I wrote this poem in January of 2025.
once upon a time I wrote a lovely poem about us
and called it by starlight
it told the story of our first night
but now you’re gone and all I’m left with
are memories of who we once were
and while I miss you
I know it’s better this way
we both needed a clean slate from our baggage
to start anew with someone else
we both needed to have a brand new start
with someone who fits into the new versions
of who we are now
I wrote this poem in January of 2022.
My former lover prays for me because I won’t fuck him
Is this how it feels like to change my story from on call whore
to an I’m healing and deserve better “Woman
Is this how it feels like to to go from fun girl to healthy woman
I use to measure my worth by who loved me or who wanted to fuck me
but those days of impulsivity and “hey, this will be fun”
are long gone
Now are the days of painful transformations,therapy worksheets, self reflection
and most importantly self love
So I put away my sexy vixen persona
And I put on my ” “I’m authentic without apologies persona”
I’ve stopped living to please others
and now live to please myself
I wrote this poem in January of 2018 .
I’m disappointed once again -being here with you
You represent everything I thought I wanted
But-
You don’t compare to him
You make my body sing with pleasure
but don’t sweep up the mess that I am
You are there to help me escape
but never to rescue me
SO I choose him
Who chooses to be there for me
When I chase death in a bathtub or a bottle
Because while sex and lust feels good
when it’s happening
It doesn’t compare to the love
and support he’s provided in keeping me alive
So I say goodbye to a life
Full of lust filled fantasies
and accept the one and only who truly
cares for me
I wrote this poem in January of 2025.
el tio Julio always spoke English to us, the kids
didn’t matter who we were with or where we were
I think he was an advocate of assimilation at an early age
I think he wanted all of us to have a fighting chance
in our adopted homeland
perhaps this was an act of kindness on his part
he knew that in order to survive in the USA
we had to leave behind the part that made us seen as a foreigner
and become as American as possible
I wrote this poem in January of 2025.
when I’m in mourning, I want to do crazy things
like dye my hair blonde, cut my bangs,
adopt a new identity
anything to escape the grief that wants to set in
I actually started writing this poem sometime in 2017 and finished it in January 2020. A big part of my identity is being an immigrant. This poem was inspired by the hardships and struggles I’ve seen my parents and other immigrants go through. This poem was also inspired by the Trump administration and the xenophobia that was felt in my life during that time.
Here is an audio link to my family’s immigration story: https://www.mixcloud.com/rabbitbox/rb50-stranger-in-a-strange-land-immigration-stories-patricia-tacuri/
immigration leads to discrimination
of immigrants into this so called united nation
the ones with brown skin and dark eyes
justice to them is greatly denied
xenophobia is the driving sensation
their bosses sing a song called exploitation
and they hum along to it to live in this democratic nation
they leave their language and culture behind
to endure the american lie
but don’t quite fit into the gringo equation
Is their sacrifice worth so much separation
from their families, their language, and their nation?
Ah-America – the land of the free
yet none of them are truly free
living in a soulless and consumerist society
I wrote this on New Year’s Day of 2022.
Another new year, and there are no resolutions
Another new year and no better or new me
Another new year, and I’ll keep my expectations low
With a cautious dose of faith and hope
I want a year full of peace and calm
Where love for myself continues to be enough
Writing, running, and working fill up my time
Another new year and loneliness is not eating me up
and freedom feels like solitude
and this vacation from dating feels heavenly
and music and books are all of the pleasure I need
Another new year, and I just want to continue this journey
of healing from the past and self-discovery
It’s another new year, and for once, I have everything
I want in life
I wrote this poem in December of 2024.
on hinge, I became unhinged
some man child told me
I should thank him for expressing
his desire to fuck me
within 5 minutes of talking to him
I wanted to obliterate him completely
cuss him out for how disrespectful he was being
but instead bowed out gracefully
told him, “naw, I’m made for victorian courtship”
he thought I was strange for wanting something
with more substance than casual sex
with a guy from a dating app
told me, “good luck with your AI boyfriend”
and the interaction leaves me sour once again
wondering if I was born in the wrong era
if I’m asking for too much in asking to be
respected and seen as a real person
instead as a temporary toy for men
to play with
I wrote this poem in December of 2023.
