Bleeding

I bled

for 38 days

and still

I continue to bleed.

 

I thought I was ready.

actually I am ready.

It was you who wasn’t ready for me.

 

When i sat in that doctors office

discussing IUD’s

and other means of birth control

I was sure that i was ready

because you made me feel ready.

 

Unfortunately i was just a pit stop in your life.

Now you’ve moved on and left me ready,

with a foreign object that was supposed to protect me from unwanted pregnancy

But it didn’t protect me from the heartache I felt when those messages were left unanswered

when those late nights were spent wondering what went wrong

instead of being in your arms.

 

I have bled for 38 days

I wonder how much longer until I’ve healed.

Represented

Sometimes
Actually, all the
time
I wish I could see myself
represented 
on different types of media.

I see the models
they pick.

Beautiful // Curvy in all the right places

There isn’t a lot of spaces left for
extra rolls or
purple stretch marks peeking out of underwear
or
a double chin poking out under a smiling face

What I get is
acceptable fat,
If that even is a thing.

But I believe it
because hardly any model grazing the covers of
Torrid
Lane Bryant
or any publication for that matter

has the courage to represent me
the way I truly am.

Unapologetically fat.

cellulite // stretch marks hugging my tummy // double chin and chubby face // endless fat rolls // untoned legs // fat … fat … fat …

Holiday Festivities

//

The sadness I feel during these times of festivity bring a cold shiver to my soul

//

How can I rejoice when all I think about are ancestors who have passed?

//

As I see everyone prepare for the holidays

//

I myself am in a cold daze

//

Speak not of happy times with happy days

//

Do not speak to me at all

//

As you will find a hollow body and hollow heart

//

For these festive times bring only sorrow

//

Space

The uncomfortable leather seat on this airplane makes me
aware
of the space, I take up

too much…

My thighs spread out,
overflow to the next seat
and the passenger next to me
shifts uncomfortably

I press my legs together,
try to keep them together
but they refuse to comply
a mind of their own
they are rebellious and
spread out even more

I take up too much space

 

Pieces

I settled for second-hand love
and became a foolish side piece

I thought you were kind enough to offer me
pieces
scraps
leftovers
of the love you gave to someone else

I was content with the nights spent with you
Late nights, clothes on the floor
tangled bodies becoming one

But I should’ve realized it wasn’t enough
I secretly hoped your mouth would connect to mine
but it never did, and instead it found its way to my swollen breasts
also aching for your touch.

I got the remains, I got unfaithfulness
I got a couple hours of pleasure
but…
I never got your love.

And how willing I was to be your side piece
How willing was I to be yours in the night time
because I craved being with you, because your touch mesmerized me.

I never got what I secretly wished for
a place at your table, a place in your life.
You hid me so well, you played your game well.

You made me believe I was important
and as the time passes by,
I realize,
your intentions were never genuine
and
we both broke my heart
into a million
pieces

Criminalization

You criminalize brown bodies
for working long days in the sun.

“Foco a Foco” my mother says
no longer does she see the sun rise
or the sun set.

She leaves for work early in the morning when the porch light is still on.
The cool morning air and the dew on the roses are her good mornings

and she is greeted by the very same porch light in the evening.
hungry mouths and dirty dishes are her “welcome home”.

You criminalize my father’s broken English
make fun of his accent and his mispronounced words
and yet your favorite thing to put in your mouth is Mexican food.
No one makes fun of you for pronouncing enchiladas all bland,
so why do you gotta poke fun at my dad?

You tell brown folks “Go back to Mexico!”

assuming Latin America isn’t diverse

but God forbid I call you gringo

You criminalize my people for being
too dark,
too hispanic,
too this,
too that
Did you ever stop to wonder why you’re
too unwelcoming,
too judgmental,
too inhumane,
too… racist?

 

Habits

My fingers type out your name without thinking twice.
It’s the third social media profile I’ve checked that’s yours.
It’s become a habit of mine
one I cannot seem to shake.
I try to get you out of my head
but my fingers type out the name
I’ve been typing out for months now.
I just wanna make sure you’re doing okay
I myself am not doing okay.
I’ve rejected every guy who has approached me,
I look for you in everyone I meet
but no one can compare to you.
I don’t allow them in
even if they can be the cure
to this deadly disease that’s eating me from the inside out.
I look for your crooked smile,
the dark, intense stare you would give me when you wanted me passionately.
But I can’t seem to find it.

It’s become a habit
to look at strangers coming my way
and hope they resemble the way you smirked
hoping they’ll walk like you, talk like you, act like you.
It’s an obsession I’d say,
but I loved you more than anyone else I’ve been with
it’s become a habit of mine,
to fill my thoughts with what ifs and maybe ifs.
It’s become a habit,
to go hurt myself by looking at your Instagram profile and seeing you with other women by your side.
You don’t seem to even remember the nights we spent together,
but I’ve made it a habit to keep them alive
I wish I could’ve kept the relationship alive,
now all I have are nasty habits to keep the memory of us
alive. 

Dolor

Más caliente
Qué el agua queme mi piel
quiero sentir algo en este rostro
el cual se ha convertido en una casa sin ama.
Más caliente
qué el agua de mi ducha me haga sentir algo
aunque sea el ardor del agua, aunque mi piel se vuelva roja, sugiriendo ayuda.
Es mejor que no poder sentir nada
es mejor que este hueco en mi corazón

Tired

Every time I blink,
my eyelids feel like sandpaper
rubbing up against one another.

My red and tired eyes
keep closing every five minutes.
I’ve been up for 24hrs and I need a break.

But the unfinished paper tells me sleep is not going to happen
and I might as well forget about the power nap I had planned

You have no one to blame but yourself,
this paper could’ve been written over the weekend.

The Idea of You

I’m in love with the idea of you

but I’m not sure if I’m in love with you.

You never gave me the time of day

But you made sure the nights were reserved for me

And you only touched me in the dark,

I don’t know if I’m in love with the idea of what could be

or if I truly feel something for you.