Mente Machista

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— Te diré la verdad… no tienes nada de linda, lo que tienes es una personalidad buena, pero linda no, no eres no…

Pausa 8 o más años para pensar, analizar, y crecer.

—Tu opinión no es necesaria en mi vida. Lo que soy no se define, no es mi culpa que no te guste la bondad de mi sonrisa, y tengas una imagen machista de cómo una mujer tiene que ser y actuar. Tu mente está colonizada, podrida, es patriarca, y me importa un cero. 

#CrónicasParaDescolonizar 

 

 

Mujer con Voz ©2016


Photo credit

When dreamers dream

Se comieron 
las bocas húmedas 
Inyectaron 

paciencia
Ven a cocerte la lengua 

I feel a funeral in my throat

Here is your dinner:
trágate el silencio
Sus nietos gritaron

nadie, puede amarrarles los pensamientos.

Mujer con Voz ©2016

Bathing Scars 

 

Photo by Fernelis Lajara @Laj13

 

Baña your scars.

Baña your tears.

Bath your dignity.

Expose. Give your dimples to

the sun.

Dry your pain.

Become the today

no one will give you.

Be born.

Be born.

— the day I realized I am beautiful

                             

Jamaica Avenue 

 

Photo by José Silva

“The bus left me this morning. It was damn cold. Don’t be. Don’t be fooled by this tin light you see across Jamaica Avenue. I am burning inside, I have the Dominican sun inside me. I survived. I don’t know. No me pregunten. ¡Que se yo! I don’t really know, how can one adapt? How can you pretend you don’t miss a single thing? Your hands are cold, freezing, hard-heartless-cold winter got me this time. I am lying, not only this time… multiple times. There, while waiting for the Q56. In front of everyone, it did not cared a bit. My twelve year old self was desperated. You would be too, if someone would take you away from the bright sun that burns your body while bringing happiness under a tranquil wooden house in the campo. It has mutilado lo que soy, ahora. I told you I was not lying, I was honest from the beginning. I, myself, no longer wait for the MTA to sent me the bus to go somewhere. I persist fighting against a winter that I did not give birth to, holding it like a child, even if it cries and pulled my brown hair, I still have patience to give him love. But this bus, the one I am waiting on, I don’t want to take me anywhere. I want to just go home. I hope, I really hope, with all my mixed heart that the driver have a pilot license, home is far–not here.” —La niña diaspora
F.P.