i have been pretty busy and it has kept me away from tumblr, at least away enough to not post regularly or write. sometimes when i am blocking my emotions away, or i am at a very good moment in life i can’t seem to be able to express that in words. i am working every day to be a better person. to finish what i start. to love the people i have. to appreciate life and what i have been blessed with, and be thankful for everyone i have who has opened doors or has believed in me in one way or another. overall, the most important thing is that i have been busy making myself who i want to be, and loving myself. i was scared to live, to come out, to love, to love myself and be honest with life.
i am at a good place in life, not where i want but definitely on the road to somewhere. i cry when i need to. smile when i need to, and stop and breath when i need to.
i am happy, and thankful.
i am in love.
i am undocumented and unafraid.
and i am blessed
and i am human.
and i won’t let anyone take it away from me, not now or ever, not without a battle.
i should have predicted you would leave me.
better yet, for my own benefit i should have known this would end.
our relationship was constructed on sex and more sex…
and sometimes it was built upon the railroad of our own insecurity,
our love was a train in Iowa, smashing his body,
leaving very little residue behind…leaving nothing more than what
maybe that is why i loved you.
because you reminded me of track marks.
you reminded me of underground railroads
of people boarding the trains in central america
riding all through mexico in search of an american dream.
our dream was built upon the lie that maybe we could forget
their tongues, their quirks, the softness of her hair in your face,
the tickling of his beard in my ear.
we were both trying to board a ride with no return.
we were hoping we would not miss old lovers,
that we could forget the smell of home in their arms.
we were forgetting our own tracks
our addiction to everything that causes us to feel alive
even if it is just for this moment.
you should have predicted i was a lost soul trying not to miss my stop.
that the train in this town crosses too fast, the lights were not on to warn you.
i understand you did not see the broken inside of me coming
or my eagerness to peel his skin off me like old paint.
i have never been good an turning my light on to warn everyone else
that i am crashing and do not pity anyone who is in my way.
i should have seen this coming.
i should have known you would leave me…
after all no one likes a train wreck.
teach her she can only be beautiful in a dress.
that there are restrictions on what her body can find pleasure in doing.
and enjoying it is surely not one of them.
that wearing a skirt and saying no is not a lady thing to do.
teach her she can only be beautiful when she looks like the Olsen twins.
when her belly echoes her name out at night.
when her collarbone accessorizes her upper body like an expensive and fragile jewel.
teach her to say yes.
that she does not look pretty when she cries.
that it is much better if she keeps it to herself.
let her find comfort in dollar bills tucked between her mattress, tucked between her breasts and inside her panties.
teach her to walk like you do.
that security is better than love, that love will come after making him happy.
that maybe if she stays after the first black eye, he will change.
that he will love her like her missing father did.
teach her she can break, that her voice does not need to be heard in this house.
that she is only free when she is dressed in white. only free when she learns to be just like her mother.
a woman to be proud of.
you whispered you loved me
rolling it out of your tongue like it had been sealed with
like you wrapped it yourself, twice around.
just in case the first time didn’t slip out of your tongue too
like past tense carried the same weight-
like you could forget too quickly
that i still love you after all is left and done.
i have this problem with appearance and control.
and it is important for you to know this if you love me.
to understand that when i demand i am simply
exercising my ability to do so and oppressing decades of being
on the other end.
that when i scratch or bleed i am releasing one hundred
and five curse words uttered at me by men before you.
that i prefer to shower alone
because the bathtub is the only place i can get some
peace in this house.
because when it happened the first time,
and again and again, i washed away every feeling of guilt
and his filth off my body for hours.
i have this problem with myself.
don’t take it personal when i prefer to be alone,
it is never that i do not love you
but that i sometimes just need to run to a place
that only i know.
that when i tug at my stomach i am only trying to
hide behind layers of clothes the pounds i have put
on since ‘recovery’.
that recovery does not mean it is any easier
or that i am finally skinny or healthy,
it only means something is or was wrong with me.
i am sorry i am a broken record.
i promise i am not trying to repeat, i am simply
trying to get by without the scratch from the needle.
BTW, i forgot to let you all know that i won the DREAM scholarship from my university. i am on a FUCKEN ROLL! and so happy to see that all this fucken work is being worth it.
3, 2, 1… silence.
sturdy until the noose was in place and then he jumped.
and everyone wondered why, thirteen minutes too late.
everyone wants to hear how well mannered he was, how he always kept a smile on like he had recently injected Botox, how he wore it cheek to cheek, like his favorite accessory.
no one wants to listen to the storm and the thud on repeat.
they don’t want to admit to words like depression, or sickness, or self injury. everyone wants to know what a wonderful young man he was.
they will speak of him as if he were an angel playing the harp on God’s right shoulder
they want to ignore the silence that filled the room after his last gasp for air.
they are not ready for that.
instead they will speak words about how much life he had ahead.
how the road was always green on the other side.
they will say he was a wonderful brother and son
but no one ever stopped to listen when he spoke
or notice the shaved fingertips.
his mother will look at his hands and imagine him a child again, how his both two hands fit perfectly in her palms.
she will notice the bloody knuckles,
the chapped lips and blame herself for never stopping to notice things like
apologies, or the last look he ever gave her.
no one wants to accept that loss sometimes happens before a dead body,
we just never take the time to notice.
