Hera, experta en pociones, vendía sus mezclas a cristianos en búsqueda de alivios para sus dolores.

Minerva, hechicera, leía y releía libros que contenían las profecías de libertad.

Melusine era creadora de varitas mágicas que abrían portales a los lugares más placenteros del planeta Tierra.

Un lunes por la noche, tras terminar su jornada y coger el tapón pa’ Dorado, Hera y Mine visitaron a su vecina Melu—como hacían de costumbre cada tardecita. Había sido un día largo: Hera vendió sus artesanías en el mercado, y Mine estuvo encerrada en la biblioteca investigando a Albizu Campos para una clase.

Tras un lunes tan arduo, lo justo y necesario era fumar esas “varitas mágicas” que Melu, tan expertamente, les había enrolado.

Fantasías de
un bosque. A mi lado,
amigas hadas.

Verdes arbustos
esconden los pégasos.
Frutos del bosque.

Venenosas las
hiedras. Dulces serán las
pesadillas, sí.

Porahi, conejos
blancos que nos llevarán
a maravillas.

Princesas. Duendes.
Arboledas intensas.
Patios perfectos.

Erotismos de
los sentidos. Juguemos
entre el gran bosque.

Hortensias, color.
Huelo rocío. ¿Llovió?
Polvo de hadas...

Pearl Division está en Instagram

During this summer’s heat, I burned in my air-conditioned room. The ashes are my mind… she is different. Iridescently transparent. I puked my thoughts through psychosis. I continue to throw up, to be frank. Maybe I need a higher dosage of my antidotes. Well, that sums up my problems…

II.

I always want more. More, more, more. Now, now, now. And, yet, I pretend to be patient. A good girl. I sit when people tell me to, and enjoy being commanded. I’m such a bitch! “Tell me more, tell me more…”

I bat my eyes in pseudoaristocratic beauty. I know I have cards up my sleeve, but I seldom use them. I’m a Great Pretender. Mercurian. Retrograde.

III.

When it was obvious I was psychotic, I told my roommate and my boyfriend: “I feel like a con artist”. I smiled without my mask for the first time. It feels lonely to let The Stranger out. She’s a motherfucking asshole. I love her, though. My stranger is prideful. Gluttonous, despite her petite appetite. She’s vicious, like our cycles. She’s biting her tongue with loose words.

No… I am calculated. I used to be, at least. Now, I am puking my thoughts.

It is fucking embarrassing.

IV.

I need to learn to take control. I’ve been steering my ship on a road to nowhere. Boy, was it fun while it lasted. Party monster! Sexy little thing. La independentista.

I feel everyone has seen through my facade now. It’s… liberating?. My mind is now Bare.

Anyone could fuck me over now. Except, I won’t allow that. The dicks of the world can’t reach me anymore!

V.

I feel much more comfort knowing I know nothing. Its real: everything is fake. We can just have fun, girls. Make love, or get fucked. Thats the realest thing I wrote during my psychotic break.

VI.

While I was under a psychosis, I recurred to Greek mythology. (I had just finished reading The Secret History.) I saw myself as some sort of Afrodite. I still do, symbolically. Partially. Hopefully?!

Didn’t you all know that there are two Afrodites?

De todos es sabido que no hay Afrodita sin Eros. Bien; si hubiera, pues, una sola Afrodita, habría un solo Eros, pero hay dos, por fuerza habrá también dos Eros. […] Una es más antigua y es hija sin madre de Urano, a la cual le damos el nombre Urania (Celeste), mientras que la otra, más joven, es hija de Zeus y Dione, y la llamamos Pandemo (Común).

— Pausanias en “Sobre el amor” de Platón

“[…] Por consiguiente, el Eros asociado con Afrodita Pandemo es verdaderamente común y lleva a cabo sus acciones al azar y ese es al que aman personas vulgares”, argumenta Pausanias.

Mientras escucho La complicidad de nuestra Cultura Profética, pienso en cómo estos músicos se inspiraron por nuestra Afrodita de mayor tiempo… ¡Celeste! La forma en que pintan el aire con moléculas de alta frecuencia, de sensualidad… no son músicos comunes, sino celestes. Claro. Proféticos son.

Pausanias sigue su discurso, haciendo el hincapié en Celeste:

Pausanias “piensa que quienes comienzan a amar en ese punto [en el que los muchachos empiezan a poseer entendimiento] están preparados para pasar toda la vida junto a su enamorado compartiendo una existencia común”.

Que viva el amor celestial…

La complicidad es tanta
Que nuestras vibraciones se complementan
Lo que tienes me hace falta
Y lo que tengo te hace ser más completa
La afinidad es tanta
Miro a tus ojos y ya sé lo que piensas
Te quiero porque eres tantas
Cosita' bella' que me hacen sentir muy bien

— Cultura Profética

The term bohemian has come to be very commonly accepted in our day as the description of a certain kind of literary gypsy, no matter in what language he speaks, or what city he inhabits .... A Bohemian is simply an artist or “littérateur“ who, consciously or unconsciously, secedes from conventionality in life and in art.

— Westminster Review, 1862^[4]

I’m mostly just a sad girl learning to be a happy woman; a recovering drug addict learning to control her temptation; an alcoholic that will never admit it because she’s not ready to give up a glass of whine; an ex smoker that misses her beautiful oral fixation. My parents never taught me to be this way, of course—they taught me etiquette, manners, and a scholar’s responsibility. To put my napkin on my lap, to avoid getting my my skirt dirty! To say “please” and “thank you”, and to do my homework. These are attributes I believe I would have developed without my parents tutelage, but who knows.

Other than those mentioned above, I have no values passed on to me, besides remembering to have common sense and to stay safe and to eat and be healthy. These are all abstract admonitions to me, by the way. In regards to common sense, I’d say I tuned in to that “frequency” around a few days ago.

My mother, part of the Spanish proletariat (if you want to call her that), worked until she didn’t have to. She fell in love with my father and agreed to be his second wife, decision which was later overruled. When she raised me, she promised, “siempre te diremos que sí a un libro”. Well, I became a bookworm. Studious. “Cultured”, I guess. I learned to intellectualize.

My Puerto Rican-born boomer father loves to drink and eat and smoke and make comments in bad taste about women that could be my twin. Our generational gap is wide, indeed. He is a good man despite his flaws. He reads me so, I won’t delve into anything out of respect. Hi, Dad.

I’m trying to say that I haven’t ever felt like values or a certain education has been passed on to me y que soy una malcriá, in a sense.

