a little story

I said I would write a story,

Not sure if it would be a happy or sad one but I promised I would.

Its late at night and I am drinking again. Not sure if its to escape reality or to destress while reading and dissecting articles of our impending economical doom.

I keep thinking of piggies, so perhaps its appropriate I create a short story and metaphor.

So there was once a piggy. Short, round, a baby. Offspring of prize-winning swine – fine is not an adjective to describe this domesticated animal.

This piggy grew, and my, what a beast he became! Huge, robust. A meaty contender. A fearsome and awesome hog. The farmer fed him what he could, but the pig always wanted more. He had to have his own pen, unshared, because with his size he easily would kill any other piggies that tried to munch on the slaw allotted.

The farmer thought him to be magnificent enough to take to a county fair, perhaps win a prize.

So the farmer had his 2 children usher the beast into a portable trailer. Unfortunately, the farmer underestimated the power of the hog and this animal then trampled and killed his 2 children.

The hog did not go to the fair. It did not win any prizes.

Its consumption did not bring him a life of breeding for him, or comfort. Instead, the farmer decided to kill the beast and use the carnage to feed the town, no charge.

This 1,000 pound pig who would not cease to eat, who would not share, shared the same fate as all the rest of the pigs. Death, consumption. Perhaps there was more joy and celebration in the death of the other pigs before him, but this huge pig was not missed nor celebrated.

And thats what I think of the elite.

You can monopolize, consume, take advantage of the hand that feeds you.

But you will die the same death as us, and you will not be missed. Your half-assed philanthropy will not save you, and no one will shed a tear. Your children are part of the elite, so their emotions and feelings are worthless in the grand scheme of things.

I truly don’t think there is anything wholesome or good that can come from your allotted money.

My suggestion to you is to give it away for free.

Ask for nothing in return.

Give, to strangers, to beautiful young girls, to non-profits, to organizations abroad, to individuals who don’t necessarily share their story.

You don’t need all that money.

You are more than fine with half of it.

Give it to brown people, to black people, to communities that know how to speak and understand the Earth and Universe in ways that you’ve only read about.

Send to me, a Goddess,

Send,

give it away.

I made you rich.

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piedras: melancholia

When I reflect upon my life, I always try to see it from the perspective of an outside force.

Because truly, no one else’s perspective matters. I no longer question “why” I went through or go through things. I just accept my challenges and blessings as they present themselves.

Also really grateful I haven’t been married/had the need to and that I have no kids.

I’ve learned to wash my clothes on rocks since as early as I can remember, probably 10 years old I started to really get the knack of it and at 17, I was pretty skilled.

At 17, I had already made friends with other indigenous and mestizo girls my age from my grandparent’s village. My cousin, them, and I would go as a group together down to the riverbank, hauling either a sack or cart-full of laundry as we walked down the unpaved roads.

We’d be laughing, joking about, well, teenage girl things. Our favorite time to go was about an hour or two before dusk. We knew they’d be almost no “Ama de casas” during the early evenings, meaning we could be free to talk about what we please without fear of being eavesdropped.

I didn’t care about others hearing my conversations, but then again I didn’t live there year-round and being a USC gave me a pass on many things that would be considered offensive if done by others.

The Sun never seems to want to go away when you’re near the equator, I’m glad there are parts on Earth that relatively unscathed by European bull shit.

Our favorite parts of the banks are were the water was the calmest and not so deep. Out of our group of 3-5 girls, only another girl and myself could swim. Both her and I were able to dive into the deeps of the river and find the best rocks to throw and scrub our dirty clothes on.

I recall diving and finding the perfect slab, a bit porous, but not overly so, just enough to be abrasive. I’d grab the slab with both my hands, wiggling it around, and prying it up from the sandy bottom without disturbing the water or bottom too much. Its hard for me to imagine that I actually could go longer than 2 minutes under water while making an extraneous effort to lift a 20 pound slab of rock stuck in clay and sand. It was no deeper than 10-12 feet underwater, but my cousin and the other girls were afraid of the current.

