Solidarity is the gift that poetry gives us.

You go through my purse 

looking for sin,

and when you find none,

you insert me with your own sin,

tainting my body, my soul, 

my mind, and my spirit.

You investigate all the dark areas

that you say remind you of a calla lily, 

  the deepest shade of purple,

in search of passion you don't deserve.

You go through my purse 

looking for power,

and after you take it,      

 you insert me with your weakness,

tainting my body, my soul, 

my mind, and my spirit.

You investigate all the dark areas

that you say remind you of a calla lily, 

  the deepest shade of purple,

and steal the desire to live.

Does not this type of pain 

infect the womb meant to carry life?

Does it not damage the heart

meant to love and nurture?

Does it not lead to self-destructive habits  in the one now burdened by a void

where the desire to live used to preside?

 I can't think because of the noise.

I brace myself,

trying to remember what I should go for.

Maybe I should just dodge and deflect

because I don't have the energy to fight.

I tend to freeze when under stressful conditions.

I want it all to stop.

I want to invest in my health,

but I don't think that this is helping me.

He tells me if I can't silence the noise in my head,

I should just learn to appreciate it.

But he is the noise...

Teaching me to endure 

his hot breath on my neck.

I think he's wasting time, pretending to care,

telling me things that confuse me 

so that I can stay longer on his couch 

while he continues to ask me,

"How does this make you feel?"

Maybe I should crush each testicle and ask him,

"How does this make you feel?"

He promised to show me what was within me,

emphasizing that with a little help

I could conquer my every flaw,

influencing the mind with words,

the soil with power,

speaking of possibilities that I was afraid 

to dream up on my own.

I gave him free reign of my soul

so that he could help me control

of the destiny that so evaded me.

He acted like a vacuum,

sucking up all the innocence 

and leaving every fear in its place.

Obedience can be a curse.

To trust can be to err.

When no power is left within,

is there a sure way to keep the emptiness at bay?

Desperate for a helping hand,

lost in the absence of empathy—

desperate measures are taken

just to check if the world has eyes that see,

because it goes on blind

to the suffering the child is facing.

Great heights are traveled,

destructive steps taken,

just to check if the world still has a pulse,

because it carries on unresponsive—

indifferent to the child’s pleas for help.

Displays of desperation turned inside out

become the way the inner child 

verifies its liveliness,

causing further harm to the person.

“See me!” demands the child inside.

“Am I alive? Can anyone see me?

Notice the hurt, notice my pain!”

To a damaged spirit,

one’s existence and worth are only realized

when acknowledged by other people.

It’s so easy for the child inside to get lost,

searching for evidence of its own heartbeat,

for proof of life.

Often ending up stuck in avalanches of shame,

with masses pointing fingers.

In a twisted way, finally, a confirmation

that, yes, you are visible.

We see you; you are alive!

I went looking for myself,

or was I running from myself?

I don’t quite know.

But vodkas with a splash of something

gave me glimpses of the self I sought to be

and a courage I couldn’t find

 or cultivate otherwise.

Only, those glimpses,

the courage, did not last long.

So often, I was left uneasy,

replaying the little bits I could remember,

with much trepidation  

at what I could not remember.

Have you ever felt like you were just a mirage,

or an unstable flame, flickering in the wind?

Had you ever felt the way I felt about myself

 and the world,

you would have understood

why I chose to drink my mind away,

day in and out, in order to find my true self

or at least escape the mirageness of my being.

Desperate to be rooted in something,

I moved from one addiction to another,

just to feel something,

anything…

anything.

The truth was always there,

sitting in the darkness.

You knew it was there;

I saw you laughing at my pain.

You talked about the sun,

the heat, and the lack of rains.

Not about what mattered to a little girl, afraid. Silence is not always golden,

 sometimes peace is worth disturbing.

Now when you give me a smile,

I am never assured,

because I’ve gathered the truth

that when the darkness falls,

I’ll be on my own.

You’d never use your lips   

to speak against my pain.

You’d avert your eyes,

  pretending not to see.

When I offer you a smile,

  know it’s just a gesture

and that you should take time

   to read in between the lines.