I wrote this poem in August of 2025.
the scent of jasmine in the air
your hands on my waist
as I sit on your lap
Stolen moments of caresses
at the botanical gardens
poetry: botanical gardens
poetry: playground
I wrote this poem in August of 2022.
My bra is the milkshake that brings men to my playground
It gives me the cleavage that makes them feel like they’re in love
They’ll claim it’s my words or my eyes they’re in love with , but let’s not kid ourselves
It’s really my majestic breasts that pop out with their own personalities
they fuel their many exotic and erotic fantasies
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poetry: partial empty nest syndrome
I wrote this poem in August of 2025.
my oldest son moved out in same week my youngest started high school
people keep asking me how I am
and honestly I don’t know yet
all I know is there a major hole that keeps getting bigger and bigger
and I call it partial empty nest syndrome
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Poetry: Art
I wrote this poem in August of 2022.
Sex is a work of art if you are in love-
Two bodies entwined in a collaborative rhythm
Two bodies matching energies that derive
a great pleasure
It presents a beautiful picture of ecstasy
Anything else is just a mediocre sketch
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poetry: summer of 2025
I wrote this poem in August of 2025.
from L.A burning to alligator alcatraz to sydney sweeney
to hash browns
this has been the strangest summer
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poetry: moon
I wrote this poem in August of 2025.
The moon follows me on my drive home after open mic
I try to take this as a good omen
because lately I hold on to the darkness within
let it fill me up until I ease into insanity
gotta grasp at anything that looks like light
otherwise my descent into madness never stops
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poetry: TBH
I wrote this poem in August of 2022.
My love data tells me I shouldn’t try again because every time
I crash and burn and cause trauma and drama
because every time it ends, I get hateful and want revenge
and While I do appreciate the poetry that comes
after every broken relationship
I don’t think I can withstand the heartbreak and devastation
the next time it ends
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poetry: back patio
I wrote this poem in August of 2025.
When I think of the moon, I always think of your silhouette against it
maybe it has to do with the many nights spent fighting in your back patio
maybe it has to do with nostalgia catching up to me in the heat of august
in the midst of many transitions
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Poetry: Victim
I wrote this poem in August of 2022.
love makes me feel trapped
trapped in a cage of desire and emotions
I want to escape from
but still delude myself into thinking
it will be different this time, except it never is
so I’m giving up for a while-
Giving myself time to prepare for my next victim
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poesía: agosto
escribí este poema en agosto del 2025.
agosto vino con un abrir y cerrar de ojos
y con mucha oposición de los cuatro vientos
y denuevo no se quien soy
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poetry: IHOP
I wrote this poem in August of 2020.
I met you on a cold January night at the IHOP
across your apartment complex
As I was eating up my loneliness
with scrambled eggs and coffee
I hoped you couldn’t see remnants
of tears that had fallen before you came
and you sat across from me
and as we awkwardly made conversation
I wondered if you would be the one
to breathe new life into my almost dead existence
I wondered if your kiss would help me
reignite a fire of desire, would remind me
I’m more than a wife and mother
But most of all I wondered if maybe, just maybe
someone would finally love me
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poetry: home
I wrote this poem in July of 2025.
home is where poetry is
where I’m inspired
Where I live life on my own terms
without concern or worry
about whether or not
I’m not enough or too much
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poetry: twice
I wrote this poem in July of 2025.
The world has ended for me more times than I care to remember,
more time than I care to count
something about my soul being too sensitive for this world
something about desperation and frustration embedded in me
since I was a little kid
every slight, every roll of the eyes feels like an earthquake inside
everything is intensified twice
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poetry: la cigarra
I wrote this poem in July of 2025.
took a picture of a dying cicada without its consent
didn’t even know what it was until I googled its picture
I just thought something so vibrant and colorful dying was beautiful
just thought this is the closest I’ll come to nature in this unforgiving july heat
and then I discovered cicadas signify transformation, rebirth, and resilience
so it made sense to me why I noticed it
something so small, almost insignificant everyone else would walk by it
but I, about to have another transformation I never asked for
was attracted to it, noticed it, observed it closely,
perhaps, it was my own spirit reflecting my current ego death
as I’m about to level up to the next version of m
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poetry: this song era
I wrote this poem in July of 2025.
People watching days are over, this Song era is now my reality
no more longing or yearning over what could have been
or what I once upon a time wanted it to be
instead I focus on the genuine and loving connection in front of me
the one who’s not afraid of the creative beast who resides in me
and makes me feel heard and seen
even if sometimes that seems cringe or weird
Especially after I admitted I had watched him while he slept
this time he allows me to him without flinching
when I tell him he’s the new muse of my poetry
and he’s brave enough to share his feelings without shame
and reminds me of all the things he likes about me
the one who feels like my sanctuary to lay my love and poetry in
Life on the BPD 