I wrote this poem in March of 2022.
Check your privilege at the door
every single white person who comes
asking for my opinion
I can’t be your agreeable POC anymore
Check your privilege at the door
I’m not the voice for my community
with you, certain topics I can’t explore
don’t use me as another learning opportunity
I wrote this poem in March of 2025.
one day in bed and my son acts like its the end of the world
demands I get up and act like an adult
like the mother he’s used to seeing
but in defiance, I stay in bed
reading poetry and allow the muse to come and allow me
to pour out of me and land on paper
for once I won’t allow the patriarchy define how I should act,
who I should be
for once I allow the poet me to be my first priority
I wrote this poem in March of 2022.
His love made her glow
she shone, shone, shone
it was her happy ending
after a lifetime of misunderstanding
it was the sunshine she needed
after so many sad ballads
it was beautiful,it was lovely
it was the ultimate love story
I wrote this poem in March of 2022.
her warmth keeps me safe and loved
it protects me from the harshness of this world
I call her Mami
her strength inspires me to stand up for myself
it makes me want to become a better version of myself
I call her my sister
Her ability to be there for me keeps me from dying
It keeps from falling into a dark abyss
I call her my friend
I wrote this poem in March of 2025.
we’re in our saorsa era, redemptive and honest
a complete 180 turn to who we were before
a story I like so much better than our last one
always said I was a much better friend
and girlfriend
I wrote this poem in March of 2025.
Cowboy with your boots and maga hat
Stay away from me
forget I ever existed
forget that once upon a time
I was your wendy to your peter
forget I always flew to you
when you texted me
I wrote to this poem in March of 2022.
I should go back to where I come from and where is that exactly
here -is the only real home I’ve ever known
here – is where all of my babies were born
here- is where I’ve loved and I’ve mourned
so where is my place
because anywhere else feels like a home unknown
I wrote this poem in March of 2025.
hot summer nights on your porch
meant the world to me
and inspired an unusual amount of poems
I’m starting to think that writing poems
is how I hold onto the magic of our memories
I wrote this poem in March of 2025.
longing to escape responsibility of my suburban life
I became 21 again and did drugs and fucked stranger men
I never meant any harm, I just wanted to know
what it was like to not be looked
at as someone’s mother, someone’s wife
Escribí este poema en marzo de 2022.
Soy el escándalo de mi generación
marcho a mi ritmo propio desordenado
sin pensar qué es lo correcto o moral
soy una mujer cachonda y alegre
que le gusta una variedad de amantes
porque la vida es demasiado corta
para seguir siendo una niña buena
soy una mujer caótica siempre actuando
sin pensamientos a las consecuencias
soy una mujer que ahora se arriesga
a vivir su vida con ganas y autenticidad
I wrote this poem in March of 2025.
in total darkness I fell for a while
for a year I didn’t listen to music
For a year I don’t remember being a mom
and while I still function and went to work
Several years later
I realize how I had forgotten all about
the darkness I had fallen in a while ago
my mind blocked it in an attempt to move on
in an attempt to heal
I wrote this in March of 2022.
When I was little, I was often lost in daydreams
about America
It was beautiful and blue
I pictured a celestial and warm ocean
where the waves tenderly touch my toes
I was taught it was a better existence than
the one we were living in
but no one told me that dreams sometimes
don’t come true
and the reality of America was filled with a hardness
that even 35 years later I’m still processing
indentured servitude, exploitation, depression,
addiction,racism, mental illness were just a few side effects
of going for the American dream
I wrote this poem in March of 2025.
kept the dead rose petals along with your note as long as I could
it was the first time a man had acknowledged me worthy enough
of a rose
and at 16, that was everything
I wrote this poem in March of 2021.
I don’t want to but have to be the boss
the boss of my family
the boss in my relationships
the boss of my life
it sucks to take charge and dominate all of the spaces
it sucks to have so many responsibilities thrust upon me
it sucks to always have to shrink myself for egos
it sucks to never be in a space where for once
I can be soft
I wrote this poem in March of 2025.
flickering ashes, among them, the bride’s dress
dreams of a family
dreams of a white picket fence all went up in smoke
jilted and pregnant
bride cries on the floor, waiting for the sentencing
from her parents
now that her lover jilted her
and couldn’t make an honest woman out of her
Life on the BPD 