This body is an archive—  
not just of stories but of sacrifice.  
I carry ancestors in my gait, echoes of islands in my tongue,  
and a rage that simmers—quiet but volcanic.  
No passport can define my belonging.  
I am landless—but never rootless.  
Every border I cross remembers me.

Here I am, with my soul split in two//
one half made of hot sand and the other of foreign concrete.

I speak in two languages, but dream in one, and sometimes I get lost in silences that cannot be translated.

There I am "the one who left."
Here "the one who is not from here"//
I belong everywhere, and I never belonged anywhere.

My roots pull me like waves to the shore//
but my steps have learned to walk without a fixed map.

Aquí estoy, con el alma partida en dos//
una mitad hecha de arena caliente y otra de concreto foráneo.

Hablo en dos lenguas, sueño en una, y a veces me pierdo entre los silencios que no se traducen.

Allá soy "la que se fue".
Aquí "la que no es de aquí"//
En todas partes pertenezco, y en ninguna del todo pertenecí.

Mis raíces me jalan como las olas a la orilla//
pero mis pasos han aprendido a caminar sin mapa fijo.

"¿Quién soy? ¿Quién soy!?
En cada momento me pregunto:
¿quién soy yo?

Mi identidad se pierde
en los minutos de duda.
Quiero ser yo...
¿o prefiero pertenecer?

En esos momentos
cuando trato de expresar
lo que siento
y las palabras
no se encuentran,
me pongo caretas—
proyectan lo aceptable de mí,
pero no muestran
mis vulnerabilidades.

Mi mente y mi corazón
entran en conflicto.
Porque en verdad
soy una jíbara,
pero el mundo requiere
que sea "that girl
that overcame her circumstances."

¿En qué momento
me preocupé tanto
por lo que creí
que debía ser,
que dejé mi identidad
perdida
por no querer ser?"

"Who am I? Who am I?
Every moment I ask myself:
Who am I?

My identity is lost
in moments of doubt.
Do I want to be me...
or do I prefer to belong?

In those moments
when I try to express
what I feel
and the words
can't be found,
I put on masks—
they project what's acceptable about me,
but they don't show
my vulnerabilities.

My mind and my heart
come into conflict.
Because in truth
I am a country bumpkin,
but the world requires
me to be "that girl
that overcame her circumstances."

At what point did I become so concerned
with what I thought
I should be,
that I gave up my identity
because I didn't want to be?"

Poesía es alma que sangra sin miedo.
Es el suspiro que no se atrevió a gritar,
la lágrima que cae aunque nadie la vea,
la pregunta que sigue viva
aunque no tenga respuesta.

When did we become
the land of the unequal?

A land forged on the weary backs
of those who arrived with empty hands and hearts full of hope.

At what moment did we forget
that our beauty was born from the blending of the mothers who bore us, from different tongue
//learning to embrace, from songs and flavors that crossed oceans?

Though stolen, this land was dreamed, rebuilt in the utopia
that here, dreams could reach the sky.

But today I ask…

Where are you, land of opportunity?

In what corner have you hidden?
Or have your footprints been erased so no one else can find you?

And still, I search for you.
I call your name in every language I carry.

I plant seeds in the asphalt
so one day you will bloom again.

I will not give up.
Because as long as voices cry out your name, the lost land
can be found once more.

Hoy estoy...
pensando sin pensar,
de dónde provengo //
y hacia dónde voy.

Mi corazón se entierra
en mi isla bella,
y llora //
al no saber si algún día volveré a tocar sus arenas o si jamás volveré a su suelo!

Pero yo sé
que las palmas me recuerdan,
porque aunque lejos...
¡yo soy raíz!

Y el canto del coquí //
en la distancia,
me canta y dice—
que aún yo pertenezco ahí.

Porque llevo en la piel
el sol de Borinquen,
en la mirada,
el azul de su mar,

en mis sueños,
sus calles de adoquines...
y en la risa
¡sus tambores!
¡repicando!
¡al sonar!

Do I pretend to write “poetry,”
or am I spilling the feelings of my heart,
the thoughts that rise uninvited
like waves against my mind?

Do these lines dress themselves in rhyme
to impress the ear—
or are they the raw threads
of truth I dare not speak aloud?

Sometimes I don’t know if I’m crafting words,
or if the words are crafting me—
pulling from a place so deep
I only find it when I close my eyes.

Did I encourage people enough?
Did I offer kindness when it would've been
easier to stay quiet or turn away?
Was I the kind of person who left others a little lighter,
a little more hopeful, a little more whole?
Did I help them feel seen—not just heard?
Did I lift others without needing credit,
without needing the spotlight?

I know I didn't always get it right.
I missed some chances.
I spoke too quickly at times.
Other times, I didn't speak at all.

But I tried.
I kept showing up.
I listened with care.
I adjusted.
I made amends.

And I hope—in my flawed, imperfect, human way—
I showed someone how to lead with courage and kindness.
How to hold others accountable while honoring their dignity.
How to be strong without losing softness.
How to be present, even when it was hard.
How to believe that our smallest actions still matter.

If even one person felt encouraged because of me…
if one soul walked away stronger…
then maybe that was enough.

Life isn’t just a breath we take. It’s what we give our breath to that defines us. It's the moments you reach out, the kindness you offer when no one notices, the way your voice carries truth, doubt, and longing all at once. These aren’t signs of weakness. They’re signs of life.

Today I am...
thinking without thinking,
where I come from //
and where I'm going.

My heart buries itself
in my beautiful island,
and cries //
not knowing if I'll ever touch its sands again or if I'll ever return to its soil!

But I know
that the palms remember me,
because even though far away...
I am root!

And the song of the coquí //
in the distance,
sings to me and tells me—
that I still belong there.

Because I carry in my skin
the sun of Borinquen,
in my eyes,
the blue of its sea,

in my dreams,
its cobblestone streets...
and in my laughter
its drums!
ringing!
ringing!

¿En qué momento nos convertimos en la tierra de los desiguales?

Tierra forjada sobre las espaldas cansadas de quienes llegaron con manos vacías y un corazón lleno de esperanza.

¿En qué instante olvidamos
que nuestra belleza nació
del mestizaje de las madres que nos parieron, de lenguas distintas que aprendieron a abrazarse, de cantos y sabores que cruzaron mares?

Aunque robada, esta tierra fue soñada, recreada en la utopía
de que aquí los sueños podían tocar el cielo.
Pero hoy me pregunto…
¿Dónde estás, tierra de oportunidades?
¿En qué rincón te escondiste?
¿O te borraron las huellas para que nadie más te encuentre?

Y aun así, te busco.
Te nombro en cada idioma que me habita.
Planto semillas en el asfalto
para que un día vuelvas a florecer.
No me rindo.
Porque mientras haya voces que reclamen tu nombre,
la tierra perdida
podrá volver a encontrarse.

Poetry is a soul that bleeds without fear.
It’s the sigh that never dared to shout,
the tear that falls even when no one sees it,
the question that stays alive
even without an answer.