This type of sadness is new to me. I want to cry for hours but my body or my mind or both won’t allow it. It’s like I’ve shut off a part of myself because it is too painful to even think about or begin to process the past 9 months. I’m not binging on drugs and alcohol to numb the heartache. I have nothing left to give.

One of my biggest regrets is not listening to you sooner. You told me over and over that you didn’t know if you loved me. And you didn’t. You never did. And you never will.


fuck you Amanda Phillips

Shout out to all them ugly ducklings, them late bloomers. My father has been a single father since I was 1 month old, I’ve got mad respect for that dude. He put so much effort into doing my hair every morning when I was a child, and his intentions were noble, but I hated him for making me an easy bulling target in grade school. I hated my boy cousin’s  hand me down clothes, but they were free of holes so. Beggars can’t be choosers.

There was this bitch name Alejandra De Leon in my first grade class, she had her pretty dresses, her pretty pink ribbons, and her pretty friends, who made fun of me for not having a mom. One day, during recess, after hearing her laugh after I walked by past her I threw my first punch. I have forgiven her since cause bitches didn’t fuck with me after that. Fast forward to freshman year of high school and meet Amanda Phillips. She was blonde, pretty, and rich. Bitch wouldn’t give me a pad when I got my period, early, after gym class. We were the last two girls left in the locker room and she refused to help a homie out when I KNEW she had at least 10 fucking pads in her locker. When I leaked through the bunched up layer of toilet paper in AP English and rushed out of the room to wash out the big loud red stain on my jeans in the girls bathroom, she told  her friend Alicia  about my accident. Alicia told Brooke and Brooke told Sean . By the end of the day, the entire freshman class new about it and whispered and laughed every time they saw me for the rest of the year. I still can’t forgive her for it. Fuck you Amanda Phillips.

I was this fat nerdy virgin who wore the same 5 band t-shirts all four years of high school. I love you, fat virgin. I’m sorry it took 7+ plus years to say that. I’m sorry I hated every single thing about you then. Fat girl was well read and soft spoken and kind. Fat girl wrote poetry.  Fat girl was sweeter than pie and her feelings. I love you so much fat girl, and your heart of gold. Don’t ever change, little one.

I’m back

It’s been quite sometime.

Hello, I’m back.

After receiving a grand total of 53 rejection letters from several literary magazines, I am back.

I am still sending my poetry out in hopes that one day I will get one fucking piece of poetry or prose published, but I recently discovered that I can still get my writing published even if it has been published on my blog before. I found a loophole. 🙂

I am considering uploading 9 month’s worth of writing to this blog,  but the thought of it makes me exhausted. Only time will tell if that’ll ever happen. Stay tuned ya’ll.

Oh and I’ve made too many terrible life choices since my absence, of course. I am only human remember?

I am praying for winter to be over soon so I can bitch about how fucking windy it is during Spring here in Albuquerque instead of complaining about the snow, the lack of sunlight, and HOW MUCH I MISS SUMMER.

My people were not made for this type of weather.

Friendly reminder: I don’t care if you live in Chicago or Rhode Island or fucking New York City and you are used to a 6n month winter with below zero temperatures. I’M COLD BITCH.


girl, in progress

Act like a lady.

When I was a young girl living in Mexico City, I remember my abuelita, whom I called mother, would say to me, often after talking too much or too loud:
“Act like a lady.
Remember, a woman should smell like flowers or freshly baked bread.
A woman should smell like oranges.
Remember, it isn’t enough to talk like a lady. Or walk a lady. Or smell like a lady. Or dress like a lady.
You must act like a lady if you want to find a good husband to take care of you.”
Twelve years later, I am walking under the starless skies of Mexico City, twenty four,
unmarried, traveling alone, holding a cigarette in between my fingers.
I have a pint of tequila hidden in the secret pocket of my overalls,
I take sips from it when I think no one is looking.
The peach fuss on my back shining through, illuminated by the streetlights.
The peach fuss which I refuse to remove with wax for any man.
The musician smiles at me as I drop a gold coin into his guitar case,
his eyes fixed on my exposed flesh.
I smile back, and shake my head because he doesn’t stand a chance.
He will never know what my tongue tastes like.
He will never know that I won that golden coin, along with exactly $500 pesos,
from the pompous boy from the Czech Republic,
after beating him three times at Gin Rumi.
This self-proclaimed gypsy boy told me that I tasted like the oranges
from his childhood home.
He drunkenly unhooked my bra with one hand and pulled me closer
to him, as if it were possible to be closer while sharing a twin mattress.
He covered my mouth to silence my moans
which made me want to yell out even louder.
So I did, waking the British man, sleeping in the bunk above mine,
who I didn’t really like anyway.
I blow out a large pink bubble from my mouth and spit out the flavorless gum.
I spit on the cobblestone streets, I leave my mark.
I am here, I exist. I will not be lost in between pages or history books.
or forgotten on dusty shelves of abandoned libraries.
I didn’t have time to shower in the hostel this morning
so I am wearing yesterday’s clothes,
stained with rum, stained with the blood of my wounded knee.
This time I grab a spliff from my cigarette pack and
I  light it with my complimentary matches.
I finish the last of my tequila and belch so loud
that the even birds are startled,
with their feathers ruffled, they fly far away.
I yell into the streets at 4am. I yell like a lady.
I yell so loud I wake up the man sleeping on the bench,
covered with yesterday’s news and today’s regrets.
I walk like a woman.
I smell like a woman.
I talk like a woman.
And I act like a woman.
I have a lot of opinions, and I do not smell of flowers or fleshly baked bread.
I speak my mind in in a world ran by men,
and I would rather survive than act like a lady.
There is no time to iron my baby blue dress.
There is no time when every man I meet wants to swallow me whole.


