You’re my poetry when I can’t find the words to say.
You’re my pen when the ink runs out and my heart is longing for the stability of expression.
You’re my creativity when my mind begins to run full speed towards my soul.
You’re my way back home.
I love you.


The Mean Reds

……… “The blues are because you’re getting fat and maybe it’s been raining too long, you’re just sad that’s all. The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you’re afraid and you don’t know what you’re afraid of. Do you ever get that feeling?” – Holly Golightly

  I remember seeing Breakfast at Tiffany’s. When Holly said this quote, I simply felt like she was describing me. I understood exactly what the mean reds meant. It was a battle I always lose. Anytime Holly got that feeling she would go right over to Tiffany’s to keep her mind at ease. I never found anything to make me feel like Tiffany’s. Not a single place or even a person.

  Today the mean reds came knocking. I didn’t want to get out of bed. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I was locked in my head, stuck in a repetitive loop of negative energy. I wanted to cry but the tears wouldn’t form. I wanted to scream but my voice just wasn’t loud enough. I had all these emotions building up but no place to go and no one to talk to. Writing is as close to Tiffany’s as I will ever get. It’s the only outlet I have where I can be unapologetically raw about my feelings.

   There is beauty to being a writer. I think in some way, all writers are sad. It’s something special about being in the dark spaces of our mind and having the ability to turn it into a work of art. It’s scary too, sometimes we get stuck there. Most times we don’t know how to create without it. However, we aren’t afraid to go there because one way or another we have to tell our stories. It’s the only thing that keeps us afloat of all the mental demons we fight through. To all my writers, YOUR mind is a series of artwork just waiting to hang along the Mona Lisa’s of the world. Don’t let the mean reds stay mean for too long. 


A Message To My Ex Lover

I’m out of my mind.

Please leave me a message.

I recorded a voicemail just for you

It says : “ I hate myself and I want to die.”

Do you even care that my mind is scattered?

I can barely leave this room.

Is this what heart break feels like?

Our pictures and my words were nothing more than a summer romance.

I’m out of my mind.

Please leave me a message.

Tell me your new girl is the girl with the long curly hair.

Who listens to bachata and has an ass as round as a globe.

Tell me her curves tell stories of passion.

Her hazel eyes remind you of the moments when our lips slurred from drunken nights.

I hope her legs hold the rhythm to your heart.

She doesn’t know that beneath the smile, a esqueleto has claimed your closet.

I hope you understand her when she says Amor, te quiero mucho. 

Do you love her?

Will you fall in love with the blue eyed girl who lives across the street next?

I hear she dances.

Isn’t that your type? 

A woman free enough to know pain, so they never see you coming.

I saw you coming, I just chose to look at you through a rose colored glass.



She is beautiful…

Not because of the stride in her walk.

Nor the words that fell from her lips.

Her beauty came from the complexion of her skin.

Her eyes did the talking for her.

Her thighs fit the shape of my palms perfectly.

I wanted to taste her garden.

Feel her soil in between my hands.

I was drawn to her vines and leaves that fell from her body.



Her body captivates me.

I lust for this woman.

I do not love this woman.

Her beauty is not enough.

I need to be mentally stimulated to make a woman’s bed my permanent home.

I will be the most beautiful thing she has ever experienced.

I will destroy her.

Her garden will never be the same

My footprints are embedded.

I will break her.

She will never understand why pain and love know each other’s name.

When she closes her eyes at night, she will see me.

I will be singing her a song- reminding her of who she once was.

Broken, yet beautiful.

Indeed she was….. Beautiful.


Flower Girl

I am a flower.

Don’t pull on my stem.

It’s my connection to the outside world.

Leave me deep-rooted in my sorrow.

I can’t escape.


I am a flower.

I grew from the concrete.

I am bound by the cement stains on my leaves.

When you touch me do you feel afraid?

It is impossible for me to be blown away.


I am a flower.

Don’t be afraid of my brittle heart.

My emotions flow in the direction you walk.

If you love me.

All you have to do is let me go.


I am a flower.

My mental illness is a product of society.

My veins are throbbing from the state of the world.

Would you believe me if I told you my secret?

My thorns hold my pain so you can smile a little more.


I am a flower.

I am the nectar of life.

I am the mother of bees.

And when you walk away.

I will finally be free.  


Late nights, Late Mornings.

I am a woman who hides from her mirror. I am afraid that when I see the reflection, I will see my pain that has eaten away at my flesh. I will not recognize the reflective image. She has been consumed by darkness. I stay up late in hopes that I will get some peace and quiet. That the noise will subside and I can cry in silence.  I stay away from my bed because it is no longer empty.  I can’t lay next to a man who doesn’t know that I have secrets hidden in my head. That when I say I am okay, I mean that I just need some space from myself. I can’t tell him that my thoughts have taken over without him saying that I need help. I am constantly running from who I was. I don’t want to run into the little girl who used to carve her pain into the bedroom walls just so she could watch them bleed instead of her. Where she heard the screams of the angels that wore black. The angels that never protected her at all. She didn’t know how to protect herself from the outside world. She has bruised from the words that cut through her skin and made her realize that she was alone. I am no longer that little girl. I hope she stops searching for me. So I can close my eyes for a minute and I can get some fucking sleep. 


Ugly Face of Beauty 

I like to think of beauty as a social construct. It varies from individual to individual. Everyone has their own definition of what beauty is. Society has built their ideal concept and to the mass that is what women should look like. I am not a size 2. I am a size 14 black women with curly hair. My curves are like ocean waves. My stretch marks tell stories of my flesh. My rolls are the epitome of loving myself too much… I am not beautiful by society standards. Fuck society, they tear us apart when they should work on ensuring we stay united. I never felt beautiful, in fact as I write this I still don’t. My clothes don’t fit the way I want them to. I constantly compare myself to others which rips me to shreds majority of the time. I wear my insecurities on my sleeves and everyone who knows me, know it. I hate it and I hate myself for giving into the mold and not being able to accept me for who I am. Loving the skin you’re in, should never be this hard.