Category: Poem

The notion of death itself
Is what makes life so precious

To die of old age
Gives life to a child

Every outbreath
Leads to an inhale

With every rain
Flowers bud and sprouts emerge

The death of a cell
Leaves room for two to take its place

When a tree falls
Its matter nourishes the soil

The silence after a melody
Creates space for a new composition

It should be taught in school
To not be afraid of death

So that we welcome its presence
As kindly we do our own shadows, which are only born out of light

I am nothing less than flawless.

To be a delicate and fragile flower
Ready to be picked from the stem,
Until this vessel withers,
Let the rough hands pick at the
Youthful petals.

Wither and wilt, you must not!
It seems ridiculous to think of
Such a purpose beyond having another
Hand in mine in adulthood, anonymous.

I am nothing more than a replication.

Careful to present as delicate and dainty;
Of course, speak in airy songs.
Uphold the name you keep, young lady.
Lovely little flower,
Don’t let your white be stained.

Beyond the expectations I held up,
Every now and then, I’d feel devastation.

Soon you will experience the world,
Except you must remain in their sight.
Even long after,
Never should you be without their rays.

Although I remain blessed and thankful,
Soon enough, I will cease without hesitation.

Sometimes, the flower may yearn for
Otherness.
May such thoughts be purged.
Elders wish to see complete
Obedience, grace, and beauty.
Not once are these feelings to deviate,
Even if it leads to my demise.

Be strong, pale flower!
Even weakness can become undesirable.
Years of shying away makes way for
Other problems to rise.
No more fears,
Do not disappoint.

Truthfully, you have done well
Holding up our beliefs and values
Every other day.
Impossible is what you now are
Required to achieve, do your best.

Perhaps I have done too well.
Expectations become harder to meet
Regardless of how hard I try.
Feelings are hard to suppress, and
External signs become visible.
Can I be mediocre
This once?

Regret, this vessel carries.
Every dry petal
Falls to the ground.
Lectures to
Ensure my faults don’t repeat.
Crying is useless;
Those pathetic tears can’t repair
Internal damages.
Onwards, you must continue, flower.
Never let them see you in misery.

Cumulonimbi bloom against bronze skies,
Their amber fingers reaching, yet they spare
The trembling grass that quivers in the air,
And cast long shadows where my thoughts still lie.
For dusk and night, though born as foes, rely
Upon one fading light they somehow share
So too my heart, though burdened by despair
Clings to your name no reason can deny
Yet still you come, unwanted in my mind
To walk the trails where silent dreams remain
Where echoes of a love I never speak
Stir ashes I believed I’d left behind.
Devotion left unanswered in its ache,
Yet living on, though hope itself has died.

I lay here wondering as days go by,
as clouds float in and out of my vision.
And I am waiting, still dissatisfied.

I’ve had hopes flushed, a season gone awry,
of what was going wrong with my mission.
I lay here wondering as days go by.

I stood in fields, frowning at dying rye
while my friend treasured her ripe persimmon.
And I am waiting, still dissatisfied.

Giving joy were rare rain clouds in the sky
before fleeting without my permission.
I lay here wondering as days go by

and I am still trying to find out why
the plains picked me for cosmic derision.
And I am waiting, still dissatisfied,

just now with time open here this July,
time filled with dormancy and remission.
I lay here wondering as days go by,
and I am waiting, still dissatisfied.

¿Estas Latina?”
“You’re Latina?”
Asi, soy Latina. Incluso con mi piel blanca. Soy latina porque soy fuerte, como mi papá.
Yes, I’m Latina, even with my light skin. I’m Latina because I am strong, like my father.
Soy Latina porque soy poderosa, como mi mamá.
I am Latina because I am strong, like my mother.
Soy la hija de un inmigrante.
I am the daughter of an immigrant.
“Hija de un inmigrante” pero MAS de eso, “Daughter of an immigrant”, but MORE than that
I am the daughter of hands that work until they bleed.
I am the daughter of 24 hour shifts.
I am the daughter of a man who dared to dream.
I am the daughter of concrete, of dirt, of nails, of passion, of grit. That’s what being Latino means.
It means sacrifice. It means “I love you” means “I would cross 100 borders for you.”
It means my last name becomes more than a name, it becomes a declaration of who I come from, of who I am. It becomes a promise to my father’s sacrifice, to achieve all that hard work can achieve. It is standing at the water fountain and using it, knowing my grandfather never could. It is a dare to look hatred in the face and still choose to love. To stand up against injustice by flooding the streets with music and dancing. To continue dreaming, to continue laughing, to continue fighting. To continue believing in the American Dream, to hold onto hope, to work 10x harder for half the result. To see the flag I was created from be swung with pride on the world’s largest stage and smile loudly, to watch my parents
That’s what being Latino means. That’s what being Americano means.

I learned early that people leave. Some quietly,
like adults who pack promises into suitcases
and never look back when you tell them to stay.

Some loudly, with slammed doors and addiction clinging to the walls,
long after the yelling stops.

I learned early that love can disappear
without explanation,
that family can live in the same house, and still feel like strangers.

I learned early how to lose friends.

Lost them to a silence
so permanent, for now they only breathe in my dreams.
I replay their laughter,
asking myself what I missed, what I could have said,
to keep them here.

I lost others too—
to illness, to bodies that betrayed them piece by piece.
I watched hope shrink into hospice beds,
and learned that grief doesn’t always speak.

Sometimes it just sits beside you in silence,
carried through your eyes,
refusing to leave.

Now somewhere in all of this,
I longed to stay a child forever.
To believe adults knew what they were doing,
that growing up didn’t entail
carrying so much pain so silently.

Instead, I grew into questions.
Into depression that tells me,
rest is the same as collapse.

Into days where breathing feels like work,
and staying feels so forbidden.

There were moments
I didn’t want to stay.
Moments where I wondered
if disappearing would bring relief.

But I’m still here,
not because it was easy, but because the chemicals in me refused
to let my story

end there.

I stayed because I know what it’s like
to love people who won’t love you back, no matter how deeply
you try.

Because I was kept too long in places
that broke me,
confusing my instinctual needs with loyalty,
not knowing when love truly became tender harm.

I stayed because I have too much love
for a world that keeps telling me
it doesn’t deserve it.

Where this world is a dystopian fantasy,
and I need to make it real for someone else.

I am still learning that happiness doesn’t arrive all at once.
Sometimes it’s just a moment—
a breath that doesn’t hurt, and a reason to stand.
I am still learning
how to stay without losing myself.

I am still learning that being gentle in a cruel world is not a
weakness.

And maybe that’s my purpose,

to keep going,
to be proof that even when fractures occur,

I will choose to stay.

I have a future.