there are mountains you have not yet learned to love or walk across.
ridges on your sides like staircases and ladders that are never thin enough.
you are never at the top.
the butterflies are starving away with your stomach, they no longer flap their wings but rather die of hunger inside of you.
nothing tastes as good as being thin feels.
you wonder how he can stand to look at you.
to run his fingers down your skin and enjoy making love.
he always grabs your hips,
and you wonder if he notices he is no longer grabbing flesh but bones.
how much longer until he notices your fingers have been replaced by needles and razors cutting away the extra.
he always says he loves you.
and you cannot see how anyone can love someone who is never content,
someone who is always barely there.
it will be when he does not reply to your question
or will not look at you when you are speaking,
you will know his head is already a wandering sailor in someone
dinner will be reserved to silence and the tapping of the
fork and plate.
you will wish your bodies could ever so press against each
other like the silverware does.
he will move his food around more than he actually bites
and will never fully finish his plate.
you no longer shower together
he doesn’t kiss your forehead
but rather spends his time online reading,
and waits until you are sound asleep before
he gets into bed.
when you’re lucky
he will grasp your breast
finish by telling you he has work
and must go.
and you have always been good at faking it.
you tell him dinner will be ready that maybe you can catch
a movie tonight
and he will say he has a lot to do, he will be home late.
you don’t complain.
you realize you have already lost this game of cat and mouse.
and much rather stand waiting
allowing the time to devour you whole.
this relationship is a sinking ship.
you will find yourself alone in an empty house
always waiting for him to return.
i’ve been feeling like i have a lot of good things going for me at the moment and i am happy but i don’t know how to take it all in.
i have a significant other that loves me and means the world to me.
i work for an amazing non profit.
i am at the university i want.
things are good after all.
but i haven’t felt this happy in a while.
and it’s weird because the happier i am, the less time i spend writing.
and it’s disappointing because i absolutely love to write.
i am full of ideas but can’t seem to maintain the consistency or find the
time to work on projects like before.
i am allowing myself to just go with the flow and see what i make of it all.
but really though, actually writing something decent soon won’t hurt either.
Somewhere mid sentence we stopped apologizing for everything we were capable of but had not yet done. It has always been like an awkward telephone call or forced ‘about me’ intros in front of a class on the first day of school. We have always just been this: the static on the end of the line; the humming of a VCR; the scratch on the chalkboard. We have always fallen short. And we run in circles trying to convince ourselves we are not hamsters in a cage the way we run, or that we are not Olympic runners. That someday we will stop running towards the things that hurt like: silence, blades pressed against the thighs, half told truths, and love. We will stop running someday and eventually drown out the echoes in our heads, those minuscule voices of ghosts and people who broke us long before we met. We will stop pausing at mid sentence to apologize for things we have not yet done, and admit to truths and allow love to stop feeling like it needs to hurt to feel real.
They call us illegal
They call us illegal.
Meanwhile they beat the living hell out of our barrios for every dollar.
They tell me because my skin is brown, because I am a woman, and undocumented; my best opportunity is to smile and start a family….BUT in my own country.
Yet, they are quick to point fingers and statistically label us accountable for 55 percent of all teenage pregnancies in America.
They deny services and warn us not to milk the system.
They call us illegal.
But they forget the border crossed us first.
La barda no siempre estuvo alli. ( the wall did not always exist).
They forget about who picks their fields, whose hands are responsible for the agricultural richness of the nation.
These brown hands pick their crops, cook mean meals from scratch, and
Introduces flavor to cities that shame our existence.
They say it is for the greater good of the people. Meanwhile they build comunidades seguras (safe communities).
But excuse me, for not noticing that they are looking out for us when they target my brothers and sisters; when they raid our homes and pluck families apart like flower petals.
One by one.
When they go after students, mothers, and hard working fathers in Arizona.
When they and I both know that no one with blue eyes and blond hair, and whose last name is Smith will be pulled over and asked to show their papers to an officer.
Tell me what is so safe about breaking families apart?
What is so safe about fear?
They call us illegal.
Label us as criminals for being here, but they forget how many of our children fight for their country.
They pretend to not notice how many of us are enrolled in colleges but are detained from succeeding in our fields because of their system.
They forget the campaign promises but are quickly out for the Latino vote by any means necessary during the election year.
They call us illegal for being here.
They can chain us up, put us in prison, and deport us
But they can never take away our hope.
They forget we are power in numbers.
Y la gente que lucha nunca shall never be beaten.
i am not good at letting go but i have always done so easily. i simply let it eat me inside out. remember to smile. pretend it doesn’t hurt, and that i am strong and i don’t need you.
but these days i have imagined life without you and it makes me sick to my stomach.
my fingers miss the valley of your back,
every rigid curve,
the roughness on your hands
and the warmth of your arms.
i have begun to realize i cannot do without them.
whispering a hundred secrets into my ear.
dropping them one by one
and i take them right in.
guard them as if they were my own.
i imprint in my skin your love.
the simple four lettered feeling i have let you bathe me in.
i have never been good at letting go.
or writing decent poems in your honor or in honor of anything or anyone for that matter.
but i am hoping this is enough of a one sided confession to make you realize that i am deeply in love with you.
that if you leave i might label myself as broken hearted.