Decolonizing Hair

“Decolonizing cabellos

Dark brown
Dim romantic night looking spheres
Colored in love with hints of sugar cane
Yellow Jabao’
Melena caprichosa, mal entendida, no sumisa, a ti qué te importa cabellera
Mente suelta
Forestation of the natural
Colonization, out of my scalp!
curls/straight/wavy/rebelde/ I don’t have a type of hair
long/short/medium/a lo macho
como te dé la gana hair
Stop combing árboles of history
Your grandmother
Africana/ taina/mezcla
was a badass
Basass like “I know my ancestry”
Badass like ” I am beautiful”
Badass, edgy, conscious, leída, extravagante
like an evolution
like a revolución of the
“you need to fix your hair”
Do it!
Descoloniza your hair.”

No Duelen Los Golpes de las Chancletas 


Photo by Ismael Rodriguez @Ismrodz


Cuida de los que tienen canas.

Take care of those with gray hair.

Mamá, cuanto cabe en una sola palabra. Tu chancletas acústicas y rústicas bailaban en las nalga’ por desalojar la indecencia –ese sabor que hace concebir y idealizar en una cabeza infatigable que supone que tiene todas las respuestas. Me sembraste tu estampa no la piel, en otro pellejo, pero si en las cuerdas de la conciencia que no dejan de estar. Abuela, soy un rasgo de merengue apambichao’ para tu sublime melodía. Vieja, ¡Qué tonta fui!


Grandmother, how much fits in a single word. Your acoustic and rustic sandals danced in the buttocks to evict the indecency – that flavor that makes one think and idealize that a tireless head is supposed to have all the answers. You sowed me, not in the stamp of the skin but in another skin, in the strings of the conscious that never leaves. Grandma, I’m a trait of merengue ampambichao’ for your sublime melody. Grandma, what a fool I was!


This a collaboration with the artists and writer @Masproblemas. This is one of his illustrations. 
You see heart breaks, I just see new material to write about.

I will immortalize you with my words even if you don’t deserve it.


Is that your new hobby to break damn good hearts and then going around shallowing your pride?
Mark the lines of this poem with
another piece of your phosphorescent lies
I’ll make sure you regret it
I’ll make sure you won’t survive
I’ll show you what a real woman is like
making you full
reminding you where you came from,
the same tunnel you are running away from.

F.P. @Mujerconvozpoetry


Photo by the artist Djilas Gomez @djilasgomez.



For Angy Abreu 

was easier for you.
It is your superpower
to grow more cells
between your legs
and ego
but there’s an espacio vacío
on your tiny brain
Hitting, fuck! Golpear 
was easier for you
escupiendo words on her face
you opened up su piel like
a wanted envelope
there is nothing green inside – you thought
He opened up scars that never existed
too bad, the woman in her won’t take crap
too bad, the woman in her won’t shut up
she is the Amazon
wild and beautiful, but don’t tempt her
wild and deep
“don’t touch me”
She is not the false man made green venom
you waited on,
she’s worse…
a scar that won’t weep
it would just dry like the sticky side of the envelope
not like the organ in his pants
that will only oxide with time.


Speak up against domestic violence 🚫‼

Hermanas, Dear Sisters


Photo by the author.


Wrapped around metaphors.
The sisters thought their names were simple.
Simplification. Miminalism. Bland. Easy to manuver, passing by the skylines of the city.

They arrived, here and there, and they found out two things. First, the devil doesn’t wear red. Secondly , that their names are noodles. I am taking about fideos baratos.

When they though they had one name,
those names expanded like noddles never returning to their original state.There is not such a thing as recyclable dominican nombres when you are out of the country. They will pronunce your name like they are eating a computer keyboard and you are the black ink of the printer…getting wasted by injustice or worse, they will say your name like they had put their brains in a lavadora just making weird sounds…mostly on purpose. There’s nothing in between.

They thought four letters name weren’t all that.
They thought people will make an effort.
They thought people will not try to rip their tongues out trying to say one “r.”

Sisters, dears sisters, hermanas,
let them mispronounce our nombres from our grandmothers which are passing from generation to generation in the mantel de la cocina. They don’t understand our hair or our skin, much less our historias.