I NEVER HAD ANY OTHER NAME
I always belonged to Raquel
And she to I
Before I even took an active presence in my mother’s womb
Most children fear they may be the mistake
An accident due to a condom break
But I was born with an identity already told
And a burden of being the miracle
My mother and father always wanted a daughter
Two boys later they persisted
until I came to fruition
A perfect little girl
To tie the family into a taut bow
What will become
Of the one
We all dreamed of ?
Let us decorate her in pink satin
And hope she never bears a scarlet A
Keep her away from boys
And teach her the proper ways
to plant your feet
Be independent and free
But never too far from the family tree
Take care of your brothers
And be kind to your mother
Never talk back to your dearest father
We love you sweet child
Savior of hope
The last sweet seed
In this rotten family tree
She will erase our worst histories.
I always belonged to Raquel
But my identity lie with Eve
In the garden of temptation
I happily pick the reddest apple from the tree
Indulgence runs through my veins
As I enjoy life’s most tantalizing treats
And cast fear upon those
Who dreamed of the prim and proper miracle
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I go to the store, what will I see today
A mother daydreaming about her young days
A father looking at the milk cartons
A son shamefully reaching for condoms
and daughter buying tampons.
I go to the store, what will I see today
I grab a basket to fill it with nonsense
Mostly food I’ll never eat
Hopeless looks across the cashiers face
As she counts how many ticks until she gets to leave.
I go to the store, what will I see today
All of society’s people are damned.
If you want to see the state of humanity, just go to the grocery store
One glance and you can see all of the world’s melancholy
Hopeless mothers and negligent fathers
Sinful sons and daughters.
When I go to the store,
You can see my disgrace
For all the cowards who live in the mundane.
… For all the christians who claim they pray
But only get down on their knees when kissing the sweet devil’s lips
For all the patriots
“I’m proud to be an American”
They shout from the mouths that only feed violence
And hope to never be confronted with a mirror into divulgence.
I went to the grocery store, and I saw something new today…
The good samaritan
Like dominos laid out on a kitchen table
She walked by and dropped her sweet bear
“Here you go darling”
Said the father whose tummy lay low and attention broke from looking at 1% milk
She skipped away and helped the next samaritan that passed by
Like a game of dominos
The tired mom left the grocery store with a baby in each hand
The last bag of ripe fruit dropped and eyes rolled back and body sighed
Until the little girl with the bear stopped to pick it up
The good samaritan.
Maybe there is a little bit of hope
In the young who believe their father won’t leave
And enjoys pleasure guilt free.
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I long to be plucked
Plucked from the grass and into the hands of an admirer
To be plucked means to be chosen
Because you are in fact
The prettiest flower in the garden
Every day I see footsteps stop
As their eyes scan for the longest stem
My neighbor becomes a gift
A symbol of requited love
And I stay hidden
Amongst the rest of the unchosen
Sweet Rose they do not tell you what happens after you leave
It is not all that you dream
But mama it means i'm pretty
Sweet Rose, you are temporary
Their eyes fill with admiration as they take you for their pleasure
Watch what happens five minutes later
The next day I patiently wait
To be the witness to whatever takes place
Callused hands grip my stem
And stretch me wide
As my roots come undone
Grasping onto the last bit of home
Today I was the chosen rose
I smiled with joy as my roots were ripped from the garden
Because I was the chosen one
The calloused hands loosen their grip
And suddenly wind rushes in
I am in freefall
For an eternal second
Until my fate meets the sidewalk
I used to think the plucked flowers were lucky.
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Sleeping all day is not for the tired nor the weak
but for the dreamers who just want the pain to cease.
She lies awake in bed with a hand full of crackers
because any meal that requires silverware is too much to bear.
Sometimes cold noodles will do
and a cigarette to fill the rest of the empty space that takes up her stomach.
Maybe I’ll get up today and read this one page
one step toward the stairs and my body, it already aches
my eyes trace the words too heavy to continue on
so I stop
and I sit down
back to bed where maybe you’ll visit me with a song.
Because of her my ancestors can reach me; they put their arms around and embrace me as they whisper guidance and wisdom.
I can feel their pain; an echo from a million years away. Why do I feel this way? This uterus of mine came built in with generations of women’s oppression. That undiagnosable emptiness that sneaks in as you get your first pigtails tied in is a gift from your mother, passed down from hers and hers. Don’t worry it’ll all become clearer as you leave more blazed trails in your path.
That’s not something they tell you though in a handbook in fifth grade health class.
They forget to mention that our bodies are born with an eternal war inside of us. Each month a sacrifice is made; yet the terms were never agreed upon. When you get your first bloodshed (and not the one that fills your mouth as you bite your tongue) they say “you’re a woman now!” As young as twelve our bodies invite violence and incite riots.
But that’s not something they tell you on the back of a box of tampons. 10.49 marks the price, but that’s not the only price you have to pay (hint: it’s not the tax).
A daughter’s greatest sin will never be her lust or deceit, but the mirror into her mother’s lost hopes and dreams; her father’s worst qualities. The anger she was born to keep but locks away in a safe until her blood boils thin and war is just on the horizon.
…
This uterus of mine. I still can’t figure out if she’s a blessing or a curse.
Though it’s said humans only have five senses, women have a sixth. We are the eternal bridge between life and death entangled with all of mother nature’s past. We are gifted lullabies every night in the form of hymns sang to us by our mothers, passed down from hers and hers.
Though we can never escape the tragedy that courses our veins, we are wholly divine; and though we reflect our mother’s greatest fears and our father’s worst mistakes, we also represent eternal love and grace.
This uterus of mine. She’s a blessing and a curse.
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