It kinda ***** to be hispanic.

Because apparently,
my ***** tastes like salsa.

and my calves are not strong as a result of exercise,
it’s because I’m hauling pounds of marijuana across the borders.

and I’m automatically dumb,

you know your people have been brainwashed when even they start to believe that they’re dumb.

that’s what I learned when the Mexican girl next to me in math class leaned over to me and said,

“You’re really smart for one of us.”

if a white woman has my skin color, it’s beautiful.

when my naturally tan skin is pictured, i’m now wearing “too much bronzer.”

I’m a fake.

I “don’t belong in this country.”

Because my ancestors looked up to this country as a place of refuge and stability, but I tend to disagree,

I gotta leave now?

Take a moment and live in my home. Live in my country. Know how my life works.

And then tell me oppression isn’t a thing.

There’s something vital about constants.

To have that solid foundation to grasp on to when you feel as if you’re going to fall.
To be able to fall onto something rather than plunge into the void.

But I feel as if I was built on an impulse, unplanned, more of an experiment.

I was thirteen when I made the first incision on my ****** heart, allowing its contents to pour out in a heavenly wave of confusion and innocence.
Which is fine.

I was fourteen when I tried to stitch the pericardium back together with the “I love you’s” that were never meant to be said, the heat of the activity, and the temporary “Stay Strong”s.
Which is also fine.

I was fifteen when I learned that the heart muscle can only regenerate in small, limited quantities, that it would never be quite the same in its entirety.
Which is, again, fine.

Now I am seventeen days from my sixteenth birthday, and I’m learning that time spent alone can not only let you find yourself, but can also lead you to parts of yourself you weren’t meant to discover quite yet.

But I am almost sixteen, and it’s too late. I cannot forget what I know.

Maybe seventeen will be kinder.

Love, Heartbreak, etc; the never-ending cycle.

I was about to outline the phases of the cycle of love, including all the casualties and all the bliss, but then I realized that would be way too long and monotonous. So bear with me as I try to summarize the cycle.

Except, you can't summarize love, that’s like trying to give someone the general idea of a song by humming it, but not actually singing the lyrics.

Here’s how it is. You never know what your happiest moment in a relationship is. You just simply will never know at that very moment, you will only know the peak of your happiness once it has passed. That is because we tend to assume that our happy levels will just continue to rise once you find “the one.” And unfortunately, it doesn't always work that way.

I don’t exactly know what love is. Maybe it’s the way the tiny scar on your lip made me laugh while we kissed. Or maybe it’s the way you sass me whenever I’m acting like a ****. Or, maybe the way you drive me absolutely insane, yet I still want to spend as much time as I can with you. Somehow all the love songs, all the poems, and all the blue skies reminded me of you. And, get this, all the rainy days, songs about getting over you, and blank walls also remind me of you.

It’s like you just can’t escape. But I’m starting to think that maybe love itself isn’t what hurts, it’s the way it’s thrown around, the way it’s abused that causes the real pain.

But in all reality, I still don’t know what love is. I’ve never really had that example couple to look up to. I’m completely unaware of what love looks like. Maybe that’s why I struggle to find it.

7.4.14

I’ve just finished my first week of classes here, meaning I’m coming home in a little under six weeks, which more importantly means I get to see you relatively soon. And honestly, I couldn’t miss you more. In this letter, I’m going to thank you for not only putting up with, but even loving my crazy self, and I know that’s no easy task.
First of all, I couldn’t be more grateful for all you’ve done for me, and I hope I can do the same for you. We’ve had our ups and downs, but I always come to the conclusion that I care about you way too much to ever leave you. Nighttime is hard for me, but you still put up with me during what seems like hours on hours. The days are busy, but every second of them is worth it because it’s one day closer to seeing you. I can’t wait to see you again. I love you. I always will.


6.5.15

It’s almost been a year. I kept my promise.

Hope all is well.

Dear Mom,
You know I love you, and you know I’m forever grateful for all you do for me, and I promise, what I’m about to say doesn’t change that.

But Mom, you need to figure this out.

I’m not the girl you wanted to raise. My grades aren’t perfect, and neither am I. I will make mistakes, kiss the wrong boys, befriend the wrong girls, eat the wrong food, and I will never be perfect.

But please, and I mean please, know this:
Every time you pinch my stomach and take me to the gym the following day, my self esteem gets crushed a little bit.

Every time you tell me I’m with the wrong boy, my sense of judgement crumbles, as well as my confidence in my choices.

Every time you yell at me for the B- in honors trigonometry and tell me I’m lazy, I lose the trust I had in myself.

And Mom I promise I’m not trying to make you feel bad, but please…

let me make my mistakes, Mom. Isn’t that how you did it?