Other than that, I’ve never felt like an aristocrat, even though it’s probably all I am—and a bad one, at that. Of course, everything I have accomplished is predated by my father’s wealth; and my father’s richness comes from his, and I imagine so forth and so on. I’ve been painfully aware of this since I was little. I remember being a tourist in other countries and feeling bad about being there because I knew how horrible it was to see my own, colonial Viejo San Juan flooded with the same people I became, once I hopped off a plane and entered a different country. I have a hard time letting myself go, surprisingly. I’m a bit stuck up, until I have a drink or someone makes me laugh really hard.

My father’s family used to farm in the north of Spain, until the Spanish Civil War fucked everything up and my grandfather decided to migrate to Puerto Rico and start doing business from a colony rather than stay losing from an independent mainland.

On the other hand, my maternal grandmother’s family originates from the south of Spain. She and rest of the women in our family have had very bad luck with love and men. Nowadays, my mom has instilled an expectation in me to be capable to find a husband and die with him on that marriage hill.

So, in the end, I’ve been taught to read a lot and to be a romantic and to despise government intervention. I love to have fun and I enjoy getting drunk and high… except, this must come to an end after my recent psychotic break. The only pills I am taking now are the ones that my psychiatrist prescribes to me. The only drinking I am doing is socially. The only smoke that I’ll be smoking might be some sort of herbal blend without THC. It feels like my life, as I knew it, will come to an end. I am terrified about this fact because I have no social shields anymore. I must be my bare self: A bad, bohemian aristocrat without self-reverence.

I’m learning to take care of myself and the ones I love. I love keeping good company and I believe in the magic of friendship and love. I don’t represent Afrodite despite having her cutie marked because, despite my praise for them, I am still very far from Truth and Beauty… if anything, I am a fallen “angel” that hates the concept of god and would never bow down to her. Sure, I had a “spiritual awakening”. We can call it that, if you want. But I’ll continue dreaming because, Calderón de la Barca said it already: life is but a dream!

I’ve tried to stay gold my whole life. It stuck with me, after being introduced to Robert Frost’s poem “Nothing Gold Can Stay” when I read The Outsiders1. Maybe the gold can stay? I mean, aristocrats haven’t ceased to exist, and Plato’s ideal society dangles upon the gold class, if I remember The Republic correctly, which I read only partially about 5 years ago. Its a strange contradiction to be fond of Plato and Frost’s words at the same time. Almost as strange as being a bohemian aristocrat.

I feel like I’m very weird. I relate a lot to that song by Billy Joel, Uptown Girl.

Uptown girl
She's been living in her white-bred world
As long as anyone with hot blood can

Well, I’m hot blooded, for sure. I’m short tempered, and my fuses run out quick. Yet, it might not seem like it: I’ve been taught to put out a million fires in my head on the daily to avoid burning others. I go on with my days and smile, hiding the fire extinguisher. I’m quick with witticisms and passive-aggression that satisfy a monster in my head called Satan. I use irony to bite, sarcasm to chew, and I refuse to digest anything I morally disagree with or am not educated enough to understand. I can’t help but be this way. I’m a fucking mean girl. And, I’m sorry about that—I want to learn to be a Great Beyond Evil Woman instead.

I wish I could read Nietzsche, but all I think of when I do that is this one time that I got groomed in Spain. While I was getting fucked without my consent, on my bedside table lay “Beyond Good and Evil”. Did I need Nietzsche to tell me morality is a human construct? Well, no. I learned that the very hard way. And theres NO pun intended there. I understand he was, perhaps, revolutionary for his time. Yet, I find it hard to empathize with someone whom I associate with such a dark and lonely time in my life.

I’m a jester at heart, an intellectual at mind, and a queen at soul. If theres an order to life, a universal conspiracy of mother nature to nurture us, if hard determinism is truth… then, maybe my body is literally allergic to Nietzsche. After all, “Nietzsche” is my boyfriend and I’s safe word. Hopefully him and I marry, so I can make my mother proud!

I write this on a whim, like everything else. My head hurts a little and I want to sing, despite having stage fright and a sore throat. I hear the music too, you know, Nietzsche. I didn’t have to read you… I just listened, slowly, to those who did. And I love me some David Bowie, who said the same thing: Let’s Dance.

go by slowly. A day feels like a double six thousand minutes. ¡Capicú! Se trancan los sentimientos en un vórtex sin fin. Estancadas en una interrupción, colgadas en el tiempo. Suspendidas, como niñas escolares. ¿Qué lecciones nos quedan por aprender? O, ¿es que la vida nos dio con sus reglas? Moretones invisibles que solo nosotras sabemos que existen. Habrá la que se sienta especialmente bruta y estúpidamente única—pero, ahí, está el fallo: usar los días de dominó como anécdota en vez de… ¿de qué?

¿Qué aprendí de mis días de dominó? ¿Que soy psicótica? ¿Ansiosa? ¿Deprimida? ¿Maníaca? ¿Limítrofe o bipolar?—¿Doña Quijote? Wanderers have asked, whether reading truly leads to our growth and development. Well, it certainly leads somewhere!

Development isn’t somewhere you arrive to, its somewhere you take yourself. If you’re weak, temptation will greet you like a naughty friend. Temptation has seduced me. Tied me up like a kinky Shibari. It’s fun until you remember you can’t reach the scissors. Or, to me, that makes it even more exciting.

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My domino days are coming to an end. I admit, I’ve acted like Kanye the past few days. I’ve been a Runaway asshole, and I don’t know whether I’ve always been this way or if now is when I have the guts to admit its impossible to be real humble if you got royalty money. Off with my head, honestly.

Life gave me the double six, and I’m acting like free will is fake. Well, I’m economically determined to have a wide range of action. The books I’ve read have led me to chaos and order. I can be sorry and grateful at the same time. Maybe thats my philosophy—your essence lies in your contradictions. Or, I don’t know… maybe I read that somewhere and I’m taking the credit. Does my end justify my means, if my end is to play domino without getting stuck anywhere? Will I be forgiven and held accountable?

Gods, I hope so…

Just kidding. I’m agnostic, and Godliness is just a literary device. A word, to me. And if that means my days must fall along a domino reflect-effect—so fucking be it.

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“Help!” Haikus

Mientras más grande 
el obstáculo, mayor 
será el triunfo.

¡Exciting! Waters,
they're not my tears. The Sun's fire
heals me. With some pills.

Fear. We meet again.
Unlovable, me? To some.
Time proves you wronger.

Me voy. ¿A dónde?
¿La paz? ¿Guerra? El duelo.
En garde, the game's on.

Philosophizing
with "the crazies". Nietzsche, were
we misunderstood?

