I wrote this poem in March of 2023.
we lie to ourselves continuously about our needs
to save face, to avoid conquering our fears
to not feel insecure
we’ll tell ourselves we are better off alone and independent
when in reality as humans
we are meant to be social
we are meant to share ourselves with others
but it’s cooler to say, “I’m good with my solitude,
I’m my own best friend”
because deep down inside we don’t want to get hurt again
I wrote this poem in March of 2025.
subtitles jump from my phone screen violently
one of the few films from 1950’s mexico
that address domestic violence
one of the few films to portray the man
as the crazy one
but instead of him going to prison
for his many crimes against his wife
he ends up locked up in a monastery
I wrote this poem in March of 2023.
before I was diagnosed with BPD, I was very sick
I wished and wished to be anyone else but me
I really wanted to be a middle class white woman
the kind who grew up with 2 parents in a 2 story house the kind who never had to assimilate to fit it
the kind who never had to to fill out a FAFSA application the kind who was never neglected
and whose feelings were always validated
the kind who writes stories or poems about her favorite horse instead of stories or poems about constantly feeling like a stranger in your adopted homeland
the kind who is mostly respected by men
and not fetichized or called exotic
the kind who’s never had 2 jobs to survive
in this capitalistic society
before I was diagnosed with BPD,I was very sick
I wished and wished to be anyone else but me
but three years into recovery
I’ve healed and wouldn’t want to be anyone else
because while it’s true that many people don’t struggle as much me everyone (even middle class white women)
still have their own set of insecurities and trauma
I know nothing about
I’ve learned I need to focus on myself,
feel gratitude for everything I have
as I reach my goals and chase my dreams
and most importantly
I now love and embrace who I’ve been,
who I am, who I will be
I no longer play a game of envy
and view myself as a broken mess
of who I’ve been or what’s happened to me
I was never those things
I’m a beautiful mosaic of everything
I’ve endured, experienced and lived
I wrote this poem in March of 2025.
Listening to my writing playlist while high
a lot of songs about men begging the women
to come back
Interesting
It is a hidden fetish, fantasy I had
a man continuously
suffering for me
regretting the day they fumbled me
I wrote this poem in March of 2025.
what if the colonizer in me took over
and I declared manifest destiny on every man
I fancied, even if he was taken
what if I didn’t care about the other woman
and was a completely selfish bitch
and become an expert homewrecker
I wrote this poem in March of 2022.
His love made her glow
she shone, shone, shone
it was her happy ending
after a lifetime of misunderstanding
it was the sunshine she needed
after so many sad ballads
it was beautiful,it was lovely
it was the ultimate love story
I wrote this poem in March of 2025.
Cowboy with your boots and maga hat
Stay away from me
forget I ever existed
forget that once upon a time
I was your wendy to your peter
forget I always flew to you
when you texted me
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
I wrote this poem in March of 2025.
not much of choice, get married or become a whore
at 19, she was trapped between a sword
and another sword
either way she’s trapped and kept away from the life
she really wanted to live
either way, her fate would be sealed
with her ink of shame
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 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.
scattered memories of you and I are tossed into the bonfire
pictures, poems, and letters never sent burn and burn
and I watch understanding this is our closure
and our chapter is finally closed
and I needed the bonfire and a final curtain call
on an early February night to put us behind
I wrote this poem in February of 2023.
this is a dangerous road I’m traveling on
smiling at your messages
Creating a playlist inspired by you
romanticizing every interaction we have
liking every single one of your posts
Wondering if you’re safe enough
To get to know you
beyond the walls of this simple friendship
Life on the BPD 