Atisbo de un pezón a contraluz
luciérnagas bailan en mi estómago
uñas marcadas en mi espalda

El frote de tus labios,
como almohadillas húmedas,
refrescan mi ser
y así olvido mi olvido

Descenso lento
pero apresurado,
como quien se impacienta por el oro,
pero conoce los peligros del camino

Movimientos tenues,
una respiración,
un susurro

Me desvisto de mis pesares,
olvido lo que me agobia
caigo presa de una trampa
de la que aún no se descubre escapatoria

El estupefaciente más efectivo,
síntomas de la cima,
relajación, nervios y escalofríos
mezclados en un cóctel de lo más delicioso

Un beso, un abrazo
y hasta la mañana siguiente

Como ola carmesí
fluye por el mar
de misterios
ocultos bajo tu falda

Narra con sumo detalle
y de manera borrosa
la intensidad de tus intenciones
marchita la sensación de control
y se escabuye frecuentemente
en forma de lágrima

Patea tus entrañas y causa dolor
ciclo de maldiciones e improperios
de alaridos y quejas
te derrota completamente
y caes tendida donde te encuentres

menos mal dura solo unos días

Entre palabras disonantes, río.

Un trago baja por mi garganta irritada de tanto gritar,
mi cuerpo la pasa bien mientras yo me esfuerzo en distraer a mi mente y un concierto de pensamientos oscuros se ve opacado por el volumen de la música y de los aullidos apabullantes de una juventud que cree tener todo bajo control mientras están juntos, pero en el próximo momento de verdadera soledad, sus espaldas se quebrarán sobre sus seres y se verán desplomados sobre un suelo de incertidumbre absoluta.

Entre pensamientos distantes, me pierdo.

Humo de un cigarro barato innunda mis pulmones mientras la nicotina afecta mi sistema nervioso en un abrazo reconfortante que no es otra cosa que una mentira más, la promesa de una prostituta que cobra con tu vida, pero sigo besándola hasta que mis dedos se queman.

Entre gritos innentendibles, lloro.

No exteriorizo, pero las lágrimas están ahí, en la mente perturbada por fantasmas de quienes yo mismo maté, siluetas del pasado que no terminan de tomar forma porque no se los permito, pero a pesar de mis esfuerzos aún son reconocibles, aunque a duras penas.

For a long time I was very scared to write about my emotions. For even longer than that, I've been very scared of writing about emotional experiences. I mean, I wrote about them, but I put them in the context.

I let a metaphoric poem tell the world about molestation or depression. I danced around the fire as it burned me, hoping my wild movements might appease some higher god into letting me forget myself.

I'm not condemning anyone who finds strength in this form of poetry, I just wasnt doing it for that reason. For me, metaphor was an escape not a release. I looked around at the pages laid before me and found only stepping stones into memories I'd have rather forgotten. Playing hopscotch on the fingers of child molesters.

When I was very young, I was woken in the middle of the night by a stranger's hands down my pants. He whispered I'd be okay as I tried to push him away until I finally got up and left the room. My cousin sat on the couch to the side of me. As I walked away he proceeded to touch her too. It was probably around 3 in the morning. My family, or the ones who could stay awake, were drinking heavily and talking loudly about things I didn't understand. I sat in a stairwell hidden from them. Close enough for them to hear me breathing. And I couldn't muster the courage to tell them what had happened. What was happening just downstairs to my cousin of the same age.

For a long time I tried to make people laugh. Because I was too sad to know why and I didn't know how to show it. I moved my fingers across the fine lines on people's faces and scrunched my nose at them. I hated them for being what I wanted. For laughing like I wished I could.

I let laughter find me a path to peoples happiness hoping it would come to me. But it never did. I lost myself in being a person I never wanted to be and I did it because I thought contentment was in someone else.

When I was a little boy my mom was dating a man named Danny. I'm sure by now I've blocked out every memory of this man except the one that lives with me. A memory torn in two because I see my sister and my mom. My sister a mirror image of myself, wrapped in duct tape from head to toe like a mummy. Nose and mouth too. Danny's handiwork. Were both shouting through silver tape, and trying to let someone know that our air is finite and our lungs are small. My mom finally tells Danny to stop. Not concerned so much as annoyed.

For a long time I tried to **** myself. I walked a razor line tying together old bits of my skin and dragging them behind me. Sewing the solid chunks of plain happiness to the rotting vibrant gangrene of my depressed parts. Hoping I could heal all the decomposed skin with a little bit of happy motivation.

I let other people remind me of who I was. Forgetting all the time and being reminded again and again so I could try to be someone new. Someone only they could see.

