They Will Rip You to Shreds

Take a deep breath and lay your head on the pillow. You’re tired from migraines and stressful conversation, yet you’re still hard on yourself. Perhaps you didn’t do enough, perhaps you just could never be enough. 


Maybe there is something in this world that is screaming at you about your lack of worth. It’s not appeasing your pain and now you want to crawl under your sheets. Sleep the day away to keep this depression in your separate existence. The one you choose as real is the dream portion of your nightmare until the nightmare thrashes you awake. 

How do you juggle these two worlds–Anxiety and Depression? Where are it’s lifelines rooted in?

One is a tiny, yet deep pond of movement and the other is a shallow ocean of quicksand. Somehow you’re still afloat, but you’re tiring fast. These realities of yours are being created by those that tell you that you need to hide in your parallel existences. They actually fear your brilliance and potential. They’re sending out the K-9s so that you stay in one place, either in Anxiety or in Depression and under your covers all the while. Don’t move or they’ll rip your heart out. 


15 Questions Left Unanswered 

I’ve got 15 questions. 
14 Ways to tell a lie with 13 minutes left to go in which I wait 12 hours to receive a response. 
Where have you been and where are you going? This is because you’re certainly not here with me. 
It feels as if 10 years of friendship are a child’s story, full of hope and naivety. 
Why haven’t you messaged or called yet? 
There are 9 truths that you keep behind your lips with 8 tales and 7 countries but none revolve around me. 
When will you come back so that you can see me? I’ll miss you for 6 months in which you’ll be unattainable. There will be six months and much over 5 times in which I’ll remind you that I still love you. 
Do you still love me too, my old friend?
In 4 fingers of my hand I can count the hours left to which I’ll have more dreams about you. 
There are 3 words that will convey my sentiments towards you. There will always be 2 variations of those three words because they run on the same spectrum. 
Did you know that the opposite was indifference?
There is 1 fly that sends wails into my ear like the long dead hopes that I housed with your name. 
Did you know that I miss you dearly?

Have you been thinking of me?

Are you doing well, are you safe?

Does your heart still hurt?

Do you know that I feel exhausted?

Did you forget that I have little patience?

Can you feel my spirit trying to touch yours at night?

Are you as alone in bed as am I? 

Will you be back soon?

Did you read these fifteen questions?

El Suspiro

It’s hard to find the space to breathe in between the places where the thoughts belong. It’s that piece in the middle of the inhale… exhale… that is crowded with voices that speak works as if they were singing songs. It’s just that the voices are high pitched and the sing-song is exhausting to my ears. They’re loud and shrilling like old gears grinding against one another chipping away at the atoms that make up its components. I beg for silence, but my mind is unfocused because it forgets that if you’re accustomed to sound pollution, the silence is shrilling too. So again… I’m stuck in the in-between of the inhale…exhale… as I will my lungs to remember what it feels like to breathe.


Mis pensamientos corren a sitios indeterminados mucho como el sonido de mi voz que se encuentra siempre corriendo como los chorros del rio. Mis ojos me recuerdan de lluvias atraídas por dolores de cabeza que hieren la mente y los pensamientos característicos de voces calladas. La lluvia sigue cayendo en aguaceros ligeros porque parece que ni el cielo recuerda como contar los intervalos.

Woman of the 21st Century

She fucks her life up for you and for those stupid traditional “family values” that ultimately only negatively impact her.

She screws up her credit for a man’s mistakes or he steals her credit cards and she deals with the fallout.

She fights a divorce battle in a society that endorses domestic violence and rape culture.

She fights in a legal system that will blame the woman simply for being a woman dressed the way society wants her dressed.

She only buys things for others because she’s been taught her entire life to not be selfish.

She listens to music that’s meant to liberate her and exemplify her beauty as a woman, but the songs on the radio are all about “tits and ass.”

She says she doesn’t want kids because she lives in a world where ambitions don’t fit in with the role of a woman.

She lives in a world in which the work force doesn’t want to take in mothers willing to work because employers think she won’t be effective or focused at their firm.

She lives in a world that also tells her that she should get a job because being a stay-at-home mom isn’t a “real job.”

She goes on social media to keep in touch with her “friends” only to find that ¾ths of them are sharing some stupid meme about how the last generation of women didn’t teach their daughters to do shit.

I guess they all forgot that the women of the past generation fought for civil rights, humanitarian rights, a position in the workforce, and for financial equity.

They forget that women now are fighting for the same things and they’re also sacrificing their lives in the endless wars for this country.

They then say that women don’t belong in the military—the very same men that don’t enlist say this.

They forget that most of their teachers are still women who care deeply about students that forget to respect them or haven’t learned to.

How are the kids going to respect women when all they hear is about women sucking dick and only get images of women twerking on the Internet.

No one knows where to find the women fighting for the world on the Internet, but they’re always there.

They hear Malala’s name, but it’s as if it were just some movie that isn’t real.

They never hear about the women scientists, CEOs, doctors, lawyers.

They also never hear about the intriguing and extremely competent lives of the women custodians, bus drivers, cops, and other women in lesser-valued professions.

They never hear about the immigrant women that were renowned doctors or professionals in their home countries that now carry on these lesser-valued jobs.