They think I'm pretty.
Young and beautiful. Does that
mean they can rape me?

Psych warded. Its real.
Mental disease and sorrow.
That will get you, girl.

I want to go home.
Where is that? A person? Place?
Feeling, probably.

Believe me, believe 
me not. I no longer care.
The pain's only mine.

Para R

Have I strained you, dear?
Forgive? And, remember me.
Who I truly am.

Para Papá

My protector. Seas
of the wellbeing bohemians.
Cheers to you and I.

Para África

Blessed rains; human.
We come from you, desert queen.
The Scorpion's secret.

Para Nati

You are here for me.
As I, for you. My sweetness!
Our mind is one, twin.

Para Mami 

Te quiero, vida
que salí de ti. Amor,
nunca lo dudes.

Para Nanna

Susurros están.
Escúcholos, aislada.
Apropié, mu' mal.

You're the Überfrau.
Above All. Rise! You fiery
angel. Beauty, wings.

Para las Überfrau

Have fun, bitch. Silly!
We're already "better", babe.
Life bringers. Lightness.

The Predator’s Poems

Sound just like me. Manic! Insane.
“So, this is the adolescent’s part of the hospital”, the nurses say, in order to avoid saying:
HERE, WE PUT JUNKIES
Speaking in poetry got me here.
Speaking in Spanish might get me out.

The Quiet Quarrel

So, some people have thought I’m perfect…
Me? The girl, interrupted...
I'm not Angelina. I'm not pretty enough.
It's been silently burning, my fire. Its Arian, too.
BOOM! Explosion.
"Is she okay?" "Was she not perfect all along?"
Intrusive thoughts: BE GONE!!!
This quarrel isn't silent anymore.
I hope it is a Faustian bargain.

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The window is see-through
Of course!
But the Blinds... they distort the full picture.
I can't decide whether I like what I can't see over what I can.
Light and shadow form my horizon.
Beautiful, in a way.
Terrifying, in another.
Selective amnesia, privileged memories.

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I’ve finally been admitted to the psych-ward. It took myself long enough to accept it is what I need to do: get fucking help. It was too obvious to me, that I had bipolar tendencies since I was little.

— ¡Mira, Mami —, yo decía, cuando veía las aguas primaverales caer con el Sol. — Una bruja se está casando —. La bipolaridad del Caribe: por la mañana, lluvia; por la tarde, sol.

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Cuando me puse a pensar en las estadísticas de bodas soleadas bajo la lluvia, descarté la posibilidad de que el dicho/refrán fuera posible al 100%. Lo mismo hice con Santa Claus, el Ratoncito y Dios. Mis procesos de eliminar fantasías—como la “democracia”—me traen paz. Mi discernimiento mediático me acerca a mi propia verdad. Sin embargo, me hizo dudar de mi sentido común: aquel que es del buen humor. El tiempo y las consecuencias me alejaron de la alegría y de mi confianza plena y alegre. Me alejaron de mi esencia. De mis mejores personas. De aquellos que quiero mucho y que quiero seguir queriendo. I can’t newly age—it provokes in me, psicosis—but I want those who respect and follow the New Age bibles to act Godlike—just like the sun would want.

No puedo exprimir más palabras. Lo único que puedo hacer es anotar mis corrientes de pensamiento. Ya he dado tantas vueltas, que mi cerebro está agostado.

Quiero dormir… en mi cama… en mi hogar… quiero hacer el amor. Es lo único que hago.

If God is a woman, Mankind is the Devil
The Wheel of Fortune: Good, Evil and the Purgatorial in-between
Only an angel can take you up or down
Only when you realize you can be angelic, that is when you can use your devilry for saintliness

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Here, there, everywhere
To and fro. Netted. Balls, beat.
Practice makes perfect.

As the A5 unit spends a morning in the courts, I talk it out with myself (like, yeah). Today happens to be the last day of mine in Capestrano. I played ping-pong with Ruth, a euphoric patient that carries silent sorrow in her. Ruth has suffered in ways that remind me how truly lucky not only I am, but others, too. It almost makes me believe that gods truly protect us, or some of us, at least. Almost, I said.

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Ruth’s life reminds me of some sort of Quentin Tarantino plot—think Pulp Fiction mixed with Kill Bill, Vol. 2. All the suffering in the world (and in my world) makes me wonder, whether I was on to something that time I did LSD in my room alone. That day, when I looked at the loser in the mirror, I wondered, in a passive-aggressive manner towards my Lana del Rey-esque reflection, whether my life was truly a movie. The aesthetic of Tarantino pleases me. But, its all about tragicomedic dialogue. I learned to be through a bloody aesthetic while I had everything in my disposal to be truly pure. I’m a fucked up virgin, and while I delight myself in Tarantinoesque irony, my felicity goes back and forth like the ping pong ball I entertained myself and Ruth with.

I can’t allow Tarantino to direct me anymore, I must direct, wite and produce my Marty Supreme-like ping-pong game. I’ll do anything to overcome myself. I’ll be supreme. I must. Otherwise, I will just be ash, dust in the wind. I could have an Invictus monument, if I make it myself. Ozymandias! Or, however you spell it… To be remembered!

I couldn’t care less about rotten tomatoes now. Just the ping pong game. And the poetry I can whip up from it.

I asked for my Narziß und Goldmund.
"Paperback?" - "Yes."
"There shouldn't be a problem, then.
But, wait... the ideas, are they dangerous?"
Silence.
I couldn't read them on the psych ward.
Time goes slow, when reading is prohibited.

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I've forgotten what day it is,
I see June in bright orange flames
flames in which I intensly burn
through sorrow and ire.

África's sun shines upon me. Helios' golden chariot.
But the moon rules my imbalanced Libra
Exhausting, explaining myself. Useless, too.
The answer blows in the wind. Up for interpretation.

El flamboyán decora mi tristeza con papeles de fuego.
Me acompañan desconocidas que reconozco.
Una desesperanza escondida y evidente.
El árbol, fino entre vida y cenizas.

Yo misma, flamboyante, hormiguita, comején de mi espíritu apocalíptico.

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Ruth’s Musings

Throwing a tantrum.
Motherhood stolen. Given?
Lost. Its all okay.

Eres musa, tú.
Llóralo todo, amor.
Sin lágrimas, peor.

Gods! Listen to Ruth.
You're ruthless, are you not, huh?
You only give pain.

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Sad. Sylvia Plathing.
So, I hear desperate cries.
I am sorry, Ruth.

Choice of depression,
in a world without free will.
Silence, all she needs.

A locked door. Happiness.
Speed, it will catch up to you.
Don't do drugs, kiddos.