When I was a teenager, my dad and stepmom came up with a system for helping me lose weight. At any chance they'd get, they would make small remarks or comments about how my weight affected me daily. From how far down the car drops when I step in it, to my girlfriend's must be cheating on me cause why me. I didn't realize this was supposed to be for help. So I began to see myself as who I was and to this day I can't see my girlfriend walking down the street near another person without wondering if they are together because I'm a fat slob. I can't get in a car without wondering if anyone's noticed how much its moved because I've stepped in. At this point, I'm just hoping for the heart attack.

For a long time. I was only the pieces of myself I let other people see. I was a mirror that caught every Whisper and disgusted glance and fell apart whenever I actually saw myself. I couldn't be me. But this mirror is broken and cracked, all the chips replaced with parts from different mirrors.

I let that mirror shatter recently. And it's scary trying to decide who I am. In a world full of people holding up mirrors.

My heart breaks every spring break
It breaks for kids like me who watch as others visit their home countries
While we cannot leave the USA
We have to sit and watch people butcher bachata
Watch how they're hips refuse to accept something other than Taylor swift
We listen when they come back with stories of how they thought our food was too different and not “Mexican” enough as if all Latin America is Mexico
We hear the laughs they make at our cousins back home for just being themselves
My heart cannot handle the privilege they wear on their sleeves when they come back
Knowing I might never see my own island
How I am thought it is ***** and dangerous
A place where girls should not be left alone
While they get the clean streets, they get to avoid the gangs
How they assault our girls
Don't tell me to just save my money and go next year
It is not that simple
We don't stay in your resorts
We live en el capital y los campos nunca los hoteles y la vida blanco
Aka the places you never set foot
You go to my island
You buy bracelets de mi bandera
You try to live my roots
But complain when I dare show pride for my people
The hypocrisy breaks my heart
It's blood pours onto my all American soil
Is my island nice?
Tell me do the trees sway as if they are dancing to Anthony Santos?
Do the branches act as the leading man guiding the leaves to swing their stems to beat?
Does the Dominican anthem ring in the hearts of the people
A pride that is new and vibrant radiating off their faces
How they have clear all their schedules to make sure you see the highlights of our land
When you eat do you feel as though each bite was made with the love of thousand of abuelas?
Can you envision the hours she spends over a hot gas stove stirring los habichuelas y arroz
Using what little food they have left over to feed you over their own blood?
Tell me does my island make you proud?
It makes my heart filled with joy
To know my people did something right that you would walk the same land as slaves
That somehow we got enough pride to make sure you had a good time that you were safe that you can have whatever you wanted
On my island
Tell me, what left is there to complain about?
Mi isla es mi corazón, mi sueño, es mi vida
Pero to you it is just another week out the calendar
My heart will break every march
Because when you come back you complain how in the Dominican Republic no one spoke to you in English
And I worry, how you think when Dominicans come here we should speak English
But when you come to our home you don't want us to speak our language
Your hypocrisy hurts
My island does all it can to make you happy
But you are never pleased
What more can we do
You take pieces of us and use them in your portrait of appropriation
You take our pride and use it as joke
My heart breaks
For the children like me
Never seeing their land
Except on Instagram in the middle of march

It was named after the bodies that lay below,
whose tombs stood close by,
whose families still cry.
It was for those that had nowhere to go,
those who let out a sigh,
those who wouldn't cry.
It was where the days felt the most slow,
but still we all said hi
and still we all gave it a try.
It is called Home, for those who got to grow,
for those who didn't die
and those who made it by.

Dear Donald Trump
You don’t know me but I sadly know you
Your face has been plastered on tv screens and newspapers for so long
And your words have cut into my soul like a knife
Twisting each time you spew your venom
Never in my life have I been more scared of a man until now
I am now forced to be more aware of my surroundings because your supporters are hidden in crowds waiting…
Despite all your crushing charades
I have never been more proud to be the minority
Because for the first time I see my communities standing together
Seeing my family work hour on hour only proves you’re a fraud
Cause unlike you I spit the truth not lies
I preserve differences you block them
I strive to build peace between nations while you rather build a wall to separate it
News flash, us Hispanics don’t want to be in any country you’re running
We aren’t these lazy or uneducated ganstas you make us out to be
Us Hispanics are your backbone
Were the ones building the skyscrapers you got with your “small loan”
We’re the ones that make you look good to your “followers” because we’re your foundation
I mean let’s be honest
Without us you’d be nothing
The only reason you’d be recognized is because you bought a role on home alone 2
And by some weird chance of faith you’ve managed to stay in this twisted race
You’ve managed to scare us straight
And with some hesitation I say you’ve actually helped us
We are now united and stronger than ever
Because you’ve open our eyes to the fact that we must fight
So as I close my letter want to thank you
Because of you my family has finally registered to vote
Because of you our determination grows stronger
So excuse me if my poem causes you frustration
But I thought you deserved some type of credit

