggles in America
perhaps it’s because the rights of the marginalized and working class
are being ripped away from us
and on my social media feed, this yuppie and elitist bullshit appears
how can I be friends with this bleached blonde Barbie
oh yeah, we worked together briefly
and I almost start to comment with an essay on how she should
check her privilege before handing out tokens of toxic positivity
while people like me are drowning in debt and lack financial stability
but I stop
this barbie isn’t worth my time or energy
it’s time to unfriend and unfollow the marie antoinette wannabe
who only serves to trigger my working class rage
who serves to remind of the injustice and inequality
in this capitalistic and racist American society
I wrote this poem in July of 2023.
a text from an unknown number reminded me of my past
when I was sick with a love addiction
when I gave in to my impulsivity
when I gave my energy freely to anyone
who paid attention to me
I wrote this poem in June of 2023.
As I let go of my self limiting beliefs,
I grieve the woman I used to be
so insecure and unsure of herself
so hesitant to take control and power
Overthinking and catastrophizing constantly
it held me back from living the life of my dreams-
Jealousy and envy filled me up
Scrolling the professional and personal successes
of others on social media
Thinking, “that could have been me”
and giving too much importance to the opinions of others
wondering constantly-
“are they judging me?”
It was a toxic story I told myself since the age of 16
and it continued on and on until one day in my middle age
I exploded and decided to fight my inner critic
and challenge everything I thought was wrong with me
slowly, I learned to turn my story around
Slowly, I went from victim to heroine
I wrote this poem in June of 2023.
my fingers tingle and almost grew numb
as I gripped the wire
and the tightrope shook
I wanted to give up
it would have been so easy
but something in me didn’t allow me to
terrified I took the slowest step forward
radically accepting in that moment
I will never be a quitter
I wrote this poem in June of 2023.
I’m a poet, I’m a writer but when it comes to expressing the romantic in me
I have the hardest time
I’m great at expressing my anger, my disappointment, my shame
but when it comes to love, I shy away and put my guard up
it’s a mix of trauma and cognitive distortions I’ve held within me
since the age of 16
self limiting beliefs that no man has ever loved or respected me
and failing at all of my love stories no matter
how hard I tried to succeed, no matter how much I accommodated
or changed for my partner, he leaves me
and I’m left flabbergasted, devastated, traumatized
so embedded and attached to my past tragedies
I’m apprehensive and hesitant when it comes to trying on someone new.
when to comes to pursuing anything more than friendship
it leaves me in the land of “I don’t know how to fucking do this again
without it breaking me”
and so I sit still, waiting for my crush to say something, do something
to restart my heart once again
Life on the BPD 