Breaking the Chains

Last night, I took a quiet stroll through the park where we had our first meet. You wanted somewhere open, somewhere where we could enjoy the weather and get to know one and another. We only had an hour yet, that hour turned into two.

We spoke about our families, education, future dreams, and so much more. I can still hear you whisper you wanted to conquer the world. I never realized that by “conquering” the world you wanted total domination over the woman you were sitting in front of.

Fifty million voices made a permanent residence in my head. I never could distinguish which one to listen too. Do I leave? Do I stay? Do I give it one more day?

That moment when every single voice in my head said it was now or never …I broke free.

As I sat in that exact spot we sat at that night, a reawakening surged through me.

-I was no longer weak

-I was no longer bruised

-I was no longer broken

-I was engulfed with a tremendous magnitude of strength

I was free

-to enjoy any flavor of ice cream

-to wear my hair down

-to live life

-to love life


-to be me…



From White to Brown the Evolution of my Skin Color

I was reprimanded in grade school
for using the tongue I only knew

I was surrounded by the White world
un Pais unfamiliar to me

They marched in
and colonized la uneca piel that I had

My mother tongue was cut from me
and stored in a rusted jar in a cupboard

That jar grew thick ivy around it
cutting off the oxygen to the flesh within it

With each day my colonizers
murdered a piece of me

My skin color no longer
that from when I originally submerged from my mother’s womb

I was now what my colonizers wanted
me to be…I was now White

I wore this new skin with heartache

Twenty-five years later

I stood there watching mi gente
llorando over the casket of Bis-Abuela

The Mariachis played
canción after canción

As I saw her body be
lowered into the earthy grave below

I was rebirthed…
I traveled through my mother’s birth canal this time
claiming my Brownness

The rusted jar containing
my fleshy tongue was shattered

In those moments

My mother tongue found its way to my body

Where it was welcomed with open lips

Where it is to remain
until mi muerte.


MY Voice has been released

The clock read 3:41 am as I sat behind my desk taking the pink, blue, purple, and black colored words and composing them into sentences and paragraphs. It was at this time I noticed the display on my phone light up followed by the notification ding, ding tone giving me notice of the email received. I glanced at the sender’s name and email address not having any indication as to who it was. Curiosity struck this ever so curious female and I decided to read it. The person, who chose to only go by the name of Caiden in Odense, Denmark, mentioned he had been following my blog and had enjoyed every post that had come to life. He had a few questions pertaining to a few of them but for the most part he wanted to know why I write in general and why I write on the topics that I do. I kindly responded and with his permission to make our conversation public I have decided to compose this post.

To begin, I honestly can say I don’t choose topics but instead write from the heart. My heart is filled with lots of life’s experiences and heartaches. The heart is the one organ that holds an unsurpassed amount of people’s deepest secrets, secrets of others, love’s mistakes, love’s accomplishments, and so much more. My posts tend to take shape after having a conversation with a friend, co-worker, or a complete stranger. I then reach deep into my heart’s cavity and pull out my own past with what our conversation entailed and write from there. They can also be inspired by a movie or a song on the radio.

One sentence sums up the reason behind why I write…I write to allow the words which are suffocating deep within my heart be released. I secretly started writing many many years ago while still playing with Barbies and Cabbage Patch Kids. I enjoyed writing poetry back then because poetry to me was the “beauty” I was missing. In the third grade, I had entered a poetry contest at school. The contest was open to all 3rd-5th graders and because our elementary school was located in the inner city and considered a poverty-stricken campus there were only three of us who had entered. I won the contest and had my work displayed in the front corridor by the main office for a few weeks. I had been invited to share my piece with the district poetry contest and after some convincing I did. My third grade teacher, Mrs. Carr took me aside that day and informed me that my words had power to them. It was something she had not seen before in a third grader let alone someone still in the k-12 sector. She reiterated that I had a passion that I should never allow to be murdered. She had a way with words herself. It was then at that early age that I knew I had words cooking in me and that one day they would they need to be served on a platter for fear of them becoming rancid. Rancid was not what I wanted my words to be.

So here I am thirty years later, still writing. I went many years writing in secret, many words hidden deep in mi alma. I awoke from my sleep invested self and decided to release my voice.

