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
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
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
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
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
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
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
I wrote this poem in July of 2022.
don’t judge others for the life you haven’t lived-
not everyone has had the same privileges or self awareness as you
some of us hardly had time to process one trauma
before facing the next one
and unhealthy coping mechanisms were placed
it’s how a lot of us learned to live our lives
with our emotional gloves and armor always ready
I wrote this poem in July of 2025.
the rocking chair tells a story about the white working class for the past 60 years
from grandfather to father to sons
from the greatest generation to the boomer generation to the boomer generation
and skipped all the way to the zoomer and alpha generation
(side note: the boomer knocked up a pretty little millennial thing in his late 40’s)
the rocking chair has seen the first man on the moon
to the alpha losing his shit when tik tok went dark for several hours
the rocking chair tells a story of the white working class from
breaking the generation curse of illiteracy to educational achievements
from factory days to caseworker days to bolton hall days
the rocking chair holds the dreams, the hopes, the struggles of 4 generations
of the white working class
I wrote this poem in July of 2022.
Iho Place was my teenage dream that ended up in a nightmare
that’s where my Papi bought our first computer
and how I wound up in an AOL chatroom for singles
it would seal a fate I had not intended
flirting with and meeting strange men would lead me
to some dire consequences
I got into my first toxic relationship who ghosted me
after he went to rehab for his drug problem
and I dissociated after the pain of abandonment
I was desperate for love and validation and I met a man
the man who I would make a baby with
Iho Place saw the first 9 months of my son
and the start of my relationship with depression
looking back-maybe it was also the start of my BPD
I remember walking with headphones and losing time
it was hard to be at home with my parent’s silence and disap
I wrote this poem in July of 2025.
sometimes I think my sins are the most interesting things about me
Perhaps, that’s why I worship them and keep making poems out of them
Especially when I start to lose faith in myself
especially when I start lose faith in myself and the universe
and fill myself up with self hate and self loathing to crash out fantastically
with pen and paper and write masterpieces
I wrote this poem in July of 2022.
Kam Highway would see many changes in our family
three teenagers in one house, our parents were saints
at first we lived in abject poverty
trying to find change in the secondhand couch
for ramen or popcorn chicken or anything
to put food in our tummies
this apartment saw the awkwardness of my adolescence
saw my brother almost fall into the wrong crowd
saw my sister fall in and out of love
until she finally landed her first husband next door
and we had a pizzeria next door and also the interesting neighbors
like the marine next door who beat his unfaithful wife
or Tipper the stripper who was in a toxic relationship with the landlord’s son
their song was Kiss and Say Goodbye by the Manhattans
and the fun thanksgivings with all of the neighbors
I wrote this poem in July of 2025.
my childhood was not easy and at times full of chaos
good to inspire my creativity, one where I never needed
much imagination
since real life served up a lot of telenovela energy
from toxic family dynamics to immigrant trauma
to the ghetto melrose place in hawaii
my childhood felt like a constant barrage of episodes
where the adults couldn’t keep it together
I wrote this poem in July of 2022.
beautiful women possess a certain kind of power
it’s the power to bring men to their knees
with just one kiss
or make them fall in love
with the prowess of their sexuality
they’re lionesses and make men their prey
I wrote this poem in July of 2025.
Eventually I had to come up for air from my bubble
and live in the real world where bills are piling up,
people continue to crash out on my social media feed,
and I face a constant existential dread constantly
wondering if I am doing enough
Life on the BPD 