I wrote this poem in November of 2022.
The last time you ghosted me
I finally said enough and meant it
I’m not adding any energy
to something that only drains me
and makes me feel worthless
it was time to let go of our chaotic story
and embrace a new love potential
Who’ll know my wort
I wrote this poem in November of 2023.
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
I wrote this poem in November of 2022.
out of all of the silly phases I went through
I think you’re my favorite
with you I learned to embrace the darkness within
without flinching
with you I felt a universe of pleasure
with you I never had to tone down any part of myself
with you I could truly be myself
no matter how crazy or fucked up that was
I wrote this poem in November of 2023.
I’ve starved myself to make my mom, lovers, and even myself
so they’ll love and accept me
I’d go on extreme diets, skip meals,
over exercise until throwing up
and getting excited when the number on the scale
went down
and hating myself when it went up
never quite understanding there’s much more to me
than some arbitrary and unrealistic standard of beauty
I’ll never be able to attain
there’s much more to me than how I fill out a tight dress
and yet, I still check the scale every once in a while
to measure my worth
I wrote this poem in November of 2022.
I hope that when you hear that song, you think of that moment
when you sat across from me in that restaurant
and you saw my inner conflict residing inside of me
And you gave me permission to leave
and then you touched my hand as that song played
our spark was ignited, and it was too late
I knew I wouldn’t be able to leave
I needed to continue our chaotic whatevership
I wrote this poem in November of 2023.
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 wrote this poem in November of 2022.
My favorite memory of us will be of us falling in your bathtub
and the laughter and love that ensued after-
it was almost a tragedy that ended as comedy
and it was one of our last memories
before we both decided that it was better to block each other
from each other’s universe
and while I still think of you from time to time-
it’s no longer with resentment or anger I once had
it’s with only fondness in my heart of the mess
we were together
I wrote this poem in November of 2023.
The invisible chains of my mental illness try to take away my joy
and enthusiasm but I shake off my chains
and live as fully as I can
Despite my anxiety,
Despite my depression,
Despite my BPD trying to grab hold of me
I no longer allow my inner demons rob me
of the goodness that universe has to offer me
I wrote this poem in November of 2022.
I never loved you, you were a distraction
an escape from my suburban mommy life
I wanted to feel sexy, still young and fun
so I used you to make me feel alive
to awaken the sexy vixen in me
the one I had sacrificed when I fell in the stability
of a relationship
and now I look back on it
You did nothing wrong, you were just a scapegoat
a villain I need in my story of love and lust
to not feel shame and guilt
I wrote this poem in November of 2023.
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 wrote this poem in November of 2019.
Your love comes and goes like the most sudden
and violent gusts of wind
I try to stay in my calm and peaceful place
But I am swept away in your chaos
that bring me to the highest mountain
of lust,intimacy, and love
I want to stay here
I want to die here
in the heaven that is your arms and your lips
But you continually push me away
You dispose of me like trash
not caring about my inner destruction
You break me heart into
millions of pieces
Everytime I try to give myself to you
Your love, your toxic love
Swallows me up and spits me up out
only to break me over and over again
I wrote this poem in November of 2023.
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
I wrote this poem in November of 2019.
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
I wrote this poem in November of 2023.
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
Is there an age or year of your life you would re-live?
Life on the BPD 