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poetry: compartmentalization

I wrote this poem in November of 2023.

the compartmentalization of life added a lot to the lore

google makes collages of how I’ve compartmentalize my life
throughout the years-
next to a pic of me and my ex is a pic of me and my son
then a pic of me and my friend
for a long time these realities
couldn’t exist in one frame-
it was blasphemous in my mind
for one reality to bleed into another
I never understood how this was killing my sense of identity
and inner emotional stability
That old version of me wanted everything
kids, love, sex, fun, drugs, and alcohol
to be many different people at the same time
mother, vixen, friend, basket case
and everything in between
to be accepted, to loved
and all of this compartmentalization
lead to the worst inner chaos and turmoil
It was emotional torture
I couldn’t bring myself to acknowledge
until one day I had a mental breakdown
because of it

Posted on by pattytacuri

poetry: mixed signals

I wrote this poem in October of 2023.

I like my bubble

I give you a yard, and you give me an inch-
it’s a game of back and forth nonsense
one where I respect your unspoken boundaries
and need for space
until one day the push back from you
pulled back into a dark place I haven’t been in a while
a place where my confidence breaks, a place where I start to question my worth
a place when my sense of self breaks once again
and I know right there, and then, it’s better to give up
whatever this was
I’ve outgrown men who send me mixed signals

Posted on by pattytacuri · 1 Comment

poetry: Oconee County Problems

I wrote this poem in September of 2023.

exactly

Susan from Oconee County calls concerned about the smell in the air
from the sludge in the farms-
and my Latina working class immigrant self rolls her eyes in disgust
silently mouthing off-
“are you fucking kidding me? another rich bitch on a mission
to solve her problems of discomfort in her every day
bane of existence”
but I quietly listen to her as she talks about how
it’s impacting the environment
and the drive to the pilates studio
because she just has to drive with her windows down
to breathe in the autumn air as her PSL cools down
in the drink holder
but now she can’t enjoy her drive because of the sludge
and then she breaks down and cries
because of the inconsiderate farmers
and I think of 1001 ways  her privilege white woman ass
is being a bitch and the audacity of how, me,
a Latina immigrant working class woman is being forced to listen
to her idiotic and inconsequential problems
but rent needs to be paid and my kids need to be fed
so, instead, I say
“m’amn, I understand”
in my best and whitest customer service voice-
while calling her a pinche estupida pendeja
in my head-
and I reassure with a smile in my voice and tell her,
“I’ll make sure someone get your messages
which is of utmost importance, and calls you back”
and as I hang up the phone,
I want to scream and vomit at the same time
thinking
“I don’t think this was part of my American Dream”