the more I disconnected from motherhood and compartmentalize my life
the more damage I did to myself and others
taking accountability and bonding with my children
is necessary for healing
I wrote this poem in December of 2024.
ceo assassin come find me, I bet you’re a crazy communist who can match my bpd and bipolar energy
you leave me breathless with an insatiable sexual hunger to make magic between my sheets
ceo assassin come find me, let’s run away together from this capitalistic bullshit society
and form our own version of utopia
one where universal healthcare is a real thing, one where no one has to work 60 hour weeks to make ends meet, one where we are working to live and not living to work
ceo assassin come find me, I don’t care that you’re on the most wanted list,
I don’t care that they call you a murderous psychopath
all I can see in front of me is divine masculinity and bravery who’s fucking tired
of the trickle down economics false narrative this consumerist society conditions us to believe
and i, more than other people understand you perfectly
I can’t recall how many times I, too have found myself in a murderous rage wanting to turn
to violence to make my working class anger heard and seen to send a message
to the haves and the heathers, karens, chads, and brads of the world
fuck you and your vacations, your teslas, and your brand name clothing while the rest of us
have to settle for crumbs of the American Dream
ceo assassin come find me, between your anger and mine combined, it could be the match
that ignites an entire revolution not just against those who deny our insurance claims
but also going against the 1 percent who deny us the freedom to just exist without worrying
about how to make it in this consumeristic society and parasitic world without going crazy
I wrote this poem in December of 2024.
within a span of a few minutes, I became my dad and my son became me
he rolls his eyes at me as I give him practical advice on buying a car
is this place reputable?
think of the interest rate
how many miles are on it?
He loses his patience and accuses me of hovering over him
and for the first time I feel empathy and compassion for my dad
Understanding that this parenting gig isn’t easy
and no matter how grown your kids are
It’s hard to let them go and live life according to their own terms
I wrote this poem in December of 2024.
run away from your demons, run away from your trauma
by running away to the philippines and abandoning your 4 children
and playing happy families with the girl who’s only 2 years older
than your oldest son
run away and try to live out your own version of happiness
pretend your American nightmare was a nightmare
lived and already forgotten about
except your children’s faces and all of your misdeeds
will come to haunt you in your dreams the minute
you find sleep
it won’t matter how many trips, how many child brides you have,
how much you tell yourself “I’m great, I’m fine”
all of that guilt sits in your gut ready to burst
ready to explode and another bout of pleading forgiveness
will appear out of nowhere as you near 50
and after that happens
Karma will come around
you’ll sow what you harvest and reaped
I wrote this poem in December of 2022.
I still smile at my phone every time I get a text from you
and ugh-crush season is here again-
even as I constantly say, nope, it’s over
we’re better off as friends,
I’ll never be enough for him
So I avoid you but you appear in my dreams
Sometimes we’re a thing,
other times you appear in the background
and I can’t even make it a week
without texting you-and haha-
Surprise, surprise I still like you and ew-
a crush in my middle age
it’s so fucking embarrassing
I wrote this poem in December of 2024.
Sometimes I miss our rollercoaster of toxicity
even when you came back to me sober
you still managed to emotionally dysregulate me
and destroy me
and while I’ve tried to find a replacement for you
no one holds a candle to you
no one brings me the level of excitement you once did
everyone feels meh and blah
compared to you, everyone is mediocre
I wrote this poem in December of 2024.
a moment of serendipity happened when we ran into each other
Christmas shopping
You struck up a conversation and helped me with my bags
and I told you about my plans for higher education
and you said you wanted to help me and got my phone number
we didn’t know at the time, one day we’d form a family
get married and divorced within a span of twenty years
isn’t life, so, so crazy?
How ten minutes of conversation ended up leading to the beginning
of one of my most important stories?
Life on the BPD 