I wrote this poem in February of 2023.

the empty wineglass sits at the edge of the coffee table
after Iβve written another poem about you
it needs to be refilled so my mind gets tired
of being inspired by the memory of you
I wrote this poem in February of 2022.

next time, next time, next time
I wonβt live in the should haves,
could haves, would haves
next time, next time, next time
Iβll live in my present
and not in my past or future
next time, next time, next time
I wonβt feel useless, worthless
or like Iβm not enough
I wrote this poem in January of 2022.

Mason like the jar was his name
being a fuckboy was his game
He tried to act wise beyond his 23 years
But he was still wet behind his ears
He thought he could deceive me
and lies and lies and lies he told me
told me he lived with a roommate
when it was really his soul mate
He wanted his ice cream and cake
but I saw through his con game
And right away I stopped our lust filled affair
My respect I needed to firmly declare
I wrote this poem in January of 2018 .

Iβm disappointed once again -being here with you
You represent everything I thought I wanted
But-
You donβt compare to him
You make my body sing with pleasure
but donβt 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 itβs happening
It doesnβt compare to the love
and support heβs 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 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 donβt 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 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, βnaw, Iβm made for victorian courtshipβ
he thought I was strange for wanting something
with more substance than casual sex
with a guy from a dating app
told me, βgood luck with your AI boyfriendβ
and the interaction leaves me sour once again
wondering if I was born in the wrong era
if Iβm 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 November of 2022.

I wish I could forgive everyone who did me harm-
but something in me won’t allow me too
maybe itβs unprocessed trauma that still wants to speak-
about every single atrocity Iβve experienced
at the hands of those who said
they care for me and love me
I really wish I was better than this-
constantly holding onto these old grudges
but something in me still needs to heal
so I can stop obsessing about revenge
I wrote this poem in October of 2020. This one was really hard to post because of the content that includes sexual assault but I believe it’s important to share this part of my story.

There was no way out-
and so I pretended –
I acted the part of a willful lover
even when I wasnβt willing
There was no way out
And he refused to read
-the subtle hints of no
-in between the lines of forced complacency
There was no way out
And he kept taking me
Every which way he wanted
Even when my whimpers turned into sobs
There was no way out
and I was terrified
I needed to let him have my body
to save my life
I wrote this poem in October of 2019.

There were parts of myself
I forgot when I was with you
I forgot my self worth
I forgot my dignity
I forgot my self confidence
I made the mistake
of placing my worth and happiness
in your unsure hands
I made the mistake
of giving you my heart
I made the mistake
of not knowing when to walk away
I made the mistake
in believing you would change
I made the mistake
of wasting my time and love
on you
I wrote this poem in August of 2024.

when Iβm bothered, when Iβm embarrassed, when my inner critic
starts knocking on my mindβs door
the best thing I can do is reapply my lipstick, write some angry seΓ±ora poetry
Remember the goddess that I am, and take my power back
Iβm not some stupid and weak little bitch some people perceive me to be
(that narrative ended at age 40)
now, I take the disrespect and insults with grace
keep my composure, pretend Iβm unbothered
even as I fume inside
I still keep on going
I wonβt make a big fuss or call anyone out
that story usually ends with me being gaslit and called crazy
instead I adhere to the age old adage βaqui no paso nadaβ
Really being the opposite which is everything
my anger, rage, grief being the fuel to become better
to prove to myself and others
Iβm not the mentally unstable bitch society perceives me to be
I wrote this poem in July of 2024.

maybe I restarted the blog for a younger version of us out there
in another state, another country who needs a roadmap,
Understanding, knowledge, and wisdom
in navigating a hard situation they never thought
they had to face
maybe I restarted the blog out of hope that some couple
out there whoβs struggling can find something useful
in my story, in my prose, and my poetry
to get through their own hardship through the worst of it
and make it to the other side, evolve and grow together
in intimacy and find their own happy ending

Iβm a real monster when I canβt see past my anger
I want to burn you down
I want you to drown
And at times I can control
my impulsivity and revenge
But sometimes my anger canβt be caged
And I try to keep it in between the pages
of my journal and notebooks
but the resentment becomes too loud
to let you off the hook
So a passive aggressive status post happens
with an intent to insult and offend
I want you to feel my anger all the way revealed
Maybe one day Iβll get much better
not allowing my anger to turn me into a monster

