Itch, Corazon

Itch, Corazon

The scars on my heart itch like 

summer sweat drying down my back or my scalp at the mention of piojos. 

I remember that my scar checkered heart

has seen emotional wars

that cannot be qualified in wins or loss

but only broken homes and

broken trust and broken safety.

Yet my heart still beats and the texture of these scars soften and flatten

until they feel like stretch marks. 


s  t  r  e  t  c  h 


Limitations stretched into unreal curves and fishing line thin

and winnowed bridges connecting heartbreak to heart/break to heart


And I remember the hammer worn and dented tin corazon milagros that I

grew up with, marred forgotten metal beaten thin and beautiful. 

Some things born from under pressure are the most resilient of all. 

-CL (tierracita)

Today it feels like something has snagged my spirit, like a lone errant thread caught on something, pullling and bunching and cutting across me like a border. 

"Do not cross"

maybe this is a sign I need to slow down. Take haste before it all unravels. 

Or maybe it’s a sign that I need to let go and accept that things don’t always last or stay the same and that’s ok. I can’t fix everything and I can’t prevent snags I can only move forward, cut that thread and tie it up.  

Maybe it’s not a border but a starting line. 


I couldn’t believe that it snowed overnight.

I couldn’t believe that it snowed overnight.

How could it have when my flesh was boiling under my covers while I slept?

Skin still hot from being buried alive under two heavy mexican blankets and a quilt, skin still hot from the flush of anger I’ve been hiding under baggy t-shirts and a tired pale pallor. 

The pathetic amount of snow dusting the poor people’s suburbia outside only reminded me how let down I’ve felt all weekend. Let down by myself, let down by others—a feeling that feels like rubbing salt into my bitter cracked angry flesh.

Breakups are overwhelming especially when you are delivered the pieces in the mail, expected to understand and accept that this is how it was meant to be.

Deluged with every moment between now and late hazy summer, I’ve been sifting the pieces trying to find that one piece that doesn’t fit with the rest, narrowing down the crime to its weapon of destruction.

Not wanting to see anyone and not wanting to be alone, dressed and ready and under the covers—the art of half-assed practiced in repose. 

Glad the mothermonster was gone and even more glad that his face arrived on my doorstep. Arrived ready to drink wine and watch bad tv under blankets, avoiding touching feet because our friend love does not include cold toes. 

Maybe that’s what I need to hold on to—the friends who intuitively know my needs and steal my bed and blankets not the ones that only enjoy my presence as a place to hear their echo.  

Now that the excuse for snow has melted I can outside.

New goal: fostering a kid.

I really want kids. I really want to be a parent.

I also know that while I want to birth children, I love any kids in my life and I want to foster/adopt kids who haven’t had the easiest life. It just doesn’t make sense for me not to open my heart and home to a child in need. 

Not going to be easy but I have never been more at peace with this decision. 

So here is to my new goal. Financial stability that the state will recognize as enough for me to foster a child by the time I’m 30. 

Love making new goals. 


There is an assistant multicultural center director opening on my campus that I am totally qualified for.


Because I haven’t had this job for that long and it would definitely burn bridges if they even found out I applied, I feel like I can’t apply. Maybe if I thought I was a shoe-in but I know I would be competing with over 80 other applicants (that’s how many there were for my current position).  

So bye bye dream job, hope I see you again someday in my lifetime! 

This was bitter post. 

Random moments/thoughts.

Was asked to give my ecojustice/daily toxins/greener cleaners workshop at a pagan temple. Rad. 

Sat on the floor with one of the youth I mentor, he’s ten and autistic. We had a long conversation about not feeling in control in our bodies and what it means to lash out physically or be overally physical as a way to claim space that he (and I with my dyspraxia) are more than our diagnoses/disorders and yet we’ve learned/learning to keep the physical acting out in to avoid breaking social constructs of agency. Really wonderful conversation, love youth. 

Realizing I want some cuddles bad enough I’m even entertaining going on a date with someone I know is no good, just for the physical intimacy (he’s a cuddler). I’ve asked my friend to cuddle with me in the mean time and he agree although we can’t tell anyone so that his big machismo reputation isn’t tarnished. Not like anyone cares, people have caught us in bed half naked cuddling and no one gives a fuck. 

I need a haircut, bad. 

My life these days consist of:

Managing google calendars and organizing the ES Library. 

Facebook and tumblr too much. 

Writing workshop proposals. 

Feeling immense pain for my platonic life partner who is struggling with the possible death of a parent. 

Organizing protests and efforts to prevent diversity services from being cut at my alma mater. Including speaking off the cuff to 50+ POC students and community members on why we need to act and how to do it. Strategic organizing. Exhausting. 

Sleeping from 8pm to 9pm. 

Eating low-fat ice cream and hating that all my mom’s food is diet. 

Making lists about my life.