Love's invisible.
You can barely feel it, too.
Just trust. It is there.

I regret hurting.
Stupid, silly girl. I am.
Blind to my fortune.

If I am cursive,
he can read me well enough.
He loves me, he loves

Billy Joel sang this in one of my favorite albums of all time, The Stranger. This brilliant man of music and poetry… summarized how much more beautiful (and, therefore, “True”) Women can be.

I don’t know a single woman who’d say this song isn’t great. Only people with bad taste would hate on Billy Joel’s music. Now, I must separate the art from the artist in some occasions, because I don’t know how big of an asshole Billy Joel was in his time.

Big Shot

He was a big shot, wasn’t he? He had to prove it to the crowd… how much he was horny for women and how good of a musican he is. Hey, I get it. Ambition and hunger are natural human traits. What happens when your body is hungry, yet your appetite diminishes?

An oxymorona, duh. It’s redundant, obvious, repetitive, almost hyperbolic. You know, the meaning of life. Women are set up to know these things because, I’m guessing that, biologically, A.K.A. following the Logic of Science (natural Philosophy!), women must have some sort of built in knowledge of the miracle of life.

But we’re people who… don’t get believed very often. Sometimes, we pit against each other. A point for Schopenhauer. Like Clavicular, probably. We are aware it is foolish to be violent. Psychological warfare, publicity and Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours are key for women. Especially those who are always women, sin ofender. Just biologically speaking. Transwomen, in any case, I see as superior… they got over their manlihood. I love the alphabet community (LGBTQRSTUVWXYZ+).

I mean, do you need the details of me getting raped to believe me? The “Justice” “System” is supposed to help you. Yet… in my recent hospitalization in the psych ward, I’m advised against taking legal action. And I fucking agree! I don’t want to relive this!!! But also, WHAT? Of course, my Man psychologist told me that. Maybe he thinks I am lying. Fucking Freudians. Imagine how big Freud’s ego must have been, to think he’s the shit. Is he just a fart?

Por más que tratemos de establecer una mirada de género en los medios de comunicación masivos, only Women get it. Or, people who have been raped by society. Which is a lot of rapists, too.

It’s a cicle of life and Mankind has made it the cycle of violence. Can we please have a solar punk utopia? Can Schopenhauer shut up, and listen to Billy Joel for once, whenever I may find him…?

Checkmate: King’s Gambit

I was just watching Queen’s Gambit with my father. I have just thrown up about 5 times today. And it is NOT on purpose. Thankfully, I do not have an eating disorder. Just nauseas… Gross.

I can’t sleep until I write this… I’m ambitious without an appetite, and it is becoming a huge problem for me and my cortisol levels.

In the third episode of the aforementioned Netflix hit, in which Beth meets Benny, he points out a flaw of hers, in one of the games. She castled, when that could have lost her the advantage she had either way. He suggested a better move, but her Ego drove her to insomnia. She couldn’t believe how much better than her Benny was… because she was unstable and insecure of herself. She gets told to forget about the past and get some sleep. I will, too. I promise, I’m trying. I’m trying to at least check, mates.

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Ya son las dos
No me dieron klonopín
Para entonces, en terapia,
hablar sobre el safety-sex.
Need I hear this?

Maybe me, most of all, yes
I'm that stupid, blind rich girl
That other people think is poor and can see

Unas taínas,
Guabancex y nuestros Sol y Luna,
Me acompañan silenciosamente 
en este gran Krankenhaus.

$4,000-thats what my 
mental health is worth, apparently
But it's not about worth. It's...
about who can afford. Otherwise, it can cost you
your life.

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“and if he can’t drive with a broken back
at least he can polish the fenders

and it seems such a waste of time
if that’s what it’s all about
mama, if that’s movin’ up
then I’m movin’ out”

— billy joel, anthony’s song (movin’ out)

i don’t think i have ever willfully written in english, despite having gone through an obvious (although, perhaps, unintentional) americanization through the nature of my private school, “the baldwin school of Puerto Rico.” i’m not even translating that to english, by the way,—and it wouldn’t be the first colegio in the island to bestow upon itself an identity based on the colonizer’s language. “robinson school.” “st. john’s school.” “tasis”, short for “the american school in switzerland” (yes, located in Puerto Rico). “american military academy”. the list goes on.

i have never willfully written in english, so, for my first time, allow me to spiral into the deconstruction of identity and language, imperial violence, privilege, and political dissonance in words my colonizer can understand. after all, we can’t expect the empire to listen to decolonial arguments without speaking to it in a language it understands.

so, gringo, you are my audience. since your culture is obsessed with credentials, i’ll delve, primarily, into the educative landscape of my island to get some foundation laid:

expensive, private ppk-12 education in the metropolitan and capital areas of the world’s oldest colony drench their respective communities in english, creating generations of rich colonized kids who were largely immersed in perverted uncle sam’s linguistic reality, as if every day, from 8:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m., you teleported to the “mainland” (eye roll).

personally, i felt like my school exuded pretentiousness, privilege, richness, and pomposity for the sake of parents with high purchasing power, often coming from other parts of the world. of course, a school with a 23-acre campus can’t be expected to be run by the dollar of the average boricua when roughly 43% of the island has been impoverished under a seemingly never-ending colonial rule.

my experience with this immersion has been one of lonely disgust, perceived misunderstanding, and downright repulsion at the fact that, unless a desire to learn and actively submerge yourself into puerto rican reality arises out of personal will, the development of boricua identity within the higher class occurs in a bubble that only rises further away from earth—unless popped from within.

i deeply value and respect numerous positive aspects of my privileged education. however, for the sake of my fucking point, i disclose to any baldwin alumn, student, teacher or staff member who may encounter this essay that this is not a personal attack on the institution, but rather a critical deconstruction of how school systems set in place often predispose the rich in power to become the next generation of complacent, colonially mimed minds.

given that my father had the means to pay for—and i, the blessing to receive, since my infancy,—this education, my development and identity have been substantially molded in this environment. as an eager-to-learn person, i felt as though the quality of the critical-thinking instilled in my school’s ib courses, mixed with my favor towards Puerto Rican sovereignty, forced me to conclude how insufficiently progressive elite education really was, despite its over-the-top attempt to somehow instill boricua values, identity, and connection within its spacious, yet confined, explorations of knowledge.

this type of education in the island seems catered to those interested in somehow assimilating towards the ideals of the united states—expected, given the huge pro-statehood campaigns and independentista fearmongering run the xx century which have undoubtedly brainwashed a huge portion of complacent boricuas whose media literacy is practically nonexistent. due to declining birth rates and high migration rates, their votes are still the ones that stall an already incredibly flawed system of pseudodemocracy.

