Eliza
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
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 ?
or
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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