the spot

this is the spot

i have made

this is the strength

i have gained

broken down

spit on

and still...

there is none

no inner voice...

no feminine choice

no sense in my skin 

for only stains and spills

have brought my flesh, to this place

i feel shunned

i feel disgusted

crumbled up into a ball, and thrown

into a dungeon

this is, my wish

never granted

this is, the hand

tamed, by your action

tearful glees

hateful words

controlling touches

and racial slurs

this is, you

this is, i

this is the spot

i have made

angry...

resentful and

abundantly...

a woman

without, shame

man 

and so you married a novelty

a novelty, i am not

a foolish attempt

no doubt

even, with much contempt

the product, you continue to be

that of your spanish ancestor’s, deeds

a colonized mind, in you proceeds

living, breathing and still appearing indeed

a white

latino

male chauvinistic

heterosexual

pig

sweet freedom  

there is a freedom, in being lost

in not knowing, the cost

of what, once was

to know, no boundaries

and excel, in your insanity

to find, an endless river

of gratitude and satisfaction

there is a freedom, in being lost

existing in the forgotton

and risking it all

flesh starving

consuming

the big gulp, of life's obstacles

and while "home," is still residing...

freedom, is in this place...

for there is - freedom

in being lost

times like these

times like these

is what he said

times like these

as his pierced heart

bled

when all has collapsed

spoiled

and provides

no justification

when all, i am left with

is filth

ruins

and starvation

times like these

he said, so sullenly

times like these

as he wrinkled, his upper lip

when home is poisoned

cursed

and holds

no reception

when my boys of birth and loins

conquer

no objections

times like these

as his mouth

corrupts with ignorance

yet times like these

is what, he needs

as his body

forcefully

surrenders

to his knees

dirty

i move, carelessly

like a feather

bouncing upon leaves

i lose

every measure of things

upon things

i hold my secrets, well kept

under lock and key

and in my bosom, esteemed

yet, no one calls nor asks

still i must

come clean

filthy

of guilt

and unpleasant

regime

beautifully dirty

it seems

a moment

there is, a moment

in every, moment

in the midst

of the anger

there is love

in the, center

of the pain

there is, hope

hope, that all is not

left unsaid

but beginning to unravel

a loss, is all

but a gain

and, a war

is all, but a path

to a new way

of talk

not everything

needs to be

special

not everything

is connected

with glue

not of me

not, of you