They never mention the women crossing the borders risking their lives and intelligently outmaneuvering the dirty politics that would rather they be sex slaves.

Why don’t these things ever get shared?

Butterfly to Fish to Stone

Every moment that I’ve ever been laid low I end up listening to songs that remind me to hold on.

This girl walked into the ocean prepared to never come out. She was ready to become a fish because at least that way she could choose to swim in solitude. On land she was a butterfly with broken wings, frequently caught and held hostage in cages fabricated of fingers and human flesh on bones. Her wing colors used to be green, they represented esperanza. With every cage she became more muted until she lost that faith and the velvet went away from her wings. Now gray, like the color of dark and rainy skies she flew soul-first into the freezing water. Her wings broke away and she confined herself to her newly formed gills. As a fish she was olive green like the bucks she used to give to indulge in the gifts of life. Those very same gifts led to peace on the horizon where she could fly towards the colorful sky in the sunset and where she could rise with the sun.

Always rising and falling. The sun etched its tattoo on her skin.

Now she’s a bottom dweller and she just wants to swim with the current but the fishermen keep trying to catch her. Will she ever live again? They call her home because she provides sustenance when in reality she only wants to swim away but she can’t. Her skeleton is starting to hurt and her spine is becoming frail from the gravity pushing her down.

She wakes up in a pool of metal, iron and steel, that keep her pinned down. The scales have tipped and not in her favor. The bills grow larger as if they had a life of their own. In her throat form stones pushing down into her bleeding heart and encasing it in their harshness. She used to be green, she dreamt of being orange, but now she’s all hues of gray.

The butterfly is a distant memory.

FORE·CLO·SURE: ˌfôrˈklōZHər/, noun : synonym for shattered dreams.

I slightly remember the people who used to live in that house. They were an older couple and had faces as kind as could be. Very sweet. One day the government notice came: FORECLOSURE. They couldn’t pay their rent anymore. In Florida we had thousands of homes foreclose in a short span of time. They had made their lives in the one right in front of mine. We were new to the neighborhood still and had bought off our house. The worries that touched them did not touch mine. I went back to school and said goodbye to my parents and brother—my justified sacrifice. The “Florida Winter” had come and gone and I didn’t worry about a dime.

Summer came around and with it came my jolly face ready to bask in sunshine. I did not think of the elder couple that lived in the house in front of mine. When our minivan pulled in, lugging me and my things one of the first sights I had was of that one house. The windows were boarded and it looked unlived in. You’d think it had been a grow house like mine once was. The view was quite desolate and property value fell, but we didn’t really mind for this was our home. My parents told me in low voices that the people had taken the fence that bordered the house; they had shattered the windows. My stepdad lamented all the work they had done on that happy home before it was demanded to give it up.

Shattered windows reflected shattered dreams.

All of those memories were dead now.

I recently moved back in May after finishing the studies that landed me a great job as a teacher. My sacrifice was worth it, is what I would say and I know it to be true to this day. My home is joyous, I’m making new memories and for some reason today I remember the elderly couple. Since moving right back, I’ve realized something. This home once belonged to someone, was destroyed, and has been recently purchased. There hasn’t been a single day in which I haven’t seen work done on that house. A group of men work day and night, sweating, losing weight, cursing, and laughing to create a beautiful abode. For some reason it reminds me of the beach—it’s a very light pastel blue. There are new windows in place, bordered with beige concrete in such a pleasant way. It’s almost as if it is accentuating the fact that the windows were once never there. They’ve made a little gazebo towards the back of the house and I frequently see my new neighbors sitting there and having a drink. There are at least three cars there daily, ready with bodies prepared for hard work. They sweat under the sun with their long sleeved shirts. One paints the house, the other mows the grass, the other works on the hinges and stuff like that.

I don’t quite know them and I know not if they’re kind. I just hope that their home can pass the test of time.

I can see their dreams pouring from their eyes.

Last Night I Met Your Friends and they Liked Me More than You

Let that burning red tea boil. Let your feelings erupt because they placed microchips in your books and in your brains. There is the manipulative son of a bitch so cerebral and invading your cranial territory like Cortés and his Conquistadores. The man will stick it to you literally and figuratively until you learn that even your red tea won’t heal your bleeding veins from their hell-bent wrath. Your body is an empire, your mind is the Earth, and my dear, your soul is the universe. He screams your name at night and pollutes your existence with his tongue. Yes, the very same one that sent shivers down your spine and the very same one that made you cry. He let his fists bang the walls when he was angry with you for bringing out his true self with your wishes of sincerity and honesty. You gave him mala beads in the shape of rainbow pearls that were deep-colored like the pools of your soul that are hidden under lock and key in your magnanimous body not at its prime yet, but getting there. You scream his dynasty’s last name in vain because no one is there to listen to your throaty exclamations. Your silk bathed lips made him quiver like soft chrysanthemums caressing, tickling, touching his goosebumped skin. He wanted what was between… He wanted what was within… The warmth radiating from your experienced body and soul and mind collected in his lungs and suffocated the hell of his inner oceans, which quenched your fire eventually. The oil will only burn until there is none left in his waters. You were the fire. You ARE the fire hiding underneath the skin and within his bone marrow. You ARE his dream and you are the dreamer.