In Spanish, VIVIR means To Live, the proper conjugation of which to when you say something as improper as “I live” would simply be translated to “Yo Vivo”.
I live, as a Colombian-American.
I live, as “You don’t look Hispanic”
I live, “Woah! You and your brother look nothing alike. You’re so… white.”
I live, “My mom came home once and talked about a man who simply replied with a horribly pronounced “Me gusta” when my mom said she was Hispanic.”
I live, “My dad condones abusive behavior because he thinks Latina aggression is ‘****’”
I live, my mom asking me “Would you rather celebrate the Sweet Sixteen or have a quinceanera party?”
I live, as the white boy sitting across the room in Spanish class asking “When will I need this in real life?”
I live, as the “Yes I DO have a friend with a skin complexion similar to mine, and yes, he is Hispanic.”
I live, most of my friends are beautiful people of color.
I live, when will you open up the tab in Google and search some Hispanic History to fill your mind instead of “Latina ****”?
I live, the messages on the Internet saying “You’re Hispanic? I bet you’re great in bed.”
I live, there are NO gender neutral nouns in Spanish
I live, yes I DO love coffee
I live, no it did NOT stunt my growth
I live, one kiss per cheek at family meet-ups
I live, “Eskimo” nose rubs
I live, "if you’re hispanic, why aren’t your ears pierced?"
I live, being expected to remember Spanish just because it was my first language, but growing up with an American dad made me whiter than fresh bed-sheets sold in America, made in South America, Hecha en Peru.
I live, my mom breaking into tears as she is so proud that I can sing in Spanish
I live, my mom used to be so embarrassed, when I replied “un poco” to her friends asking “Tu Hablas Espanol?”
I live, "if you’re Hispanic, is your mom an Alien?"
I live, "But your dad looks so white!"
I live, being subject to racism hidden in a joke, hidden in a remark about how pale I am, hidden behind a judgmental look, hidden behind a scoff, a laugh, a pity shrug, a fetishized assumption.
I live the bulletproof clothing and horrible crimes I am warned about when I say I wanna go to Colombia I wanna go to my mom’s home.
I live, as a Colombian-American.
I live.
Yo vivo.

What you can’t tell by looking at me…
is that i wish you could see what i see
but because you don’t you go ahead and without thinking twice,
you point the finger of judgement at me
and through your eyes you think of me as a criminal, illegal, poor
you don’t even question what is deeper inside besides the color of my skin

I wish you could see how much this hurts me
because maybe this isn’t your fault
that you were brought up to see corruption, drugs, violence
but listen to me, and trust me that there is another world out there
one story, one you have yet to hear
and i hope you find some way to appreciate it
until you feel the pain from our struggle
to make you think any different.
make you think I am not less than you

There are so many things you cannot see
this is my culture, soy hispana y orgullosa
and these are my people
my people, who are more than you think they are
for they are doctors, innovators, mathematicians, even scientists
you see, there are many things you have not seen, this is only the beginning

My people struggle for strength
nunca te dejes vencer, porque el triunfo puede estar de la esquina as my mother tells me
because pride is what keeps our will to fight going
it is what makes us want to make a change, una cambio
change your perception from rapists, homeless and corrupt
to normal everyday people
….
i hope one day you are able to see past the color of my skin
and to accept what is there
to know that we are not criminals, or crazed animals than what you set us out to be
no, we are more than that
we are human beings… just like you

Independence is our cry,
pride is our name.
We are all separated by countries and oceans,
but our mindset is one and the same.

The concept of change, we fear;
the idea of an altered lifestyle haunts us,
but the awareness that our home is binding our thoughts
remains as our threshold away from the darkness.

You board the plane, begin to set sail, put on your best shoes and run
away from the chaos, breaking the chains, stating your name to be free.
Your heart is racing as the grasp of new land is just miles within your reach
the only words your mind can make up in that moment are “¡Libre soy alfin!”

The moment is just minutes away now, you can almost feel la tierra
El momento is almost here and you just want to chant “¡LIBERTAD!”
But you can’t. You’re not there yet, only growing more eager.
You’re impatient now; what happened to the claridad?

What happened to that clarity in your mind when you were so sure of what you wanted?
It has been replaced by the fear of not being enough.
It has been replaced by the fear of getting sent back to that confinement you once called home.
Now you realize this new life will be tough.

You step foot en la tierra libre,
the anxiety gets to your bones.
Thoughts race through your mind
there’s disbelief that this is your new home.

The sensation of wandering on clouds,
sleepwalking your life away is overwhelming;
your eyes now resemble that oceanic pathway
whilst los abrazos de abuela you are yearning

The concept of change we fear;
the idea of an altered lifestyle haunts us,
and the awareness that our family is still stitched at the lips
has become our allure back into the darkness.

But independence is our cry,
pride is our name.
Precincts may separate us,
yet our mindset remains one and the same:
¡Que viva la libertad!