Broken Pottery

I almost lost these pages and for a second my heart felt like it would either stop or break through my chest. It’s in these pages that I heal. These are the reminders that the cracks within me are laced with gold like the ancient Japanese custom of taking what has been broken and making it better. In these words exist my soul and maybe they won’t last forever, but they sure do make me feel whole.




From where enters your strength, your will to live? It reminded of how battered and bruised I have been. A memory of black clouds coming down onto me haunts my head and I had hoped that I had healed that trauma, but they asked me: where does that strength come from? There were no good answers to that question. Perhaps it was this ancestral DNA or my mother’s mitochondrial DNA that let me live though the struggle. How ungrateful I must seem, to have that survivor’s will and to hate the act of having to survive. She must look at me with disdain or maybe with pity at knowing that her scars are inscribed into my genetic makeup too.

Why have you stayed? I am asked this question, not in so many words. Sadly, no responses escape because I hold the gates tightly shut for fear of being seen as the fool. Who could have thought that this would be the woman striving to bear the fruits of my labor—so hindered by a simple soul?

Sunken Benches

I sit next to the ocean that is reclaiming the land and the rain starts to sweep in between the mangroves and dead fish. Soaked pages take in the tears of the sky as if they’ve been parched for quite some time. The ocean and sky have reclaimed their original place on land and floating aimlessly– a red jacket. The dyed red leather is engorged with salt-water while crabs laugh at that foolish girl in tatters.


The sky rumbles and she’s ready to go down underneath the flooded streets and the sun is setting the world in darkness. Hands tremble and freeze, clench, and cramp up—it’s an Arctic blast. Fever strikes as the lightning occurs within her body. We dig our graves without knowing and we burn others at the stake. Cloth rips as the flowers fall off the tree to rot. They pollute fragile minds ready to rip apart in an instant. Heads split as if a blade were cutting from top to bottom. Crawling into a ball, she hides like a bird embryo in an egg.

Crushing the Leaves, Incantation

The mint leaves in the lemon balm watered down with boiling… I inhale and infused become my lungs with little molecules of magic preparing to sink me down like a stone floating to the bottom of the ocean. She cries and I try to rack my head for words that can make everything okay, a reassurance—butterflies hugging the petals. He looks like he’ll cry; his face seems solemn like the depths of my heart. My soul is benthic because the light of your life doesn’t reach my eyes. Sighs in the sounds of teardrops falling on the books that you read to learn how to live. He looks out his window and sees the trees with pink and purple backdrops of sky and his lips ache from the crying, the kissing, the passion of having to say I’m sorry and goodbye. She looks at her cards while seeking meaning in the train tracks that take her in opposing directions. All the while they struggle with their sadness I struggle with needing their joy to remember that life is light and sound and waves of pleasure and intense fear.

I’ll try to not drive off the bridge tonight, but my dreams will take me there and I will be powerless as I see myself locked in the car falling into the ocean. Get rid of my fears, but I am an ant about to drown in the boiling ocean of my teacup with the chemicals that will fill my body until I am nothing other than them. Listen to me when I’m crying and when I’m singing out the window at the top of my lungs. I want you to hear me and know that for one moment, life will be just right and you are beautiful and will be at peace with all that come your way. I want you to listen to me when I tell you that you won’t know what love is until you’re on the verge of losing a life, your mind, your blood. Please listen to me when I tell you that while the sky may crack and explosions will occur in the sky, you can be safe in the hands of a stranger or in the hands of a lover or good friend.

The mint leaf is cut from the plant and its extract refreshes my throat as I swallow the warm water after letting the taste savor on my tongue. Refresh my head so that I can tell him to go back home and be with his parents so that they won’t cry at night hoping they haven’t lost their only son. Come back and say you’re sorry and tell them that you love them and you’ll get all the help you need from the drugs and the high life. My mother calls me to hear my voice so that she can tell if it’s too soft or weak or bustling with energy. She calls me to let me know that she loves me and without me she’d die. I love you mamá, tell el titi that I love him.


Could you sleep knowing I would never be near again, and could you picture what life would have been like? If one day I were here and tomorrow I were somewhere far away where I could never be found—if I were in the other side—who would you look for? My dear, if tomorrow you were to forget my existence and I were to imagine we were in past times, who would we be?

So many questions I won’t have the answers to and so many dreams that may come alive. I knew you one day and the next… If you would have never met me, who would we be and would we still be this happy? Without you I don’t feel as if there’d be much meaning. My kind, kind friend with a kind soul that should never be detached from me, we were simply meant to be. I feel it.

Today I make you happy and you do too. We dance and laugh like tomorrow is just a dream; it is in some ways. Today we hug and smile as we look into each other’s souls. There are so many nice things to say about the people we became. Our souls each other stole and today it couldn’t have been any different. We are a dream in the most realistic of ways. This is a story of struggle and love and truth and fear. This is not a fairy tale, my dear.