every time I drive somewhere new I’m beyond terrified doubts about driving skills cloud me and I want to break down and panic in the middle of traffic but I push through my fears, my insecurities, and keep driving I can’t be weighed down by who I used to be A woman reliant on the transportation of others A woman fearful of living a full life that is my old story and it’s not that I hate that version of myself I just refused to hold myself hostage by my past which tries to hold me back from being the independent woman I was always meant to be
look at that Goddess, very awkward, very full of herself
gratitude taste like mami’s sopa de pollo gratitude smells like my lover’s cologne gratitude feels like a warm hug from my son gratitude sounds like my sister’s car in my driveway gratitude looks like me looking at the Goddess in the mirror
I know I’ll be okay, I know I’ll be fine I’m the queen of resilience, coming back triumphantly After each tragedy but right now, I need to honor the heaviness of grief that resides within me Acknowledge that for a while, my kids may view me as a villain for breaking up their family for making them products of broken home I gotta feel this residual anger and resentment Directed at myself and my ex for not being able to make our marriage work At least I can say it wasn’t me who gave up easily I was the one who gave my all and best efforts to make it work but one day, I had to accept it for what it was a marriage damaged beyond repair And no amount of meds, therapy, acceptance or healing on my part could have saved it- not when I was always doing 80 percent of the work and he barely gave me any effort and while yes, he did care of our kids and of me he still didn’t help in providing for them, show initiative to better our family or even tried to love me the way I needed to be loved Instead, he hid behind his fatherhood and age To distract me And it wasn’t until the healthiest version of me showed up and got the courage to put a stop to this facade of a marriage and stop our codependent story of love We’ve been modeling for our kids It’s up to me to break this generational curse of toxic love or else our kids won’t know or understand what a healthy and real love story looks like
the shelf of my bookcase breaks, and my poetry notebooks fall every single one of my love stories scattered on the floor Failure after failure Were any of them worth the effort? Was the experience worth the suffering? Maybe it was for the inspiration behind my prose and poetry and the growth I’ve had Still, that doesn’t seem like an adequate answer
In humility I ask mama Killa for guidance To send me a sign of some kind as I start to unravel and lose myself in my anxiety and insecurities As I start to question if I’m on the right path and throw myself a pity party and cry because no one is coming to save me And how despite all the empowerment I feel with my autonomy I still miss being in a relationship and cover myself up in defeat Thinking I’ll always be this lonely But mama Killa sends me a reminder of the love of sisterhood in my dreams to remind me I’m on the right path Mama Killa, in her own way, reassures me that staying true to myself and continuing what sometimes feels like a challenging and cringy journey of self-discovery Is the right thing for me to do in order to heal, to grow, to evolve and to remember everything will fall into place as long as I keep going and never give up
maybe my alien will bring this kind of romantic energy
I’m curious about the aliens on earth and if they’re into NSA, telepathic sex the kind where I get to lie down and sleep, and they come into my dreams and make me have multiple orgasms Over and over again perhaps these are crazy thoughts from a middle-aged woman who’s been celibate for more than a year And is oh so thirsty for intimacy but can’t stand the thought of a man getting near me it makes me want to vomit at this point I’d take some extra terrestrial Out of the universe sex without any feelings involved the kind that fixes my craving for connection and intimacy the kind that doesn’t bring me another episode of psychosis
My bra is the milkshake that brings men to my playground It gives me the cleavage that makes them feel like they’re in love They’ll claim it’s my words or my eyes they’re in love with , but let’s not kid ourselves It’s really my majestic breasts that pop out with their own personalities they fuel their many exotic and erotic fantasies
Gotta flex for my next ex let me post some thirst trap pic of my cleavage and add a profound quote about my self discovery journey but nothing too crazy I don’t want to scare him away
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
The romantic in me riots and protests and says this solitary confinement is bullshit It’s been over a year since we’ve been intimate with anyone or felt a romantic connection and I try to reason with her “We’re still healing and we like to stay emotionally regulated and healthy” and she yells, “no it’s time to take all of our therapy skills out for test drive and find someone we vibe with’ And I answer, “but we’re not” And she screams, “stop with your excuses go find the next muse of our poetry”
Trust in love is a concept lost to me I can’t imagine giving my heart to anyone else I can’t imagine being vulnerable with anyone else and it’s insanity to keep allowing myself to trust and love when all I do is lose, lose, lose I don’t know how to cope when a love song stops while I’m still dancing
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 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 