One day, I will feel safe enough to expose
all the nooks and crannies, and the books.
And the daddy issues,
all the soaked tissues surrounding my bed.
Daddy maybe you loved me a little too much,
Daddy you only loved me when my skirt was rising up my thighs.
When I cried myself to sleep after a beating you loved me.
Said you were sorry every time.
I’m sorry too.
Humans are creatures of habit and
much like Pavlov’s dog,
I’ve been conditioned to believe that
men only love me when they’re fucking me.
Fucking with me.
So I let them fuck me.
Because of all the daddy issues,
and the soaked tissues surrounding my bed.
One day, my sturdy walls will crumble…
You’ll finally see through the laughs and the photographs.
As I hug the circumference of my body,
hunched over on the kitchen floor,
shoulders violently shaking,
mascara running down my cheekbones.
I bet I’ve never looked so human before.
And those nooks and crannies, and the books.
And all the poetry I write, will speak for me when I cannot.

Self love at Kaseman Psychiatric Hospital April 2018

Been having a hard time accepting my mental health diagnosis. I know it lives inside me and will follow me the rest of my life, but coming to terms with that hasn’t been easy for me. Chemical imbalances. Manic episodes. Depressive episodes. Food problems. Me problems. Simple problems. Problems I don’t quite understand. Problems I understand but cannot yet stomach. Having a mental health diagnosis and going into the psych ward when you’re diagnosis takes over are categorized differently by our society. Most people say they support people with mental health diagnosis until they come in contact with the negative aspects of it. Soon they tell you “why don’t you try to get out of bed” or my personal favorite “maybe if you become less self absorbed you can see that you don’t have it so bad”. Humans don’t like feeling uncomfortable, and when mental health issues begin to act up, they can no longer be supportive of it, because they do not truly understand it. Feeling at peace today after regaining some control, my sadness is still there, but it’s much more manageable. Going into the psychiatric hospital for 5 long days gave me some perspective and humbled me. I cannot call the experience pleasant or unpleasant, but I know that it is what I needed. Being kind to myself is a struggle, but fuck I’m trying. I am still me and I am still here.

nacida libre


I’m not saying  I wanted to die. I’m not saying  I wanted to live. I was feeling so low coming home to no one after an amazing trip. I bought a bag of dope, cooked a shot, nothing out of the ordinary. I felt empty but I couldn’t stop crying. I cooked up a second shot, this one was significantly larger and more potent than my usual dosage. I managed to quiet down my sobbing and tied up my left arm and hit a vein. I’m not saying I wanted to die. I’m not saying I wanted to live. I felt indifferent about my existence, but mostly I wanted to escape for a few hours.  I got up from my bed and tried to reach the rubbing alcohol sitting on my desk to clean my syringe. A habit of mine. I’m anal about clean needles cause my father is HIV positive. I know it seems like a silly thing to do for someone who feels indifferent about living, I have many rituals, and most of those don’t make sense. I don’t think they have to.

I was so high I didn’t make it to my bed, I sat on the floor of my bedroom and became mesmerized with the floral patterns on my walls. They weren’t there before and they certainty were not moving. Maybe it was the dope. Maybe it was the lack of sleep. “Easy, Lucky, Free.”

I woke up the next morning with my ears ringing and an uncomfortable numbness especially present in my hands and feet. I could hardly hear. I was terrified because I didn’t know what was happening to me. Lucas called and I yelled at him through the receiver. He arrived at my home twenty minutes later. He explained I had a mild overdose and that I should have my hearing back soon. He made me tea and gave me water. He fed me. Sunday morning, when my hearing finally came back, I didn’t feel so indifferent about my mortality. There are far too many people to meet and places to see. Being me isn’t easy, but I would never want to be anyone else.