Sometimes I feel like I need to share my story,
Like I need to warn my sisters,
Like I’m complicit in what you did
every day that I don’t.

Maybe my story, my trauma, my naked soul
could make a difference
and here I am. Selfish.
Keeping it all to myself. Every last bit of it.
To my lone self.

I know at my core that my heart is worth protecting
but maybe it’s not.
I’ve been wrong before.

I’m a terrible feminist survivor, in fact.
Because I didn’t tell anyone that it was you.
Because I forgave you.
Because I don’t think you’re a monster.
Because I didn’t tell your friends why I stopped talking to them too.

I know at my core that my heart is worth protecting
but my fingers feel dirty, like they’re personally responsible
for whatever fucking-up you do,
every day that I don’t say your name out loud.


Softest places

I never learned how to write about my softest places,
I never learned how to define them.
Maybe if I could define them,
They could feel less scary,
They could let a little light in.

I never thought I would need so much again.
I never thought I would need. I never wanted to need.
I wanted to just… want.
Optional, disposable. Replaceable.


I long wondered how I would know,
When I had found home,
When home had found me.
I no longer wonder. I just
Breathe in. Breathe out.

Home is where darkness has heard of you.

Home has pictures of you and knows when you take your pills.
Home has heard about your softest places,
But your softest places know nothing about home.
Home feeds on your aching bones.
Home is with you when you try to sleep.
Home is with you when you try to sleep.


In passing

The one where I think and ramble about skin color & privilege & a tear between two homes that see me through different eyes. Being whiter-than in Mexico and being able to pass as white (or Canadian, at least) in Montreal, attempting to speak about race eloquently while trying not to take up too much space while checking my privilege while taking note of the ways in which said privilege applies & doesn’t when far from the birth-home. Balancing others’ attempt to decide how I should identify / act, while realising I have no idea how I identify either. The rambling continues:

I am white… enough that
my family believes, and reminds me
that I DESERVE a white man
by my side.

I am white… enough that
I am perfectly bilingual
And you don’t wonder how come
Or, who paid for it?

I’m white… enough for bro’s to say
“Babe, you look French, Italian, Greek
Like it’s a goddamn compliment.

I’m also latina enough to surprise you
with my incredibly charming movie quotes
How could you know Hollywood has sparkly combat boots
That colonized my childhood?

I am white enough, but brown enough
that no one ever asks
about the gross inequality
that raised me.

I am white… enough that
when I’m at Halloween parties
sometimes maybe no one puts
a fucking sombrero on my head

I am white… enough, but latina enough that
I have a last name to dump,
and the European one to keep,
for job interviews..

I am white… enough that
my skin tells an awful story
of my people being systematically,
unforgivably screwed over.

I am white… enough that
I can let people forget
I am an Other,
If– no, WHEN — it’s necessary.

I am white… enough,
but latina enough
That I can camouflage
but I still need to.

I am white… enough that
You feel a bit too comfortable
your white ally card sitting in your pocket
when you make “ironic” “post-racial” jokes

I am white… enough that
I’m not always fetishized
That my sex can sometimes, maybe be
Something other than “exotic”.

I am white… enough
to be pretty fucking privileged
but my blood is dark enough,
that sometimes I don’t see it.

I am white… enough to be asked
to speak about racial inequalities
and be heard. But also to know
That I know nothing. Not really.

I am white… enough that
I never had to think about it
Until I was no longer
The whitest.

I am whiter than-
but darker than-, as well
I learned early on to know
my worth in relative terms.

I am white enough but latina enough
That I’m not immigrant enough, not assimilated enough
Not privileged enough, not oppressed enough
Not light-skinned enough, not dark-skinned enough.
Not white enough, not latina enough

To speak in good enough words
To be visible in clear enough colors,
To exist in a way that makes sense.


What things could look like

This is, as you might guess, another story of a boy.

Yet another story.

Yet another boy.

A story of the first online-dating site.

A story of the first “gringo”.

A story of the first homemade garlic bread.

A story of the first time caring first.

A story of the first — this is TMI, okay, I will tell you later.

A story of the first ride

with no brakes.

With no net. No wall. No catch. No warranty. No abuse. No instructional manual. No exit strategy. No pretense. No pelvic pain. No holding back. No feelings. No, wait.


A story with a ticket home. My second home.

A story of how I found a third home.

A story of letting go.

A story of novelty. Of novelties (get it? you probably do). Of beginnings.

Of endings that didn’t know they were endings.

A story that had no fucking clue it was a story.

A story that forgot there was a blog waiting for another boy. Another story. Another home. Another road to hit.

A story of a boy. Fun boy, smart boy. Cute boy from upstate, somewhere I had never heard of.

Maybe that was why.

The boy who asks before going forward. The boy who has toys. The boy who watches “The Sweetest Thing” on a second date while his skin melts. The boy who says “fucking” and not “making love”, “pussy” and not “down there”. The boy who uses words. Pretty words. All the words. The boy who is much less afraid than I am.

The boy who

makes cuddling

seem alright.


even desirable.

