the repetitive compliments, the gross flattery about your looks no longer works on you- You’re one “hey beautiful” from vomiting the contents of your lunch all of these men state the obvious-you’re pretty And they think it’s a way to get to closer to you but you scream, “ew” and block them it’s nothing against them, you just no longer have the luxury of time to waste it on this type of nonsense to even think about entertaining them you’re outgrown that story
I close and open my heart at my moods and hormones’ convenience on a tightrope of vulnerability where I tend to fall off from and I have a tendency to blame 80s and 90s music and movies that taught me that if you’re good enough, if you’re pretty enough the right guy will fall for you and you’ll get your happy ending
my exes are scared of me for good reason too many times I’ve used their words, even their emails as ammunition in expressing myself in poetry sometimes, it was for revenge Many times, it was me just trying to heal but I did warn most of them –I’m a writer–and I’m crazy they probably thought “Oh how cute, a girl who writes a few verses” they never understood how my wrath showed up in my writing until they leave and finally understand they should have heeded my warning
my past is clouded in shame over secrets that were never my responsibilities or a burden to bear and all to keep up appearances that we were a normal and happy family and normal and happy families don’t talk about addiction or mental illness
I drove on a one way street and didn’t even realize I was doing it until a kind pedestrian pointed it out and I was like “oh shit” and cringed at myself as I kept on driving and my brain invoked the voice of my papi “Idiota, estupida” and my blood pressure spiked and I’m light headed from the embarrassment Middle age and present me steps in quickly to fix this I keep going and find a parking spot and step out still flushed from the verbal beating my inner child just took even after I fixed my mistake the repercussions from the shame are still felt in my body
I hold hands with my trauma and show her off to everyone most people look at her with curiosity some people are horrified my family cringes and and whispers to me, “it’s embarrassing, showing her as some kind of trophy” I get mad and flip everyone off and me and my trauma link arms and skip on our way to share her story and create drama and chaos who cares if no one understands our process of healing and recovery by sharing our story
“psychopathic, don’t be so dramatic, we had magic, but you made it tragic”- Conan Gray
He comes with false promises of respect and easy and uncomplicated lust He promises never to hurt you but it’s all a game to get for him to get laid He just wants to use you for a hit and run Once he’s done with you He’ll discard you like trash He’ll never see you as a person He’ll only see you was a receptacle for his cum He’ll only see you as an object of lust and at times he’ll even claim to love you when he sees he’s losing the toxic spell he’s placed on you but once he’s got you in his bed He’ll forget about you the next day So it’s best to stop his emotionally poisonous game that leaves you always feeling worthless in the end and delete and block his number and forget about the fuckboy once and for all
today I feel the presence of my ancestors more than ever they praise me for breaking through the bullshit that society tried to sell about what it means to be a woman and mother- they love me despite my many sins and that mistakes I’ve made they scold me when I call myself a monster or an atrocity they encourage me to continue on my path they tell me to trust my intuition more and to take more risks with my art and in my life it’s a disservice to myself to doubt my creativity this only hinders me from fully expressing myself and keeps me from being authentic and honest when I share mine and their stories
Beneath the fallen leaves lies my footprints and the footprints of lives unknown on roads taken with regrets Beneath the fallen leaves lies the stories from the trash not picked up-a used condom here, a hair tie there a letter lost Beneath the fallen leaves lies everything unsaid and tears that have fallen
I’m not for the tender and meek and because of that I might end up lonely for the rest of my life and before, it used to bother me but lately I don’t care I’d rather be alone facing the world and my fears without anyone who’ll judge me or give me his unsolicited opinion on my life I finally hold the reins of my autonomy and I’m not giving that up for anybody
I wasted too much time in comparing myself to other women and blaming them when my exes chose them and allowed my jealousy and rage to speak for me Never understanding how they were all just innocent bystanders in my complicated and chaotic love stories I’m sorry, I didn’t know any better and I wasn’t mature enough to take accountability and it was easier to use y’all as scapegoats when I lost war after war of love- It was easier to say you won because I wasn’t educated and white like you In reality, I should’ve used my ammunition only towards my exes It was never y’alls fight to be a part of even if some of them used y’all as an excuse for their departure I’m so sorry, anna, david’s ex-wife, my ex metamours, maybe my message will come to you in a dream or you’ll see this poem in my blog one day and be able to forgive me
I cry over my fries while I write nonsense because nothing makes sense I’ve worked so hard to change my narrative of mental illness so hard to create a new story of strength and resilience where I’m the heroine but tragically I’m a falling victim again to depression, anxiety, BPD, and whatever the fuck else it is wrong with me and I wish to make myself small enough to disappear into a mist of nothingness because lately it hurts too much to exists
in the juxtaposition of the karens and working class I find sympathy for both it’s hard to explain this in between- it’s an exhausting struggle of understanding the complexities of the human condition of wanting to be seen of wanted to be heard and respected and I stared in horror, almost breathless as the karens and the working class exchange verbal hostile fire and almost throw hands at each other as one threatens the other’s livelihood and the other stood their ground and I – was just a witness to the epidemic of anger in America
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?
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
