I write poetry that reflects the dark side of my feminine experience. It's the moments that I once blocked. The stories I was too afraid to tell for a long time. My influences include Sylvia Plath, Maya Angelou and Kate Tempest.

You can also check out my short poems on Instagram.

 
 

XX / XXX

 

Cursed at conception,

X marks the spot.

 

Shows you all the things that you are and are not.

Tepid holy water invades fingers, forehead, chest, shoulders,

Like a virus taking over.

Father, son and genuflection,

Jesus and his resurrection.

Tip toeing down the long burgundy carpet, a saintly catwalk.

He watches every step from the altar, crucified and bleeding.

“Get on your knees, and start your pleading.”

And little girls bear their crosses well,

Smile for the boys in hell.

Drag the weight to every station, no complaint escapes your lips.

At least Veronica wipes your tears,

While Mother Mary instills carnal fears.

For now, you are safe, secluded, untouched. But

X marks the spot.

 

Losing every fight you fought.

The cross digs between shoulder blades.

Splintering into your skin,

Deforming you like heavy breasts within tightened training bras.

Stand up, ask why, again you’ll fall,

And bleed from the place you dare not call,

X marks the spot.

 

It’s what you want, it’s all I’ve got.

You slide your double digits in.

Won’t let me out or let me win.

Bodies, heavy, warm and stale poke and press and hammer nails.

And you won’t listen you can’t hear,

The smallest voices yearning.

And you won’t see because you’re blind

To bleeding girls with battle cries.

But she’s done fighting so she says, “okay.”

X marks the spot.

 

You’ve brought me here to dig my plot.

The soil warm, the grass so green, smells like summer in my dreams.

But the ground falls out from under me,

And I am falling and I can’t see so I retreat internally.

X marks the spot.

 

The prison that we call a womb,

Has always been the woman’s tomb.

Surrogate creator,

Carnal incubator,

Steps out of line and loses favor.

X marks the spot.

 

XX / XXX (en español)

Concepción embrujada

La x marca el punto.

 

Te enceña todo lo que eres y no es mucho.

Agua sagrada, inútil, enojada

Invade tu cuerpo

Como la influenza en un puerto.

Padre, hijo, sin espíritu

Jesús en su crucifijo.

Un camino despacio sobre la alfombra burdeos,

Una pasarela de santos. 

El te vijila desde el altar

"Sobre las rodillas, sin flatar."

Y las niñitas aguantan todo, como lo odio.

Sonriendo por los niños en el demonio.

Arrastrando el peso a cada estación sin queja

Ningun sonido escapa de sus labios.

Por lo menos la Santa Veronica te limpia las lagrimas

Mientras Madre María infunda un miedo carnal

Por ahora eres segura, solitaría, intancta, pura

Pero la x marca el punto.

 

Perdiendo peleas en cada asunto.

El crucifijo clava sus hombros

Deformandote como sosténes demaciado apretados.

Si te pares y preguntas una, dos, tres veces

Sangrarás del lugar donde no quieres

La x marca el punto.

 

Es lo que quieres pero yo no presunto.

Entras con sus doble dedos

No puedo ganar en este enredo.

Cuerpos cálidos, empapado

Un martillo sobre un clavo.

Y tu no escuchas, no puedes oir,

Las vocecitas ansias.

Y tu no vez porque eres ciego

A las niñas en una guerra de fuego.

Pero ella no puede mas con esta pelea

Y te deja hacer lo que quieras.

La x marca el punto.

 

Excavando la tumba por los difuntos.

La tierra suave, la yerba verde,

Gloria tan bella que me duele.

Me pierdo en el laberinto

Y me ahogo con un cinto.

La x marca el punto.

 

La cárcel que llamamos el útero,

Para las mujeres es un sepulcro.

Maldita creadora,

La loca, la doctora,

Llora y llora y llora.

La x marca el punto.

 

 

Reclamation

 

I am waving

this white flag,

high above my head,

so that the girl

who lives

in this body

knows it is safe

to come home.

 

I am done

waging this war,

making alliances

with scum.

 

I now see

the source,

the spark.

But the shot

never made it

around the world,

just the room

in the boat

where the first

conquistador

promised allegiance,

adventure, but,

instead,

planted a flag

between my breasts.

 

I have lived

on the outside

of this body,  

choking through

a crushed breastplate

for too long,

and new nations

sent soldiers,

and called them

“explorers.”

These pirates

would pillage,

And this village

has burned,

desecrated,

decimated.

 

But I have

phoenix eyes.

So watch me rise.