gran mujer
a piece I drew last year titled “Gran Mujer”.
I need to find time to draw… I miss playing with colors.
Why I am Compelled to Write
As a first generation Latina, who has never met her biological dad [because
she was not willingly conceived] and who grew up with an abusive step-father,
I have always been compelled to write. I write in my journal, I have since I was
young, being honest and graphic about my life. I read back on past entries
now and don’t remember, don’t believe. I think my brain and heart have
worked together, to protect me, pushed back those memories, back into a
place where I cannot reach them, nor would I want to. I read back on past
entries and wonder how I made it- imagine a younger, smaller me, scared
and hurt. It all seems so unreal. Like a dream that lasted years- a nightmare
I dreamt night and day. I write to carve my life, my truths, to face my fears
and disappointments, to HEAL. I write to gain control, over that which I never
did. To gain strength, POWER. So I write because I must. Because no one
can silence me. To REVOLT [against my past].
IMPACTS
Never been afraid of getting hurt.
You might flinch the first time
You see a fist coming towards your face,
but after a couple hits, you go numb.
Swing back and your fists go numb too.
You hope you’re making as much an impact,
but you’re the one stumbling.
That’s beside the point,
he’s busy with you and the others are safe.
You can take it, they can’t.
Behind all the stammering
the little one is crying.
She holds on, scared.
Don’t cry, its ok…
Objects go flying.
Do you see what he does to me!?
tears float down her face.
She was young and vibrant once.
Her face now wears the marks of hard years
working in the sun, sleeping on the ground.
WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU!?
You want to hold her tight,
protect her from the instability.
My princess,
I don’t want to see her cry like I did.
Expression
With spare ink or lead
I can write about anything
or nothing at all
but I’ll write about everything
Because I can
I have a voice
one to be heard
one not unlike yours
lethal like a sword
yet gentile like–
the bird that sits outside my window
and stares inside my room
sees more than most will ever see
before we see the tomb
it flies with eyes wide open
and spans its wings out wide
traveling fearsome winds
its taken for a ride- A ride we call life.