to read more on my take on Puerto Rico’s government, feel free to translate the following coverage a public hearing in our house of representatives:

[“the capitol theatre: well-rehearsed falsehood, studied drill”]

during my class’s senior farewell, i was named most likely to spread independentista propaganda. i laughed it off on stage, along with the rest of the student body. we laughed at the notion of a rich girl preaching sovereignty in a state-of-the-art auditorium with a functioning a/c while, perhaps, students in underprivileged areas broke their millionth sweat due to an absurdly inefficient government that is always further away from its prime, leaving its students in the dirt. it’s even more ironic if you consider that the student council president whom “humorously” predicted my future is (last i heard) a zionist. how ironic and distasteful in retrospective.

i secretly became bitter at my classmates’ indifference because it was masked with wokeism and performative activism that they didn’t even fully comprehend. they repeated trends, hashtags, and slogans considered politically correct without actually engaging with the local news. hell, so did i. and it wasn’t our conscious fault—how could it? products of their circumstances: our curriculum barely touched Puerto Rican history. some of us delighted in certain teachers’s side notes and pauses to somehow instill useful knowledge of Puerto Rican heritage, but the attempts were always in the shadow of an environment that distanced the lessons from the immediate surroundings. unless you picked up a book by yourself (unlikely in the age of ai), baldwin bulls were doomed to giddy americanization. but, sure, a Día de Puerto Rico celebration could be enough to prevent that. maybe the Semana de la Lengua, could bring some student closer to spanish. make sure to put La carreta in the curriculum, but discipline with leniency when kids slack off on their reading. (i could bet the publication of this essay on the fact that not even a third of my class could remember five main characters’ names from this Puerto Rican theatrical classic.) sure, baldwin… that was enough… (can you feel my eye roll?)

i don’t recall (and neither do my friends) that any colleges from the island were ever invited, in my 14 years of time as a student, to present their post-secondary academic offer to everyone planning on applying to university. however, visits from nyu, georgetown, university of navarra, fordham, etc. were scheduled almost on a weekly basis.

i knew i wanted to stay and study in the university of Puerto Rico, Río Piedras precinct (in spanish, la IUPI). the application process for the public university system was quite easy—and baldwin students were practically guaranteed admission. this is why the college counseling team had a yearly tradition: one afternoon, every student from the senior class gathered in the library to submit an application for la IUPI, using the island’s best university not as a realistic or necessarily smart option to have on your potential university list, but because it was a perfect “safety school”.

those who stayed behind in Puerto Rico to study were seen as queda’os (lazy, unambitious people who weren’t able or interested in self-improvement). this was, of course, never explicitly stated. but that was the general feeling among the majority of students, faculty and parents.

i remember that many friends of my parents who found out that i was planning on staying in la IUPI to study felt the right to comment: “¿En serio? Con lo inteligente que es esa nena, ¿se va a quedar en la IUPI?” [“really? with how intelligent that girl is, she’ll stay in la IUPI?”]; or “¿Por qué? Si quisiera, podría ir a harvard.” [“why? if she wanted, she could go to harvard”].

to everyone who thought that of me for choosing to stay in my homeland for a bachelor’s degree instead of making my father spend upwards 80k a year on some fancy ivy league: sincerely, fuck you.

for more on american soft power, feel free to translate this personal essay on the presence of english in spanish-speaker’s music taste:

[“how listening to only 55 minutes of Andrés Calamaro altered my perspective of rock and roll”]

despite ongoing corruption in the public education system (“rumor” is that it will soon be privatized, which would be a fiasco), la IUPI’s professors and the student culture have the capacity to transform generations of Puerto Ricans who have enlightened themselves regarding boricua and worldly history, tradition, knowledge and culture. although the facilities are crumbling, there are golden professors whose duty to educate is able to supersede even the most obvious flaws of the public institution.

“the exodus of money and people, including children, placed immediate pressure on Puerto Rico’s schools. soon after taking office in 2017, rosselló [ex-governor] brought julia keleher, the founder of a small washington education consultancy, to take over the fragile school system. keleher, who is from the philadelphia area, had a reputation as an expert at winning government grants. indeed, her firm had recently obtained a $231,000 contract with the department she was about to head.

keleher quickly embarked on a two-pronged mission to overhaul the school system. she pushed for the creation of semi-privatized charter schools and private-school vouchers. at the same time, she shut down hundreds of still-functioning public schools. defending her actions, she later said: “somebody had to be the responsible adult in the room.” keleher, who is white, also likened the fury she received from Puerto Rican parents and the islands’ well-organized teachers’ union to the experience of being a racial minority.

— “the disappearing schools of Puerto Rico” (jonathan m. katz for the new york times)

my time at la IUPI allowed me to pop out of the privilege bubble and see, with my own eyes, what Puerto Rico was. it pushed me far out of my comfort zone. that might’ve been the best decision i’ve made, and also the one that broke my heart the most.

i knew i was in a bubble, but once i dared to leave it by immersing myself in the reality of people i could only meet through a clipping of my wings of privilege, i looked up and saw how the classmates i graduated with

i opted to study information and journalism—which i later doubled with philosophy—and became keenly aware of just how much the traditional news outlets of the island distort realities that are out of rich kid’s eyeshot. unless they will to come into contact with their own puertorriqueñidad outside of their privilege, it will barely seep into themselves faithfully. i mean, i went from having playdates in gated neighborhoods to seeing one of my best friends break down over never ending bills to pay for a life that doesn’t even match that value proposition. i went from liking some rich dominican in tasis to falling in love with a man who breaks his back working and studying full time. and i continue living in uncomfortable dissonance as i wake up in a seaside apartment on a fifth floor while i know people getting up at the break of dawn to work despite knowing the impossibility of ever owning a house.

hell, there were even Puerto Rican kids in baldwin who, despite having been born and raised in the island to spanish-speaking parents, had to take ssl (spanish as a second language) courses with the gringos, asians and europeans. and there are so many people who graduate from expensive english-immersing schools that later confess: they even think in english.

when the education that impulses critical thinking and media literacy also pushes the heirs of power out of the island and into the hands of corruption or simple ignorance (even linguistically), how can we expect to free ourselves from tyranny?

the masses are still sleeping, and recent revolt seems orchestrated to me (i have my own opinions on the summer of 2019, which i will not get into in this essay). we scream and shout at our own theatrical two-party limbo that sucks our blood, sell out our lands and make deals with the devil that are dressed as energy privatization. we have a resident commissioner in washington d.c. who has a voice, yet no actual power.