Like white doves in a cage on a wedding day my words have been released…

Red lips

As I meticulously sip on my glass of red wine while taking the sofa as my imaginary lover, I pondered the question whether or not {I} have learn{ed} from {my} mistake{s}.

I have struggled with this question for many years. If you would have asked me exactly this during my teen years, my answer would have been no. If I had, I would not have made the mistake of taking a lover at such a young age. I would have taken caution in that sex was absolutely delicious and would not have habitually lusted after it. I would not have gone from one lover al proximo let alone take one while I was in “love” with the one who I truly wanted to be with. I had a tendency to play with fire back then. Who the hell am I kidding; he jugado with fire my entire existence. After time went on, my relationship and marriage to the last teen lover I had, became severely fractured. I not only had damaged the one person who really ever loved me but I damaged myself in the process. My hunger for sex became monumental. I became a serial dater and would immediately fall between the sheets with my dates. I took lover after lover. I did not want a relationship, I wanted the unknown con alguien…anyone. I wanted to experience sexual firsts over and over again. I did not care who I hurt along the journey because I had zero feeling. I was numb. I was broken.

I literally rode this journey for many years until I met my match. We took each other as husband and wife and for once my hunger for sex had been fulfilled. I cannot say if it was his sexual nature that satisfied me or the knowing I could make a call and have it satisfied by the one person who always could. I lived this lie for close to four years. I slept in the same bed with this stranger because there wasn’t anything more to our relationship than the quest to get each other off. Here I was again playing with fire. Had I not learn from the first go around? Ultimately, he played me just as well as I had played him if not better. Luckily, we realized the dissolution of our “marriage” and went our separate ways amicably.

I went back to my fiery ways. The hunger for sex was within me again. I searched for “victims” and took them back to my place or theirs and had my way with them. Some of them yearning for more, and others who knew exactly what the night was about and respected the fact of never contacting me again. I had a fan club per say. I was wanted. I was craved! The power behind that was gratifying.

I enjoyed each and every one of my past lovers. I learned from each one of them. I took with me the lessons learned and pleased the next one.

I am a seasoned sexual being and the mistakes I repeatedly made back then molded me into the woman I am today. I will not apologize for that, I will however apologize for the broken hearts I caused along the way…including mine.


Reflejos de Mí

I am weak
Soy Fuerte
I have been knocked down
I have been “uplifted”
I have seen myself negro y azul
I have seen myself distorted
He visto mi piel sangrar
I am scarred
I am damaged
I have seen myself looking in strongly wishing I was looking out
I have felt life dentro de mi
I have had life taken from me
I have seen my flesh go from white to brown
He sonreído
I most definitely have llorardo
I have found my inner-self
Only to have lost “her” several times along the way
I have lost loved ones
Only to gain new ones
I have felt my heart stop
Only to feel it beat ten times stronger
This is me; this is my footprint in life
I am visible for ALL to see
One day, I will be visible in that mirror called Life
Un Dia, I will be visible to MYSELF

Reposted in response to the Daily Post: Unleashing Your Dickinson

Originally posted on November 22, 2014

**Author’s Note** It had been years since I had taken pen to paper to write a work of Poetry. I sat at my desk one evening back in November and the words began to flow and I was not able to contain them. Reflections of Myself was composed.


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A novel in 30 days……..

The eradication of those unpleasant platinum slivers of what was once my youthful brown hair is where I find myself on this day of #NaNoWriMo. Today marks day twenty of this yearly pilgrimage of mine to complete the many attempts at sewing together all of my collective thoughts, the various colors of post it notes found in places no normal human would keep them, the assorted serviettes from my favorite eateries with composed sentences, and the journal found on what was once my organized writing desk. These last few days the view of my writing desk who I nicknamed Daisy on account of the lovely baby powder coloring of my IKEA HEMNES desk has had the look as if a miniature land mine was placed on it and detonated.

National Novel Writing Month always seems to take what was once a collective, passive, confident, and fearless self and turns me into a coffee running through her veins type of woman. I begin to talk a bit quicker unable to slow down my passages, I start to “hear” people convey unfavorable outcomes or pessimistic “reviews” all while thinking to myself “read before you speak.” I then “awake” and realize that the voices are coming from within me. I fall asleep every night wondering how to get them to stop. I wonder if taking pen to paper is worth it in the end? Is writing my “out?” Or is writing my way “in?”

Ten days until I am myself again.