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 January of 2020. Maybe I was mad at the patriarchy or just feeling weighed down by the expectations that society has on women. I know that for me, it has been a huge burden at times to constantly keep up an appearance that I am put together balanced woman even if I am falling apart.
The strength we have to carry as women
is obscene
Endless expectations weigh on us
generation after generation
We are buried in the burdens
that society has placed on us
since before we were born
Be pretty but don’t show your body
Be smart but we don’t want your opinion
Be motherly and nurturing
but still a working and productive member of society
It is a never ending nightmare to try to reach
the ridiculous standards placed upon
our beauty, wealth, and motherhood
Some of us seem to do it with grace
Some of us are barely hanging on by a thread
Quite a few of us would rather die
than continue with the facade and the myth
of a balanced woman.
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
escribi Este poema en diciembre del 2022.
Siempre seran lo mas importante para mi-mi prioridad-
nunca esperé que mi sueño de tener una familia
sería una realidad inesperada
pero los tres son el sol, la luna, el universo en mis ojos
son mis mas dulces tesoros
I wrote this poem in October of 2022.
Fuck you google photos for reminding me of my past trauma and happiness
I want to move the fuck on-live in my present-plan for my future
and you’re here reminding me of someone I long to forget-
“Memories together” more like “trauma bonding together” or
“fabulously failing at this relationship together”
How many years must past before you stop reminding me
of my love fiascos
I wrote this poem in September of 2024.
I tell my son I’m proud of you
and he’s like why, because I’m alive
I nervously laugh even though
my heart aches over what he said
Why does America like to play
Russian roulette with its children
Why can’t I have a normal conversation with
my kid over too much screen time
and reminding him to brush his teeth
instead of conversation over what
he should do in a mass shooting
Home is my son’s laughter after a hard day
home is the sun on my skin while I run
home is peace and Tranquility after years of Chaos
home is letting other see the real me
and not some fake personality
I wrote this poem in July of 2024.
to see my american dream I just need to step into my backyard
and look at my holy trinity who call me mom
they’re the ones I try to better myself for
they’re the one who make my immigrant existence
worth living for
they’re my american dream wrapped up in burps, dark humor
and love
I wrote this poem in May of 2024.
there are days I don’t feel strong enough to be their mom
maybe it’s insecurity that weighs heavily on me
after every fight, after every conflict
it was easier when they were small
and I was their favorite person
the one they ran to the moment I opened the door
nowadays I work much and they have their own interests
to have much to do with me
nowadays they bring up grievances of everything
I’ve done and am doing wrong
is this karma for being a bad daughter to my mom
is this karma for being selfish and self absorbed
for a few years of their lives
Who knows-
maybe it’s not about being strong, being right,
or being respected
maybe it’s about them knowing they are loved
Mother of three
What does that even mean?
Responsibilities, obligations, duties
Alcohol and going out are taboo for me
Songs of sacrifices and martyrdom
Are the tunes I hum
Dinner with friends and
concerts are just WRONG!
Soccer games and play dates
Are my important dates
No time to spend
With my lifetime mates?
Mother of three,
Will I ever be free?
Unsurvivable
I wanted you but
God wanted you more
Perhaps you were an angel
not meant for earth
Perhaps you were a hard a lesson
in grief and loss
That I needed to learn
A lesson that I should never take
love and hope for grant
No matter how brief the stay is
A lesson that your heart
can break within a span
of a few minutes
A lesson in surviving
what you think is unsurvivable
When you were five, what did you want to be when you grew up?
I wrote this poem in August of 2023.
Children should be seen, and not heard is one tradition I’ll never keep
It would mean invalidating my children’s feelings
It would mean for them to have years of therapy trying to find their sense of identity
It would mean to reduce them to shadows who only speak when spoken to
It would mean passing them the torch of a generational curse that makes them question their self-worth over and over again
So everyone can judge me or criticize my parenting all they want
I like my children to not just be seen but also heard
even if it’s sometimes loud and boisterous
even if it sometimes sounds disrespectful
It’s important for their emotional growth, for their confidence
and to break and heal the generational curse where children are silenced
Life on the BPD 