I’d usually help my cousin and dive one for her as well, but sometimes she was a bitch and it was sweet revenge to see her wash her clothes on a not so perfect rock or a boulder.

The best slab should be about 2-3 feet long and wide.

We’d place them against the roots of a tree if the river was overgrown or against a boulder, ensuring ourselves it was sturdy before continuing with our task. Optimal condition is when the river is a little overflowing, enough that the water is at or just above our knees.

  1. Hardest articles should be washed first, as to not tire yourself too quickly. Things such as jeans or towels. (if you were lucky though, your parents owned a small plug in washer for towels and blankets)
  2. You submerge the article of clothing completely, or you had a little bowl to use to scoop up water from the river to pour over the clothes.
  3. All about arm strength, baby. You sprinkle laundry detergent over your clothes and use every muscle in your arm to froth the article back and forth, flipping it over after your done with one side.
  4. Once it is all frothy and suddy, you can either submerge it in the water or use the bowl again.
  5. You twist and squeeze the article until it is barely dripping any water and you throw it into a clean large bucket, sack, or cart.

Maybe some will argue that this is polluting, but I’ll counter argue that polluting is when governments allow transnational corporations to use these same rivers to dump their waste.

If I ever went in the mornings, it was with my grandmother. It was like, a communal event to wash your clothes in the river in the mornings. Almost every woman in town would be there, if she wasn’t there already yesterday. Some would be done with their laundry for the day, sitting at the high banks breast feeding their baby or catching up with a friend or sister. Some women, mostly the older ones, would go shirtless or completely sans-bra. It was a safe place, free of judgement. No men. The only males there, if any, were under 5 years of age.

Matriarchal.

I never experienced anything as similar to that, and I don’t think I ever will again.

I can thank transnational corporations (again), narcos, and politics for that.

Hate men, mostly white, rich men. You ruin everything. I enjoy ruining your cookie-cut life.

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sabra Dios

you continue to fester in my brain, therefore I remain completely fixated on you.

I hope my neighbors heard us that time I invited you over, so they can understand why I was crying last night listening to romantic Spanish songs.

At first, I would pretend to be surprised to when I noticed you were hard around me. But you got stiff for me so often, that I would switch between teasing you about it or giving you reassurance. I loved feeling your big hand reach over to rub my pussy while we were headed toward somewhere ; I enjoy making you act irrationally. The moments you acted human are the ones that assure me that this is, or was, real.

Here I am trying to forget you but you are still constantly on my mind. Some people still think you’re my boyfriend, I cringe when they ask about you.

And to be honest, I only allowed you this deep into my life because I originally had the intention of using you, only to realize I was the one being used all along. But I love you so much, if we were to be together in the future, I would go in fully understanding the type of man you are.

I only have myself to blame for falling deeply in love with you. Nothing makes my heart race faster than a man who can potentially put me in my place and hurt me.

In a conversation with someone, they brought up indigeneity and futurism; is our relationship not similar to the conquistador with with indigenous mistress, did I not aid you in your pursuit of the world. And like her, was I not fucked over by my lover. What do I have to show? Those 3 or 4 pair of fancy shoes you bought me, the expensive coat, the fine dinners, the trips? At least she bore his first child. You took what I could give and left me bare.

If you were just playing with me, then you are terrible for talking about having a kid with me. I told you if you didn’t want kids ever, then this will not work. Your response was that you were open to it, but after a discussion. You said if you didn’t have kids with me, you wouldn’t have kids with anyone else; which probably just meant that you never had any intentions of having children with me or anyone.

I apologize, I am just trying to make sense of all of this.

On the other hand, I can’t help but also think that we are both sick fucks. I can’t imagine anyone else you have met in your past or will met in the future can rock you with a strap on the way I can. Or ride you like I can. I love you so much to the point I’ve become submissive to you and I know you’ve noticed. If mentally torturing me like this pleases you, then I can’t help but oblige just a little. – H

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its too late now

It’s 3am and I am up thinking about you. 