Men love a pretty mess like me
especially the nice ones who want to fix me and save me
Iβm their pretty princess whoβs so lovely and sweet
And for some, my pussy makes them think or say they love me
but when I turn from a pretty mess to a crazy and chaotic hurricane
they can’t stand to be around me and run away
βI never signed up for this, you’re toxicβ
and I cry and then laugh at the absurdity
you don’t get to choose just to love the fun part of me
because that’s not love
that’s their primal need and lust for me disguised as loved
because real love accepts everything about me
So I wrote this essay a couple of years ago as I was reflecting about the end of my marriage:
As my eight year marriage comes to its inevitable end, Iβve been rewatching the series Mad Men. When I first watched the series, I admired Joan and Peggy for being strong female characters in the show but I always thought there was something about Betty Draper that I could relate to. Itβs strange to think about considering sheβs a white upper class sixties housewife in New York and Iβm a working class millennial immigrant Latina woman in Georgia. Itβs hard to grasp that there would be any similarities between but there are many indeed.

(Me and Hubs at my brotherβs wedding reception)
Betty feels trapped in her suburban idyllic existence and often times feels frustrated; Iβve also felt this way throughout the past fifteen years. Betty wonders if there is more to life than what she is living which is rearing children and being a good wife; Iβve constantly wondered the same thing except that I have the added burden of working.
Don, Bettyβs husband acts like she should be happy with her life and gets mad at her when she shows real emotion, kind of accuses her of being crazy and sends her to a psychiatrist that he secretly talks to about her sessions without her consent and knowledge. My husband never went so far but for most our relationship he did accuse me of over reacting and/or accuse me of being crazy if I got βemotionalβ about something and/or brought up needs that werenβt being met in our relationship. It always felt that I was expecting too much out of our relationship for wanting normal things in a relationship. My husband has also acted like I should settle for what the little he can give me in terms of companionship and be happy with that since he was. For a long time, I felt that maybe I could and should settle for this but settling made me miserable for several years.

Don also kind of stopped investing time and energy into his marriage. He took Betty for granted because they were married with two children and hid behind his work and his many dalliances. My husband was never one to make time for us or continue to woo me in any sense after we started living together. Instead, he hid behind the raising of our children and the fact that he was always tired. He could never spontaneously compliment me and I was always either too fat or almost too skinny for him. Betty overlooked Donβs lack of affection for several years in the same way I overlooked my husbandβs. I feel that this had to do with how women are conditioned to be polite and swallow their emotions because again–weβll be accused of being crazy and/or hysterical.

The beginning of the end of Betty and Donβs marriage started when Betty eventually gets fed up after having one of Donβs affairs rub in her face and throws Don out but later they get back together because she finds out sheβs pregnant with their third child. Don does try to be a somewhat better husband but eventually goes back to his philandering ways. There have been a few times throughout our relationship that I did try to break up with my husband but because he always apologized and said he would change, I always took him at his word and wanted to believe he would change. We even planned our third child and got married shortly after getting pregnant. I think I subconsciously did this because I thought a baby and a marriage would be the band aids that would fix βusβ.

Betty eventually gets tired of Donβs lack of effort and also his lies and eventually asks for a divorce, she tells him something like, βI donβt feel anything when I kiss youβ; it seems that this was when she knew that it was over for her and Don. For me, it took me a couple of years to be firm in my decision to divorce my husband. I think that I finally realized that there was no way I could continue the faΓ§ade of our marriage when I realized that I no longer cared that he didnβt notice me or felt anything remotely like romantic love when I kissed him. It took him a while to understand why I wanted a divorce since he was happy with βusβ and his main concerns were, βwhat about the taxes?β or βwhat about the kids?β. But like Don, he eventually agreed to it and said that he wouldnβt fight me about it. Itβs kind of eerie that women like myself can still relate to a sixties housewife when it comes to relationships, marriages, and the stigma of divorce. Iβm sure that people wonder why I would stay in a stagnant and awful relationship/marriage; thatβs simple; I loved my husband. I thought that loving him meant that I had to settle for a marriage devoid of any real affection. I thought that the love I felt for him would be enough to change him one day.


I wrote this poem in June of 2024.

youβve change from spring to autumn within moments
never knew if I should wear my feelings on my sleeve
never knew if I should wear layers of cynicism
Iβve made it as simple as possible for you
and nothing happens
and slowly my hope of love recedes in the background