I wrote this poem in January of 2023.
does someone have a voodoo doll of me and stuck pins inside my head-
inside my heart-because lately I’m finding it hard to breathe
as my emotions consume and control me-
and I feel like the biggest failure and imposter for allowing it to happen
even though I still function well enough to mask
the mountain of turmoil and grief that’s currently residing me
A crazy business idea I came up with this morning is making custom made piñatas. They’re not any old piñatas. They’re piñatas of things or people you absolutely hate. I would also have a private and safe room where you can beat the shit out of the piñata. I’m not sure if they’re anything like this out there in the world. I have seen a piñata of Trump online before so who knows. I imagine that people with anger issues and disposable income would maybe go for this idea. The safe room I’d provide to beat up the piñata would include music tailored to the client’s taste or my own personal rage playlist. I would also decorate the room according to the clients needs. I know that there are things like rage rooms out there, but, do any of them have custom made piñatas?
I wrote this poem in January of 2023.
Jealousy is a normal emotion of the human condition
and shame shouldn’t be associated with it
everyone feels it
I used to run away from it
but now I sit with it
ask what it needs
Sometimes it’s me projecting an insecurity
or sometimes it’s a legit feeling
And that’s okay too-
and jealousy doesn’t have to destroy anything
as long as I know how to acknowledge it
and don’t allow it to consume me
An item of my youth I was incredibly attached to was my doll Dandee. I actually had two of these dolls given to me as a young child. The first Dandee was given to me by my aunt shortly after me and my family immigrated to the states when I was 5. This was in 1986. What happened to the first Dandee? Well, it’s a sad story of trauma. When me and my family first moved to the states, we moved into the apartment next to my aunt C and her family. The living situation there was not ideal. Actually that’s the understatement of the year. Here’s a poem I wrote about her:
poetry: target
Anyways my aunt C owned the apartment we were renting so she was our landlord. She was also the one who was giving sponsorship for our green card. At the time we immigrated, we had done so four years earlier than we were supposed to so we lived undocumented for four years. So my Aunt C took advantage of the situation because A) with a call to immigration she could deport all of us back to Peru and B) she was our landlord so she also held control and power over where we lived. It was a terrible situation. Aunt C had a massive 3 year old son J. He was probably one of the most terrible toddlers I’ve ever encountered. Aunt C would not control him and when he would bully me, either hit me or take away my toys, Aunt C would say, “dejalo, es chiquito” which basically translates to “allow him to do whatever because he’s small”. It was hard for my mom to say anything to her or protect me because of the living situation we were in with Aunt C. The best she could do was take me somewhere else. Shortly after Dandee was given to me, he became my most favorite toy in the world. He was given to me by my favorite Aunt Luz. That toy went with me everywhere. However, one day, Dandee was taken away from me by my cousin J, and he wouldn’t give him back. My aunt didn’t do anything to remedy the situation. According to my mom, this broke my little 5 year old spirit and I was inconsolable and cried and cried for days. My papi was upset that my mom wouldn’t say anything to Aunt C. He hated to see me cry every day for that damn doll so even though they really couldn’t afford it (it was an expensive doll), papi went to the toy store and bought a brand new Dandee for me. I was a happy child again taking that doll everywhere with me. Playing with him and my imaginary friend Calincha. Anyways, a few months went by and I was at my aunt C’s house with my mom. I was playing with Dandee and my cousin J came up to me and started trying to take the doll away from me. The adults weren’t doing anything and I got angry. My five year old self could not take the bullying from J anymore and was not going to allow him to take my doll away from me so I punched him and he fell to the floor. I wasn’t punished for it and went back to playing with my doll. My mom tells me that her and my aunt C were surprised by what I did and had no idea until that point that I had a temper. I was always such an obedient and quiet child, it was shocking to them that I had it in me to fight back. Needless to say, my cousin J never messed with me after that day.
So fast forward to 37 years later, that Dandee sits in my bookcase in my room next to the baby Yoda I bought for my youngest son a few years ago (that he didn’t want anyways cause it looked creepy). When I look at Dandee, I’m reminded of my fierce and fiery spirit at 5 years old that I’ve carried with me since then. When I told my sons the story of Dandee, my oldest son said, “Dandee carries your 5 year old warrior girl spirit” and that felt empowering to me. Dandee taught me a lesson in how to take my power back from a situation I thought I had no power or control in.
I wrote this in January of 2023.
