My mother can tell her story through texts.
Not word by word, but if you read between the lines,
between the spelling mistakes, both of Spanish and English words,
my mother shares her immigrant stories.
A young Mexican child without a father and a tired mother,
working instead of studying at the age of ten.
Her text simultaneously sadden me and make me proud.
Though she may make uncommon errors,
she dares to do them.
And so, she tells her story.
(Source: observando, via jacvanek)
I feel like writing, but I can’t.
Unfortunately, there are those days where there’s too much to do to think about the thoughts that are suppressed at the back of our minds.
The thoughts that ask:
-Are you making the right choices?
-Are you scared?
-Stop being scared.
I fear that if I had the time, my thoughts would answer my questions.
Perhaps the work is an excuse to not confront the truths of my thoughts.
(Source: capzona)
Lovely Confession
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.
How long has it been?
Since I confessed or my last sin?
You see, I could have sworn he was the one.
The one that promised breakfast in bed,
Beautiful children,
And of course, the white picket fence.
He caressed every inch of me
Like if I were the temple God asked of me.
He was an open book,
Spoke no lies…
until his last I love you.
I clenched to the dirt beneath his feet
Holding onto the last of us,
But it was too late, he had walked away.
You have two weeks to get better, she said,
Or I’m putting you on anti-depressants.
I never believed heartbreak could leave you forever broken.
Broken I’ve remained from the beat up.
Not by the fists at the end of his arms,
but by the punch in his tongue.
Irony. How he detested his father
for the pain of his mother,
not knowing the strength of his own words.
But so, two years later, I confess…
I let other men in, physically not emotionally,
for I am too afraid to start relationships.
I’m afraid that one wrong step will affect something,
something that’s been long done.
Like a rag doll I laid
Naked, not nude, for nude is beautiful.
On the floor, with my clothes, laid my dignity.
As much as he stripped me, I stripped myself.
Looking to replace the love I once felt
with the heat of two sultry bodies.
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.
To best forgive is to love,
but I loved the wrong way.
3 
(via rayofca)
(Source: sheldony, via heyfunniest)
One, he must be Latino.
Two, he must speak Spanish. Fluently.
Three, he must be Catholic.
Four, he must be college-educated.
But, why? why? why? why?
He must understand my culture, my heritage, mi raza.
He must be able to speak to my mother.
He must have the same morals.
He must have the same values.
But, why? why? why? why?
My Mexican-Americaness is my identity.
My Spanish prevails amongst all other foreign tongues.
My religion shaped my decisions.
My education made me valid.
