I wrote this poem in March of 2022.
Maybe I was captious in thinking you wanted sex
but you were really depressed and needed help
I was moody and tired and couldn’t be bothered
so I turned off my phone and wanted to be alone
I thought it was no big deal to not get back
on our idiot ferris wheel
and now I hope it’s not too late
and prioritizing myself wasn’t a mistake
because I couldn’t stand the thought of
you harming yourself be my fault
What activities do you lose yourself in?
There are so many stories within me aching to get out
every single one wants to be a priority
but which one do I pick first
most are dramatic, some are angry and sad,
a few are happy and lovely
every story is important in a life
full of chaos and trauma
I don’t know why I attract so much drama
So I’m going to tell each story
Because I own everything that’s happened to me
Because I’m finally taking myself seriously
Aqui esta la version en Espanol:
https://lifeonthebpd.com/2022/01/29/poesia-falso/
we’re procrastinating our end
not wanting to face the consequences
of our doomed relationship
so we keep wasting our time
pretending we’re fine
putting a bandaid of sex
on our petty conflicts
and keep using each other
as blankets for our loneliness
instead of being grown ups
and admit how our love
is no longer worth any effort
I wrote this poem in March of 2022.
My sense of urgency was lost
When I finally felt like enough
I no longer had a rush
To jump to the next crush
I no longer had a need
to have a lover next to me
I no longer wanted
to be love addicted
I finally learned
To me I needed to return
I finally had a new outlook
And I started a new storybook
I finally understood
It’s okay to live my truth
And now my sense of urgency rarely appears
After so many tears and months of therapy
Are you superstitious?
is it the devil who takes over me
and makes me crazy?
Or is it God punishing me for past mistakes
or maybe it isn’t either
And I really have fucked up genetics
Here is the English version of this poem:
https://lifeonthebpd.com/2022/01/15/poetry-escape/
trato de escaparme de ti
pero tu me sigues dondequiera que vaya
tu olor, tu voz, tus besos
me persiguen en mis sueños
y aunque yo trato y trato
de vivir sin pensar en ti
siempre me encuentro en la jaula
que es el recuerdo de tu amor
I wrote this poem in March of 2022.
I fell into the trap of “acceptance”
not understanding I was slowly losing parts of myself
for the sake of fitting in, for the sake of other people
who loved to judge me
accept that you’re too fat to wear that bikini
accept that you’re too old to chase your dreams
accept that you’re too hard to love
it took me too long to figure out
the acceptance of others was costing me
my sanity and my self worth
and I said, “fuck your opinions on who I should be”
from now on, I’ll wear whatever I want,
I’ll chase my dreams, and I’ll always be worthy of love”
Here is the English version of this poem:
https://lifeonthebpd.com/?p=5970
ya no te-
no soy tuya para-
trato de encontrar las palabras adecuadas
para decirte que nuestro cuento de amor a cabo
pero cada vez que trato
todo se siente insuficiente
y la culpabilidad me cubre
y no me atrevo a herirte
What is the last thing you learned?
Learning to uncensor myself was a hard process
I always walked on eggshells for the comfort of others
Said yes when I wanted to say no
Toned myself down for fear of being too much
Accommodated constantly to keep the peace
Cut off pieces of myself to make myself digestible
But I got too old and tired of hiding who I really am
of continuing to pretend to be something I’m not
or never will be
so I chose to stop hiding the real me
who’s loud and dramatic
who’s crazy and creative
who’s moody and depressed
who ‘s a beautiful and majestic Incan Queen
I had forgotten this poem I wrote in 2002 when I was going through something pretty hard.
I’ve fallen out of-
I’m no longer yours to-
I keep trying to find the right words
to tell you I’m done with “us”
but everytime I try
it all feels so inadequate
and I fall under a blanket of shame and guilt
and I can’t go through with it
What is one question you hate to be asked? Explain.
I hate it when men ask me, “what’s your bra size?”
it’s like my bust-line invites unwanted and sexist questions and comments
about my body
and it makes me want to throw up and write about them violently
because out of all of the questions in the world to ask ME,
a mother, a public health worker, a grocery store clerk, an immigrant,
a Peruvian, an American, a friend, a poet, a blogger, a woman,
a PERSON-
they choose to ask me an awkward question about my body-
I used to entertain them and tell them while laughing uncomfortably
holding in my disgust and anger for them
but now I either ignore them, call them out, or block them
my boobs or any part of my body are no longer up
for the objectification of others
I wrote this poem in March of 2022.
Lately i reach out to God and the stars
to comfort me and reassure me
Lately i embrace the universe and the sun
for faith and warmth
Lately I look in the mirror
for the definition of strength and resilience
Lately I write my love story
filled with the wonders and horrors of love
I wrote this poem in December of 2021. I was kind of angry. Lol.
Let’s hashtag the fuck out of our imperfect perfect lives
smile for the camera but make it look candid
this is for instagram after all-
we want to present an image of authenticity
Authentic needs to look put together and balanced
there can be no cracks in our suburban realities
no one wants to see tears and frowns
let’s continue to act like modern clowns
except our lipsticks presents a false smile
that hides our misery inside and let’s add a witty caption
that spells out live,laugh, love
and hashtags about #momlife,#gratitude, and #bestlifeever
depression, sadness, and anger has no room in our modern world
where we pretend to be perfectly imperfect moms and wives
with these amazing and perfect lives
let’s continue the facade of authenticity
even as we burn inside and want to die
we are not just okay but we are fucking fabulous
so honey continue to smile for that selfie
even as the expectations of modern womanhood
continues to burn us all up
Aqui esta la version en Espanol:
https://lifeonthebpd.com/2022/01/10/arrancar/
to forget you would be a gift
from the universe
because holding space for you
in my memory
brings me great misery
How has a failure, or apparent failure, set you up for later success?
I used to think I was the poster girl for failure
I’m a failure at love, I’m a failure at life, I’m a failure at everything
but all of these are thoughts of a past version of me
the version of me who saw herself as a victim
the version of me who took comfort in her misery
in my middle age I changed that narrative
I no longer see myself as a failure
I see myself as a person who makes mistakes
who’s deeply flawed, who has caused pain
it’s doesn’t make me a loser or a disaster
It makes me a human who’s trying her best to live her life
and sometimes that doesn’t always look pretty
I now see failure as stepping stone,a learning curve
to continue to grow, to continue to evolve
to become better and healthier than I’ve been before
Life on the BPD 