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Hoy me e cansado
de alejarme
de no buscarte
de pensar que el no tomar tu mano
significaría no tener que cargarte

Pero mírame aquí, agotada
que te he cargado desde el cuarto de las golondrinas

es por eso que me encuentro exhausta
viendo pájaros volar fuera de mi ventana
I’ll wait for you under a tree
under the slow breeze, that brought us both
to be

I’ll wait for you in the silence
until you’ve gathered yourself
have come back to the brim
of your own skin

and walked out of your disguise,
***** and willing
to inhabit your suite of self

I will meet you
under the swaying of the leaves
where your god
meets mine

bare of my disguise,
billowing of surrender,
for you, I’ll wait under that tree
in the quietude
of the frond
where the stillness feeds life
to everything that is
you judged me
out of my own beauty
the same way you judged yourself
out of that dress
The need for more love and less judgement of sisters who aren’t like us. The more of a need to uplift one another. The importance of seeing  the brilliance in someone as it coexists with their imperfection. Therefore, I choose the concept of weight as an entry point. We judge one another just as viciously is we judge ourselves, not just because of weight, but because of gender identification, creed, ****** orientation, economic class, and more.
Voy a soltar frutos
raíces amasadas en mi cráneo
como azúcar querrás frotar tu dedo
y lamer su polvo dulce,
blanco granulado

en mi maceta crecen triángulos de sombras
llenas de cuadrada soledad
en su tierra querrás meter
y embarrar tu dedo
después sin pensarlo te lo acercarás
y te lo meterás a la boca
y ahí en tu lengua
también mis raíces crecerán
Dibujando mé
hasta que en ti quede yo
y en mi termines tu
Soltando raíces
I ran like a wolf. Always trying to keep up. “Wait!” my aunts would scream, but I was off before they could stop me. The tiny dark haired girl, among a pack of five young boys. They would always utter “can you? ”. I’d ball up my tiny fists and say “yes”. Scraped knees, ****** fingernails, sprained ankles, and those bruised greens and yellows suspended on my back like floating clouds, although painful to the touch, none were enough to stop me. I was always competing. Always trying to make them eat their words  “You can’t do it; you are a girl”.

Now that we’re older, I’m inclined to ask them how those words tasted.
I do not have any sisters. I grew playing with my cousins and my brother. All of them were boys. I tried to touch upon my experience as the only girl growing up.
Seré una marinera Mari,
Una mujer que rema
sin timón
penarán me

Eternamente fuera de quicio,
dirán que nunca lo tuve

pero cómo la corriente no cesa
tampoco mi remar
Please tell me someone loves you well, so that I can take my small offering and burn it at the foot of a mountain,
instead of hiking it’s trail to deliver it into your palms.

I want to know you are so loved,
that it would be a poor gift
to give you my affection,
in comparison to what you’ve got.  

Let me walk away
from the shadow of the mount
having burnt it, with an urn in hand, knowing you do not suffer, because her warmth walks you
through the foliage and the wilderness
of your heart
strengthens you with better tenderness
and beckons you to flourish.

Tell me you are well loved.
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