The color of my broken youth.

Of unleashed dragons.

Of my innocence flushing-

Down the drain,

Drenching my immature thighs.

The color of fear;

Now disgust.

The color I see as he exists.

Enraged he could do that to me-

Enraged he could do that to she.

Forever getting away.

Every night when moonie hits her peak,

I drown my hurt and sorrows in cups of

steaming hot almond milk, ginger and honey.

Light blonde swirls hipnotizing me into

the deepest, most peaceful trans.

With every sip, my day slips,

further and further away.

Until I become whole once again.

My house smells of Fabuloso con Cloro.

Of both judgement and orgullo.

Of those whom will open a lifetime of insecurities;

As they praise you to the outside world.

It smells of generational strength.

Of overcome triumph.

Of strategic unity.

Of deep-grounded roots and unrealistic goals.

Standards set to The Gods y Los Santos.

Limitations buried by my ancestors.

My house smells of pelas and dignidad.

Of manners and "Si, señora". Respect.

Of ingrained hurt.

Of century filled cover-ups.

Protecting those we love, No Matter What.

My house smells of familia y amor.

To write is to express oneself without judgement. A platform in which the first amendment is most present.

To write is to spill your heart out through your fingers. To guide your soul onto paper; transfer energy via words.

To write is not to type.

To write is to acknowledge your errors, constantly finding ways to better yourself. To work out your issues without a care of who’s in on it.

To write is to appeal where one never thought possible. To obliviously touch souls.

To write is to provide therapy. To help others realize they are not alone.

To write is to save a life.

To write is to live on eternally.

I relinquished my sanity when I became a writer.

The daughter of; the soulmate of; the mother of –

but who am I in all actuality aside from my relations?

1. A talented writer who is so afraid of failing at her passions that I haven’t the courage to work towards accomplishing my dreams. Prolonging my achievements as I mask my fears with self-criticism.

2. Someone whom is utterly obsessed with music and will sing along to jams in foreign languages because the mood is in fact the moment of souls.

3. A flower child risen from the concrete consumed by wanderlust. Intrigued by non-materialistic factors, in search of growth via adventure, experience and my love for life.

4. Someone whom is both an optimist and pessimist. Visualizing the most of the individuals I encounter, while expressing patience when my expectations of their impure intentions are revealed.

5. A Gemini weirdo with so many personalities, the entirety of my life hasn’t provided enough time for myself to get to know them all but I appreciate them all for who I am. I continue to be a work in progress who aspires to love every aspect of me.

I’m no trophy wife.

They’ve made that abundantly clear. I wasn’t made for a broadcasted love.

Rather, a closed-door intimacy.

I’m no reward, nor prize. Just a benefit. Simply convenience. A mere utility at most.

I was made to pour tsunamis of my love into those who wouldn’t give me a drizzle.

I was made to shower flowers into their full potential.

Never meant to hold that level of beauty. Never meant to be paraded.

I was made for a quiet love. For their ears will not accept my decibels.

Far of today’s standards. One size fits none. I don’t fit the mold.

Not within the beholder’s bracket. A pattern often overseen.

Sometimes confused into thinking I deserve more, I slightly raise the bar.

They limbo under, only proving I was never worth the trouble.

I was made for secrets.

Not for dangling.

Not for flaunting.

For they are never proud enough to show me off.