Crisp like your breath as you break away from my kiss/ as you pull my hips closer/ crisp like my shirt being torn by your hands/ as you feel what God told you didn’t belong in your mouth
You cry after you get what you’ve always wanted/ forget how to breathe for a minute/ take a shower so your parents can’t smell what you did/ brush your teeth a hundred times to wash away the sex from your tongue/ but every time you close your mouth you still taste me
I have been removed.
My identity displaced,
Lost somewhere in the diasporas of my bloodline and borders.
My right of return has always felt hidden
Behind amy grandmother’s Spanish last name
And the border she crossed to have a child whose father already had a wife.
I am compartmentalized by everyone.
Only the sun legitimizes me
Because I am clearly her child.
But I don’t know any of her other children’s languages
Or how they make their food
Or how they dance.
All I know is that I am lost,
Let me be
Let me be
I am begging this of myself as much as I am begging this of you.
The colonizer broke my blood into fractions
So I quantify myself
15% 23% 37% 25%
And get forgotten in the numbers
I go to sleep, and
I am everything.
Broken, lost, and whole,
Her father named her after the stars in the hopes that she would become one.
Born on a pleasant May afternoon, Star made her first appearance and almost killed her mother in the process. As her skin reddened with life, her mother’s tinged with blue. Both filled the hospital room with screams clinging to consciousness.
The first person to hold her like she might fly away was her grandmother Tita. Tita introduced her to water, who became a lifelong friend.
Star’s first word was cookie, revealing her indulgent nature that would follow her for the rest of her life.
Whenever you look at her, you get the feeling that you’re looking into the past. That is if you are looking at her at all. When she was 5, she let loneliness brush her hair as she watched other kids play in the park.
I left you with empty pockets and new shoes/ cat scratching the window as I slipped out the door/ no note no text no warning/ I don’t know how to say goodbye/ so I quietly leave instead
I left you with a few more things/ a cat with long nails/ and the compulsion to keep the door open
I’m mainly writing this because I feel as though I need to write something. And if this rambling doesn’t come out poetic, I’m sorry; sometimes thoughts are rough and not drenched in metaphors.
It’s about to be 2 am where I live and I’m kind of sad. I don’t really feel comfortable in my body or my life or the place that I’m at, but I feel like a spoiled brat for not appreciating the charmed life I’ve found myself in. I don’t really know what I want or need. I don’t really think I want or need anything. Or maybe I just want to be beautiful. The more that I think about it, the more that I want to be beautiful. That’s all I want the summer to bless me with: beauty.
Your words dripped down my neck like nectar off of a flower/ I wrapped a scarf around it so no one else could see/ walked around the city with this secret staining my throat/ could still feel your whispers brushing against my skin
You brought me to your room while the moon peered over the sun/ peeled the scarf off my neck while I faced the window/ fingers twisted my hair as I sighed
I saw you for half a second today/ you were wearing that itchy red uniform/ remember when I took it off your body?/ remember when I put it back on?
We used to lay in bed all day/ that itchy red uniform tangled up in the sheets/ your hair sprawled across the pillow like the stars across the sky/ your shoes waiting for you beside the bed
I left when the last tree leaf fell outside/ I left when your voice stopped sounding like music/ I left when you accidentally wore my shoes
I hardly see you anymore/ I’m safer this way