State of Modern Womanhood 


 My name is Eliza, and I’m a receptionist for Public Health and a grocery store clerk.

I reside in Athens, GA. I have a blog called Life on the BPD, where I talk about various topics ranging from relationships to mental health to politics. I would describe my poetry as narrative and confessional. I write poetry to process the intense emotions that come with having BPD and to come to terms with past trauma. My poetry is reflective of the experiences I’ve had being a working-class Latinx first-generation millennial woman with mental health issues.

A Healthy Kind of Love

Is this what it feels like ?

A love where I don’t have to fight

to be seen

A love where I feel like

I matter to someone

A love that always greets me

in the morning

and wishes me sweet dreams at night

A love that misses me when I’m gone

Is this a healthy kind of love?

Comfort and attention

When I need it the most

Hours of laughter that come easy

No awkward conversations

about our problems

No fighting to be heard

Because he always listens

Is this a healthy kind of love?


State of Modern Womanhood

Let’s hashtag the fuck out of our

supposed imperfect perfect lives

smile for the camera but make it look candid

this is for instagram after all-

we want to present an image of authenticity

Authentic needs to look perfectly

put together and balanced

there can be no cracks in our suburban realities

no one wants to see tears and frowns

let’s continue to act like modern clowns

except our makeup paint lies in a false smile

that hides our misery inside

and let’s add a witty caption

that spells out live,laugh, love

and hashtags about #momlife

#gratitude, and #bestlifeever

depression, sadness, and anger

have no room in our modern world

where we pretend to be perfectly

imperfect moms and wives

with these amazing and perfect lives

let’s continue the facade of authenticity

even as we burn inside and want to die

we are not just okay but we are fucking fabulous

so honey continue to smile for that selfie

even as the expectations of modern womanhood

continues to break us all down

The Writer’s Fight

To write is to fight

emotional words that cuts like swords

How do I stop this torture?

of suppressing a petty light

Pen stabs paper with might

about past regrets and lost love wars

and memories best left ignored

of a dreadful and chaotic life

To write is to fight

Demons I want to hide from

But I can’t help but succumb

to my constant inner fight

Pen stabs paper with might

and I try to find closure

about past lovers

I write from love and spite

To write is to fight

Do I really need to say that?

Yes,it’s my trauma to unpack

and my words take flight


Immigration leads to discrimination

Of unwelcomed ones into this so called united nation

To the ones with brown skin and dark eyes

Justice to them is greatly denied

Hatred is the driving sensation

Their song is called exploitation

Just to work in this democratic nation

They leave dignity in their countries

To live the the better life

But don’t quite fit into the gringo equation

Is their sacrifice worth so much separation?

from their families, their language, and their nation

Ah-America – the land of the free

But none of them are truly free

Living their existence out in a soulless and consumerist society

First Generation Guilt

The guilt comes in waves

of rejecting my culture, conventions

and norms and way of life

I’ve kept the hard work ethic

but rejected the machismo and misogyny

I have kept the language

Well Kinda

But have I kept my morals ?


my indoctrination that men and gringos are superior?

Not really

The guilt comes in waves and I handle it

with alcohol, prescriptions meds,

and an addiction to online shopping.

White Claw and Abilify and Amazon

are my newfound friends

that distract me from the failure of

being a good Peruvian woman

The guilt tells me that I have lost my latinidad

or hispanidad or latinxness

(or whatever trendy SJW term white people

use to describe people like me)

Because my children don’t know my first language

Because my children talk back to me

without repercussions

The guilt stays within and tries to drown me,

making me doubt my immigrant authenticity

Getting Older

The wrinkles on my forehead

remind me that my youthful beauty

is gone

Now, I’m an older woman

the kind society likes to discard off

The gray in my hair reminds me

of my 41 years on this earth

and how in a blink of an eye

Youth starts to fade away

and my chronic hip pain reminds me

I can no longer consider marathons

But while I could emphasized the negatives

of getting older

I need to acknowledge

I’m still living, I’m still here

and with my history, that’s a miraculous gift

You can find Eliza on Instagram, Pinterest, and Twitter.

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