Andnotatallthreateningornauseatingorclaustrophobia-triggeringorcheesyoranythingmorethankeepingwarmandtogetherandjustfuckingcuddling, itsnotabigdeal. Jesus.

The boy who made me.

(gasp) like spooning.

And, on occasion, even mornings.

(I know. What the fuck.)

The boy who made me like feeling vulnerable

like the world was going to end

if I hung up the phone,

if I did not come again,

if I did not let him know.

Another story of a boy.

But really, a story about me.

Because I

I am selfish. It is all about me

Me, me, me.

I am a selfish asshole sometimes.

And a control-freak, as I have been told.

And a rusty emotional rollercoaster that needs some damn maintenance,

by the way.

Also a scared little child with too many fences left to jump.

Also a person. A girl. A selfish person who realized how selfless she could be. A control freak who was okay with losing control. A rollercoaster that seemed to have her shit sort of together for once.

A scared little girl who tends to

run whenever she feels fire

scream whenever a bomb drops

hide behind every shiny new thing

shiny new boy

shiny new escape plan

shiny new ticket home

A scared little girl who is not that scared anymore,

Who feels like jumping



Another story of this girl

of fences I jumped.

Walls I tore down.

A better idea

of what I want,

of roads to get there.

A better idea of what one can feel

What things could look like

If I just don’t hit the brakes.

If I can just

Not. hit. the. brakes.

Even if I don’t have a plane to catch.



The Weaker Sex


“Take me dearest,

I’ll be your princess,

Even your mistress,

Whatever you want”


Can you see my ribs?

Should I resume throwing up?

Until you see my bones

At the funeral home


Oh Mrs. Reed won’t you sit properly?

Smile pretty and bow

Get down on your knees

When a gentleman’s around


“Hey Mr. Dean

Always tidy and gay,

Would you please, oh please

Enlighten my way?”


“You’re right, you’re right

Oh forgive me, Mr. Rose

Pardon my mouth for saying

Things you didn’t want to know”


You say I’m ugly when I’m sober

Do I look prettier in your bed?

I’m concerned that you will leave me

For one of your special friends


“Hit me, hit me, I was so wrong

You’re lovely, lovely, when you’re drunk

I won’t talk to anyone

Just don’t leave, don’t leave, don’t”



Loneliness biting, homeless child

Hormones escaping, raging hands

Ways out, one way, no way back

Cake, ring, new jail to be found


Those heels keep rolling down the hill

These tears keep falling out the window

This mouth is drying out

From being raped, from being shut


The mind is locked up in a room

Inside a house with mops and brooms

The heart is just there to beat and barely,

Irradiating solitude, gloom.


An epilogue.

This, not an ode to feminism

Not an “f” you to all men,

Just a reminder for the dickheads

Who abuse their so called strength


Women aren’t pets

Toys with which you play

We’ll let you drown, kick you out

Don’t touch what you can’t grab.


love letter for a grave friend

 Yesterday I made a friend,
And did I fall in love
Not one to set a heart on fire
Or, well, at least not mine.

And to whom shall I show
Show some human, lovely love?
Such personal note, I haven’t seen,
And again, you never will.

I like your eyes, the purest green
Admire my love, the bloodiest red
I see in your neck, the perfect skin
For my sweet knife to kiss

Keeps growing, thirst for truth,
Sought for in love, and now in death,
Oh, I would really like to like you
But I guess I like me best

My first, like you, it will be,
A last for you, and finest
My best, to you, my darling,
Command I will you: silence.


Long ago a flower bloomed
Bloomed and died some tears ago,
But yesterday I found a knife,
And did I fall in love.




A veces las fases parecen enojosamente insuperables y las caras inolvidables; otras pasamos por una fase como pasamos por una baldosa mal puesta en la banqueta y olvidamos a alguien que con ahínco se nos presentó.

Este poemita lo escribí para la escuela, pero pues me gustó bastante.

Lost now. Memory

train. Memory lane,

Memories: not lost.


Remembrances of you

Of this, of that, of us

Not us. But you and I.


The fragrance of days

Long gone by now.

Tests. Colors. Songs.


Beauty lies in the eyes

Of the beholder. I

Behold, Believe. Beware.


Music. Perfection.

Lullabies of fresh air

Young love…devotion.


Lust. Love. Lust. Love.

Lost. Losing it. Lost. Isn’t it?

Freedom. Melody. Me.


The distance. And flowers

And time. Sleep is silence.

Extensions of loveliness.


Forgetfulness widens.

Noise is the key:

A new power rises.


Colorless. Blissful.

Free will, but will not

Forever last. Forever lost.


The heart swells and bursts.

Stomach aches and turns

Turning into something.


Something. Someone.

No one to catch

A falling, fading star


Implosions, explosions.

Freaking out. Letting in

New hope, old fears.


Leaking in my head

Head, heart, lips, hair

Spirals of nothingness


Borrow an ear; lend lips

Take on a mission

Danger. Power. Faith.


Earthquakes, waves of gray

Shapes and sounds once blue

Fade. Your colors got lost.