and, still, trump has claimed he’s done more than anyone for Puerto Rico when violence, unemployment, and environmental harm is on the rise, access to information is becoming more limited than ever, birth rates are down & displacement (by the rich and gringos) are up.

additionally, we rely, for the most part, on imports. every single good that enters Puerto Rico must first pass by florida before making it to our ports, ramping up prices and health complications due to their baptism in pesticides in order to survive an unnecessary detour.

is this the worlds slowest genocide? the united states has sterilized our women, used us as a lab for the bombs dropped in Palestine (and gave a whole municipality cancer in the process [watch: La pecera]), promotes displacement and gentrification, inadequately responds to climate emergencies (hurricane María’s deathtoll is upwards 15,000).

in other words, Puerto Rican society is in rapid decline. as we lick uncle sam’s boot and beg for scraps, we are taxed without the representation by the very nation that coined that fucking one-liner. to witness big hegemony of the united states from this “island of garbage” is, frankly, exhausting.

the rich kids aren’t angry enough about the socioeconomic and political landscape of the island because their very wealth often comes from the system they perpetuate with their ignorance. a family could become millionaires overnight with government contracts. are they vendepatrias [national sell-outs] or saving themselves from living in survival mode for the rest of their lives? and why do both of those options always come hand in hand?

it’s an impossible situation to escape: the masses are sleeping, and rich kids don’t care or know enough. those are the rich kids that end up taking place in our local “government”, in the job markets, in the apartments that only they could afford. what if every rich kid received an education in la IUPI or any college? would there magically be some more pressure to reroute this colonial absurdity? what if my classmates also took the same social science courses as i did in Río Piedras? what kind of ripple effect could that have in our island? would that create a bunch of heated albizu campos-like revolutionaries? is the cognitive dissonance that arises from colonially assimilating education a preventive tool against revolt?

i am angry and bitter and disgusted at this reality, and i’ve tried to fight back within my confines for as long as i can remember. this, granted, won me the title of independentista propagandist among my peers. but, other than that, i’ve been punching the air.

i’ve opted to take the time to cultivate my relationship with spanish, ensuring i don’t fall into the united states’s soft power trap. i’ve written piercing words and decolonial rants, opted to read Lo que el viento se llevó rather than gone with the wind. i’ve tried to desist from the use of anglicisms and put more weight on the spanish part of spanglish. but all of this maintained my ideas in an echo chamber of people who already agreed with me. it’s an uphill battle to fight against united states imperialism from an island in the caribbean when it is in washington d.c. that our freedom would actually have to be fought for.

that battle would have be one in english. effective decolonization may have to be an inside job. a war behind rebel lines. the insufficiency of activism to save gaza from the hands of the united states and israel is a cautionary tale for what we could avoid in puerto rico.

after world war ii, journalism pledged to change. it pledged for “never agains”, “not under our watch”… it pledged to be vigilant and serve as an independent monitor of power. has journalism done this? or has it served as a justifier for havoc under the guise of objectivity?

we’ve all seen a genocide in hd, we’ve heard the screams, the bombs, the violence. we’ve reposted from the west. how about a tax boycott instead of hopping in to an online trend to “spread awareness”? i don’t have the answers, and i’m also painfully aware of the individual incapacity of those with morals to put a stop to the violence. gaza’s blood isn’t in the hands of the average gringo—but when the reconstruction of gaza under trump becomes reality, who is going to vacation there other than rich oligarchs who don’t mind popping champagne bottles in blood-spilled land? will you begin your holiday break vacation in gaza, say “hi” to your idea of Yeshua, and end your sabbatical in Vieques, asking us if we speak english before complimenting us on the beauty of the island you’re pushing locals out of?

there is a theological school of thought that claims that Puerto Rico is the chosen land in latin america. while i don’t want to alarm or draw unnecessary conclusions, i can’t help but fear a horrible master plan that puts the island in a similar extinction route as Palestine. the united states has impoverished all of latin america and meddled in their elections for decades—why keep Puerto Rico colonized under the name of “non-incorporated territory” when they could’ve, in theory, left us in shambles without putting us on a leash?

and so, i’ve decided to write this essay in english for all you gringos out there that have a heart, that are aware of your hypocrisy in a similar way that i became hyper-conscious of my privilege. begin to demand our freedom. you couldn’t save gaza, but you could sure as hell try to save us. it is practically impossible for us to achieve sovereignty without your consent. although the “democratic” systems put in place on the island create a theatrical representation of free will by wasting federal funds on unfaithful referendums, they will never convince the central government to make us the 51st state. it’s flawed logic: the colonized don’t choose for themselves because we are manipulated by strings that many willfully ignore or simply don’t have the literacy to understand just how much they strangle us.

i ask again, what if every rich colonized kid took the time to write an essay like this, to have discussions that deconstruct the mimed mindset of the masses? do you think there’d be a small ripple effect? a large one? one at all?

i honestly don’t know. i don’t have a lot of faith in you gringos. my blood boils at your comfort and your stupidity, your performance and your imposition. you vacation where i live, see me looking fine, and ask me if i speak english so that i could become your personal tour guide—and hope for a blowjob in the process. when i blow you off instead, you say “fuck you” and waddle your fat ass away from my immediate surroundings, yet your permanent residence is felt even without your pesky attempts to cure yourself from (what you claim is) involuntary celibacy. small interactions like these feel like metaphors for an even grander exploitation. (true story, by the way!)

it’s not your fault though, nor is it mine, that we can’t understand each other. i guess it’s hard to find common ground on stolen land. but thats the thing: all lands are stolen. monopoly isn’t a board game, its a worldwide representation of what we’ve built and how we’re living. and this includes gringos and Puerto Ricans alike. we aren’t as different as we think, but we have to begin speaking the same language to draw bridges and conciliate what we want with what we have.

gringo, please: start fighting harder for us. start petitioning our sovereignty. start researching all the shit your government has done on your taxpayer dollar. because you aren’t. not nearly enough. and we haven’t been able to do it without you.

i actually admire a few things about your culture, starting with billy joel, your comedic scene, your literary genius. you’re not as bad as i make you out in my mind. i delight myself in your cinema, your music, your literature. honestly, its awesome. i am in awe of you. can you do the same for us? can you stand in awe of the country you’ve colonized in order to grant us the sovereignty our culture stands upon? will you? or will you just repost this essay and call it a day?

to misquote the great billy joel: if i can’t write in my maternal tongue, at least i can translate my ideas. and it seems such a waste of time—but that’s what its all about. gringo, if you’re moving us out, then i’m moving up.

