I wrote this poem in March of 2025.
longing to escape responsibility of my suburban life
I became 21 again and did drugs and fucked stranger men
I never meant any harm, I just wanted to know
what it was like to not be looked
at as someone’s mother, someone’s wife
Escribí este poema en marzo de 2022.
Soy el escándalo de mi generación
marcho a mi ritmo propio desordenado
sin pensar qué es lo correcto o moral
soy una mujer cachonda y alegre
que le gusta una variedad de amantes
porque la vida es demasiado corta
para seguir siendo una niña buena
soy una mujer caótica siempre actuando
sin pensamientos a las consecuencias
soy una mujer que ahora se arriesga
a vivir su vida con ganas y autenticidad
I wrote this in March of 2022.
When I was little, I was often lost in daydreams
about America
It was beautiful and blue
I pictured a celestial and warm ocean
where the waves tenderly touch my toes
I was taught it was a better existence than
the one we were living in
but no one told me that dreams sometimes
don’t come true
and the reality of America was filled with a hardness
that even 35 years later I’m still processing
indentured servitude, exploitation, depression,
addiction,racism, mental illness were just a few side effects
of going for the American dream
I wrote this poem in March of 2025.
kept the dead rose petals along with your note as long as I could
it was the first time a man had acknowledged me worthy enough
of a rose
and at 16, that was everything
I wrote this poem in March of 2021.
I don’t want to but have to be the boss
the boss of my family
the boss in my relationships
the boss of my life
it sucks to take charge and dominate all of the spaces
it sucks to have so many responsibilities thrust upon me
it sucks to always have to shrink myself for egos
it sucks to never be in a space where for once
I can be soft
I wrote this poem in March of 2019.
Feeling hopeless in a cesspool of a world
That will never accept you
-for your skin color
-for your accent
-for your nationality
-for your religion or lack of one
-for your independent thought
Anything that doesn’t fit the image
of white and Christian is blasphemous
To be an “other” is to carry the weight of racism,
discrimination, xenophobia
All the phobias on your already burdened shoulders
So they try to kill us with actual guns Or
metaphorical ones of insults,rejections or looks of disgust.
I wrote this poem in March of 2025.
kept trying to find the God of my youth in men
but instead I kept becoming a martyr over and over
again
I wrote this poem in February of 2023.
I’m soldier of love
too lost battles for me to count and recount
how many times I’ve had to stitch my heart over and over again
from the many knives past lovers have stabbed me with
with the last one, I almost lost all hope for love
It made me lose my sanity and almost gave me PTSD
Still the romantic in me refused to die
and resurfaced this year
Told me, “this time it will be different, this time you have self respect
and you’ll be choosy over who’s worthy of your love energy”
I wrote this poem in February of 2025.
raindrops serendipiciously hit the window panes of our room
and the wind sings a song everyone can hear
I lay on your chest in our bed in awe of what just happened
caught lovestruck with a smile of love
thankful for this second chance at marriage
for so long I thought I was doomed to be alone
never expected to find you
especially the way you showed up in my life
and now there isn’t a space between us
and you look at me with goofy smile of yours
the one that inspires the poet in me and say
“we need to make up for lost time”
I wrote this poem in February of 2023.
Y’all should have known better than to fuck with me
trying me on while I was still finding my footing as a woman
to lust after me because of my curves and pretty face
Never thinking my brain was still developing
Never weighing the consequences of how your selfish ways
would hurt me
Instead I was just fodder for your game of lust-
and you became inspiration for stories and poems about trauma
I still wonder who I would turned out to be-
if only you two would have left me alone
I wrote this poem in February of 2023.
I give you the gift of my heart with everything in it
so please be careful with it
I don’t want it to be broken apart again
if you decide to leave on a whim
I wrote this poem in February of 2025.
With a fiery madness, she survived and made it out alive
tragedy after tragedy, diagnosis after diagnosis
she questioned how or why she did it
Many stood astonished at how she kept herself together
and composed even as her life and her body fell apart
but after a while it was easy for her to triumph
after every devastating plot twist
she was something else
a mixture of manic pixie girl and goddess
she was special
escribi este poema en febrero del 2023.
la desgracia me desgasta y casi me mata
porque amo en una forma inmensa y pura
y cuando el amor me abandona quiero morir
y digo, esta última desgracia se siente como un terremoto catastrófico
y prefiero cortarme mis venas que sentir esto denuevo
I wrote this poem in February of 2023.
middle age me is not seeking revenge on all who caused me trauma
I’m simply trying to make sense of the fuckery that happened to me
I’m simply trying to address the unhealed trauma that still lies
within me and haunts me in my dreams
I’m trying to process and understand that I never deserved any of it
I’m trying to get rid of that shame and guilt I’ve carried from it
and while sometimes that looks vindictive
I’m sorry but the only way to my journey in healing work
is through uninhibited storytelling
I wrote this poem in February of 2025.
help her find hope after becoming the worst version of herself
after getting herself entangled with men who did nothing
but hurt her
help her find grace after the fall from the altar of love
men placed her on and she turned into a monster
who resembled medusa
help her find a path to enlightenment and purpose
after she once again drowns in waves
nostalgia and grief over what could have been
Life on the BPD 