I toss in turn in my bed, fumble in my sheets and sigh. My arm drapes over a pillow, and my fingers hang from the edge of the bed. I wish we were still together.

I wonder what you think about. You said recently that I am the first and last thing on your mind. What are you dreaming of tonight?

—————————————————————————–

A few minutes ago, I was about to text you. I was going to say how I wish we never met. I didn’t even bother typing it out. I just stared at your name in my phone and thought of all the ways you’ve been a POS.

The most terrible thing about all this, is the amount of love I still have for you. I could write poems about your eyes. They will forever be my favorite thing about you. I remember looking into them dotingly as you bathed me in your tub. You washed my body with the same care a parent would for their baby. I swear this as the day I fell in love with you. When I glanced up and you looked into my eyes, you knew. You saw my naked truth that day.

I think of those pretty eyes often.

I realized your eyes were hazel one morning. The suns rays entered through one of the windows, lighting up your room and consequently, those two orbs as well. Waking up and blinking my own sleepy ones, I saw you already up laying on your side. I am unsure if that morning felt particularly bright and warm due to the sun or because of us.

There are no words in the English language that can accurately convey all that I feel for you. It is a pity that you don’t understand any Spanish. I’ve gathered the most beautiful definitions of love of both my cultures for you.

I’ve become such a fool for you, that for my own good I’m staying away.

So many times you’ve lied to me and I willingly dismissed them due to lack of evidence.

This distance I am putting between you and me is making me realize that you are not as good as I had thought. Now, there is not a doubt in my mind that you have been untrue to me on more than one occasion. Or perhaps it was the chase that you were in love with. Whatever the reason, I am not sending you anymore late night “I miss you” texts out of the blue, I will not respond to your half-ass “check ins” that you do every couple of days. Seriously. Is that some white people shit or do you really not give a fuck about anyone except yourself? You don’t even give me the chance to try to forget you.

You’re a complete narcissist. You see how you have me, so you keep me in your pocket when you run out of other sources of attention. Fuck that dude. Its only me or nothing.

You’re a fucking asshole.

You almost ruined me.

Was it worth it? The night I confronted you (actually cross-examined YOUR ass via telephone), you fessed and said “it was for my self confidence” and that you only wanted me etc etc etc etc

What upsets me most of all, is that -I- made you the man you are today. You hold your head up high because of me. You have confidence, thanks to me. At times, I am unsure if you copied my personality or if we were truly so similar.

Honestly, I don’t care that you’re an asshole. You care about animals, I care about people. I care about social inequality and I had to explain these concepts to you. I didn’t mind. You grew up a privileged white man, from the mid-west nonetheless. I never wanted you to change, just want to show you another side of life perhaps you hadn’t seen before.

I know I gave you life. You were dull and apathetic when I met you. I wasn’t impressed. But, I was determined to crack your shell and I did and this is how you repay me. I asked you for a break, I asked for an open relationship. we discussed these more than once. you were the one who said “no break” “no open relationship” “I only want you”. Ok bitch, then why do you have these other dating profiles. In the beginning, I thought I was just crazy (as per usual), but then I remember my madness always has a reason.

“I’ll do anything h, anything you want”. It was as easy as just being honest, but I guess you couldn’t deal with the idea of me fucking other people or finding someone else while you did the same lol.

So, were on a “break”. Fuck that, over a month of this small talk bull shit, I can’t do this. I realize now that I don’t want this -you- back. I didn’t text you because its infuriating to think you may be sleeping over with someone right now. Whatever, whatever, whatever.

I knew you’d be the man I’d write about, and here I am. You’re etched into my life.

I hate you for a fleeting moment, but god, I know as soon as I see your pretty eyes again I’ll melt and forget about everything you’ve done… I’m scared to see you again. I hope when I do, I can look directly into your sweet, golden honey gaze and be able to hide all this immense love for you.

Please lets just break up. I want to remember what it is like to love you again, without fear.

Maybe in the future, you can love me as much or more.

I’m fighting between wanting to love you or forget you. I’m on the cusp. You’re about to lose me forever. Please don’t be late.

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