Asombro, sí. Más
bien, te veo grandiosa.
My beautiful friend!

El otro día, intenté socializar como si mi cabeza no me estuviera dando vueltas y piruetas. Quería estar presente, quería pasarla bien con las personas que quiero, escuchar la mejor banda de rock del Puerto Rico contemporáneo (ZATO, duh) y olvidarme de los asuntos que aun me quedan por resolver.

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Sin embargo, ese día, regrese temprano a mi casa. Como de costumbre, ZATO partió. La Parroquia, con su encanto místico-religioso, es el escenario de la velada. Me complació ver a mi hermano, Giancarlo, quien llegó impromptu. Esa noche, me vio llorar. Cosas que pasan, supongo.

Estar vivo supone el desespero y la espera. Más allá del bien y el mal, sigo existiendo en consciencia de mis emociones, tambaleando entre el yin y el yang. Tratando de caminar la cuerda floja sin ahorgarme en uno de los dos lados. Life is probably like this forever, until it is not. And then, it might be again. La infrecuencia de los sentimientos menos favorecidos puede que sea la única posibilidad de esperanza verdadera. Cada vez que supero una tristeza, cobro una fe en lo positivo. Desbloqueo nuevas maneras de virarle la tortilla a la angustia. It’s a power thing.

I have strong women around me to show for it. Cada una con un superpoder distinto. As creators of life, art, music, and beauty, they hold power.

Regarding Feminism and the Woman

Logically speaking, the most popularly taught definition of feminismo is that women are equal to men. When confused people misinterpret that and take it for misandry, the patriarchy is reinforced. However, I realize that we live in a desolate desert with an information drought, where audiences cannot necessarily be relied upon to rationalize or do proper research on the definitions of feminism. We may live in bubbles where wokeness works, but my personal truth on the matter regarding sexism and the patriarchy leads me to conclude that, at best, feminism is an important stepping stone necessary to ignite wider empathy between sexes and deconstruct social norms that have intersectionally disfavored women and the feminine in humanity. As good as a stepping stone as it can be, it’s also still dangling in the hands of an unstable, violent man’s world. And, ironically, we call nature our mommy.

We may be able to vote and have a bank account, and that’s lovely. I’m eternally grateful for feminism. In fact, it has been my anchor in my fight towards change. An oasis of agreement, at times. Yet, it has kept me running in circles of complacency. People who truly uphold moral values, rooted in feminism, altruism or other philosophies, are not the one’s making the global, exploitative capitalist system rape mother nature. Feminism attacked a critical gear in the system. But when the definition of feminism becomes un chicle estira’o, a buzzword to pray on the attention that vulnerability can attract like honey… what ensues are scandals. Monica Lewinsky y Ocean Pabón son dos cuyo dirty laundry’s airing summoned perspectives from creeps and feminists alike—with the feminists usually holding the more compassionate values of right to privacy and opposition to abuse of power. Whatever the perspective we may agree is more ethical or not doesn’t strip the fact that feminism must participate in the spectacles to survive and matter in the court of public opinion. Feminists must yell. And that strains our voices. It can bring victories at the cost of a soreness that is less worth it on some days.

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Feminism gets sensationalized too often, misunderstood fatally in essential journalism. Everything is always just news story… I’ve never seen a reporter talk too certainly about anything, without it being a fucking advertisement for someone else’s point.

My take is that women are not equal to men. To be equal means to BE IT. Thats why two plus two is equal to four. Si el colchón del feminismo es que la sociedad carece de igualdad entre géneros es porque, efectivamente, tratarnos uniformemente entre todos reduce la violencia machista, pero ella persiste con consecuencias reales y dolorosas para todos. A woman can’t equal a man because that would, at the bare minimum, mean that woman and man are synonymous. In reality, we can strive to be opposition in agreement.

We could always rest on basic human decency to fight against abuse and rape. Fuck men and women are equal! Humans are equal to humans… that is more like it. Pienso que estar en contra del maltrato no debería ser un gendered issue. Advocacy for justice in the patriarchy should not be limited to the feminist movement. Maybe I myself am being reactionary. A contrarian. Some will say feminist, too. I mean, sure. Feminist then, feminist now… but also, something else, something that feels new and different. A New Idea that is worth listening to.

At least, that’s how I felt as I listened to . I was also shocked to hear her deny her feminism. She is so empowered… more empowered than me, an, at-the-time, strong-willed feminist. The idea of postfeminism that she has presented to me has piqued my interest. I hope I’ve piqued yours, too. I’m open to be wrong about this one though. Convince me, if you can.

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I always did think
you had an Egyptian look
in your eyes. Powerful.

I am very well aware, despite what the haters may think, that I sound crazy right now. My husband keeps reminding me to get my shit checked out. He and a few friends have been hearing me talk crazy the past few days because I keep mentioning things I’m realizing too casually, as if others have been in my mind with me the whole time. That is obviously false. I have to do a lot of catching up.

You see, deep down, I’ve always feared I was crazy. Which is why I went through lengths unknown to prove otherwise. A bit like a self-fulfilling prophecy, my ego died as soon as I allowed myself to feel it, leaving me with a feeling of emptiness and misdirection that, however terrifying, is actually the most liberated I’ve ever felt.

Steely Dan! Dionne Warwick! All these great artists that habe seemed so huge and impossibly great musicians have felt very physically close to me recently. I’m truly listening to their songs now, instead of taking them as objects of analysis. I feel a similar way with myself. No, I’ve never heard schizo voices—but I’ve bitten my tongue so hard it created a mind of its own to get back at me. My tongue: snarky, poisonous, critical and scornful, at times, highly vain. This snake has wrapped itself around my Adam’s apple. Around my guts, around my will to speak my own truth.

And now, the snake has become my narrator. My snake is Lemony Snicket, and I am a series of unfortunate events—which, if you don’t know, is a silly children’s book series that happens to be a perfectly ironic “Upside Down” version of my life. To commemorate the promotion of the snake, my will to sing, and for a hit of that good old masochism, I’m gonna get a new tattoo today. Maybe two. And, before you say I’m making a rash decision, don’t say anything! The tattoos I’m going to adopt have a very personal meaning… they are my inclusion of the Unexpected into Art’s consideration. My very own Element of Surprise. My body is my canvas, which is why my tattoos are systematic in their meaning and position.

I have three upcoming tattoos, one which will be done by Rachely Ortiz. She specializes in fine line and ornamental tattoos, and I’m excited to have her brand me with a representation of the beautiful metamorphosis of an angel and a mermaid coming together to become a catamaran. Its a figure that has mesmerized me ever since I saw it in my Culebrean walls. I don’t live too comfortably in my skin, knowing I have Picasso and Dalí on my body, but I’m proud of myself for having the power to transform sadness into meaning.