Yesterday I wondered how it would feel like to travel at the speed of light
I almost thought of trying it as I drove-but knocked out that intrusive thought
as the faces of my sons came to my mind-even in the worst of my crazy moments
my boys come to rescue me-reminding me I have so much to live for
Glimpse of me (inspired by Joji)
I catch a glimpse of the different versions of me
I’ve been in photographs, old poetry, past journal entries
dresses too big for me, mad women I was obsessed with
and I’m in awe of how I was able to survive despite all of the pain felt-
I’m grateful for all of the love I’ve given and made-
and all of the love given to the different versions of me
I’m glad for all of the versions of myself I’ve been in this lifetime
Who’ve led me to the me I am today
A woman in control of her thoughts, and emotions
A woman ready to let go of her past
A woman excited to embark on new adventures in love and life-
A woman finally living life on her own terms without regrets and lies-
The woman I’m becoming makes me tremble with enthusiasm
of what’s to come now that I’ve let go of everything
that’s been holding me back
11/20/22
I wrote this poem in January of 2023.
to little me, I’m sorry, lo siento
I’m sorry, lo siento
There are no words that could make sense
or give purpose to what you went through
it was awful that your childhood was tainted by trauma
that wasn’t acknowledged
or that your feelings were invalidated
by those who promised to love and protect you
I’m sorry , lo siento
I’m sorry, lo siento
and while I know my words are insufficient to lessen
the pain and trauma you experienced
I’m here to acknowledge it and make sure you can heal from it
I wrote this poem in January of 2023.
I can tell when my depression is getting the better of me
I uninstall most of my social media apps-
Start isolating from friends and family-
dissociate to whatever sad songs I have on repeat
Today’s music is Jojo and Taylor Swift
and I write anything and everything that comes into my head
about what has been or is my current tragedy
it’s almost comedic how dramatic I can
On days like these I feel too sensitive for this world
everything burns, everything is a trigger
and I almost hate myself and fall back into self destructive patterns
Seek out validation of my existence from others
it would be so easy to reach out and get help
but today, I want to fully feel my misery as it takes over me
let it speak in my writing
Me, my music, my paper and pen is all I need to get through
this latest depression spell
so as I thought about my response for this prompt, I wondered what does constitute as “playtime” in your middle age? For me, it’s every time I’m creative so that means writing or creating content for my blog and social media. Playtime also means finding moments of joy during the day whenever I can which is tough to do working two jobs. I do this by taking my daily coffee breaks at my day job while blasting my music in my ear buds or turning my car radio all the way up while I drive and having my own concert where I sing and dance in my seat. I’m sure I look crazy to other drivers but I don’t care. Lol. Playtime also means joking around with my coworkers and friends about the silliest or stupidest things that occur to me and either I make them cringe or make them laugh or sometimes both. Play time also means karaoke with my kids or discussing poetry with friends. I guess play time in my middle age means trying to find joy and happiness whenever and wherever I can.
I wrote this poem in December of 2023.
silence is no longer an option
if I continue to do so, I’d be suffocating the part of me
who needs to be heard in order to heal
I’d be failing myself, my ancestors, and future generations
silence is no longer an option
to do so is an act of violence against the writer and poet in me
whose purpose is to tell my story, my truth in order to recover
I wrote this poem in December of 2022.
I’m going to surrender myself to the source
to find my meaning and purpose in the universe
It doesn’t matter how many times I whine or bitch
about how hard this recovery is-
it’s going to be worth it-
and I’m going to look back on this journey
and will be glad I took my time
and didn’t try to jump any steps to get to where I’m supposed to be
I wrote this poem in October of 2023.
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
I wrote this in september of 2023.
The ME from June of 2014 sends me a message and asking, where are you?
I tell her, life didn’t go as planned-you’re divorced and looking for a place for your ex
but your kids are thriving-your oldest son has his driver’s license and is on his last semester
Of accounting at Athens Tech-
Your middle son will graduate from high school this year-
and your baby is now taller than you and becoming his own person
You’re working 2 jobs and you’re a citizen now and you’ve been to therapy
to learn healthier coping mechanisms-
you even drive now-you’re independent as fuck and live life on your own terms
you’ve even been to Peru twice-
You’re learning to follow your intuition and how use discernment in your choices
in how you live your life-
you’ve discovered your values underneath everything society brainwashed into you
and at the end of the day all you want be is a good mom and a good person
that’s the extent of your life’s purpose-
now that we know who we are
our next step is to plan the future we want-
we’ll keep on thriving girl-you were the go getter and determined woman in me
Even among one of my greatest depressions
You still got up and followed your passions-
And you laid the foundation-we’ll be okay-I promise
I’ll make you proud of me-
Love patty
I wrote this poem in August of 2023.
the outline of her body in the middle of the road-
told the most tragic of stories
she wasn’t looking when she crossed the street
she was lost in her thoughts
and the driver speeding didn’t see her
and splat went her body
death came quickly to her
her last thought was mission accomplished
but the world thought
another victim of an unexpected and tragic circumstance
I wrote this poem in December of 2022.
in my literary war chest lies a lifetime of love failures,
insecurities about motherhood and confusion about my identity
in my literary war chest lies unfiltered thoughts about grief
for everything I never was and potential unfulfilled
in my literary war chest lies the answers to how I survived
Catastrophe after catastrophe-
In my literary war chest lies proof of my strength and resilience
in the worst of times
Life on the BPD 