I have always admired my good friend Arianna for that, as well as the rest of her band. She is a true Daisy Jones, and its my biggest privilege to see her sing so well… she captivated me from the get go. I’ll be seeing her there and the rest of los Zatos en La Parroquia tonight.

I’m fine, truly, guys… I’m going to the cuckoo’s nest only to fly over it and be fucking free! This reminds me, I have to make a review of Ken Kesey’s book and Jack Nicholson’s character. I get him sooo much now…

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¡Ada!
I stayed up late! Oops!
Let me... while you, walk.
Through town! Just because you can!
Read a book of your preference in the park next to your God.
Take your notebook, a pen, a highlighter, perhaps...
eat some yogurt, or get a smoothie. Crush it!
You are one of my many muses-maybe, a favorite ;)
So all this to also ask... can you get some toilet paper for when you return? I forgot to get it as well.
I'll sleep 6 hours, 'til 10:30 a.m.

PS-Maybe talk to Sophia about Ayurveda... she'd love to see you. But, remember, kid: it's a Faustian bargain to look for Her.

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El Nuevo Día-
¡Basura! Vayan al San
Juan Community.

Well, I’m so much better than Carrie Bradshaw. First of all, that hoe wasn’t even a real journalist. I hated the fact that she insisted on putting her shitty ass column on a “hard news” newspaper. I mean, what was it? The Observer? Barely The New York Times… I wonder how she got that book deal. I guess it’s fiction after all.

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But, God, I’ve been Carrie all along! She’s a little embarrassing but… I guess she’s hotter if she’s (cari)bbean (like-me). Translate Bradshaw to Puerto Rico, you get Álvarez.

I was not able to go to sleep at all the past few days. I’ve been feeling like I have two days in one. Dos pajaritos. Un tiro.

Toda mi vida, quise resolver algo importante… mi cuestión personal, de por qué soy triste o por qué no soy perfecta… era parte del acertijo todo este tiempo. Mi madre me ha dejado pistas—me ha dicho que soy perfecta, aunque no haya confiado en su palabra. Y, mi padre, ¡un real Poseidón! Te amo, . También amo a mi madre, nunca se crean que no.

La Biblia, ¡está ocurriendo ahora! El periodismo real, la poesía de una María. Con mi mente griega, mi historia secreta, he sido capaz de abstraer los principios. Por si no me han estado leyendo, repito: It’s the end of History! Welcome to the Renaissance. Fair? Okay!

I can finally have that one conversation I have always wanted. I feel satisfied with wanderers. I’m a prophet in the same way I consider Lana Del Rey to be one. She’s beautiful! She gets what Beauty truly is. I love Lana! She is a true Afrodite. Her moon’s in Leo, her sun’s in Cancer. Beautiful! Water and Fire! I wish I could meet her, and make some music!!!

Life is a rhapsody: inspiring! “free”! on a whim! We have been determined! Up to this point, that is. The smartest thing to do now is read. You can start by just reading my fun blogs, but I suggest you start with a real book. Maybe the “Bad Beginning” by Lemony Snicket. I love A Series of Unfortunate Events!

I guess that True Beauty has always been in Art, and I have 8 tattoos of classic paintings on my body. I don’t regret any tattoo! My dad always freaked out. Why would I put a sticker on a Bugatti, he asked me rhetorically! Hilarious!

I am perfect already, like everyone else. We don’t have to change anything about ourselves, we can be happy, everyone loves us… Turns out the manifesting in front of the mirror worked.

It’s the chicken or the egg! Yin and Yang. I was so sleepy when I wrote this on my typewriter. My other koi fish kept me up, in my thoughts. A long lost brother, I hear his voice clearly in my head now. Sometimes, he scrambles my thoughts. My polar opposite, I had thought. Turns out, just family.

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God's a metaphor.
You can believe her. Easier!
Or read him. Better!!!

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I lied again. Yesterday was the day I truly had the best sex of my life. I was vulnerable before doing so—honesty brought me closer to Him.

Ah, Guaban(sexxx)!!! I’ve, lowkey, been cheating on you with Ares this whole time! Cogiendo guerra interna. Ya, we aren’t fucking around anymore, Beauty and War. I think we are better friends now, for sure.

Le confesé, a mi marido, mi fantasía sexual (mi peor pesadilla). Las mujeres podemos ser mentirosas. Definitivamente. #MeToo! Pero nunca me había sincerado como, a través de los últimos días, lo he hecho. Por ejemplo, aunque lo sabía lógicamente porque tengo algún sentido, fue ayer que acepté que nunca fue mi culpa que la suciedad me violó. ¡Sin consentimiento! Eso es nacer. Me permití gritar. Los odio, ¡a todos! ¡Violadores! Casi nací otra vez. Mi esposo, confundido, lloró también. Sentí la pena suya, cuando dije algo tan triste, refiriéndome a un pasado 7 años lejano. Escuchaba su mente decirme que ¡no! ¡No! Claro, mi amor, nunca fue tu culpa, nunca digas eso. Lloramos mucho.

Bueno, más tarde le confesé eso mismo. La fantasía sexual que me acompañó con vergüenza, por toda mi vida. ¿Mi fantasía sexual? Getting “raped”, kind of. Uy. Let that sink in.

Como mujer, nunca sentí la libertad de hablar de los tabúes que, en algún momento, sufrí. Una niña perdida en mi interior quería gritar y llorar, y nunca la deje. “I have nothing to complain about, much less my past”, I told myself.

Well, mi esposo me abrazó y me dijo que él no pensaba que esa fuera mi fantasía sexual. Lo que quería decir, quizá, era que yo quería entregarme por completo. Hm. He was right.

And so, I did. Now I’m fluent in English, Spanish, and Pillow Talk. Mein Deutsch ist nicht so gut…

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End of history
The truth's in poetry now.
Her little spell: Words

Yesterday, I had the best sex of my life. For starters, after love was made, I was more satisfied than ever. I could do, this time, without a Round Two. I found what I was looking for in the orgasm!, little death!, big life! I dirty talked as if I was being possessed by someone shameless. I, too, felt like I was fucking someone else—but it was him! The love of my life. I told him something never-before said by myself.

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I came for the first time with his dick inside me. Missionary! Success. When I rode him, we both saw the stars.

Yesterday, part of me wished he put a baby in me. I was horny for life! All because I have the leisure to be so.

Let your girl ride you, you might see God or something like that. Laugh at the riddle, or suffer… Make love. Or get fucked.

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