I am a holder and carrier of stories.

I am supposed to remember and keep our words and memories alive.

We are the sensitive souls, the ones who feel as if we have no skin.

Like our nerve endings have nerve endings and our only remedy is to remember

even when we do not want to.

The morirvivirs I call us,

between the alive and the dead , outside of them.

Our petals protecting our souls when touched.

I am from dad who never knew softness, and brother who killed, un soldado, men.

I am from mom who only knows softness, and sister who kills, una guerrera, women.

Women who could hear me speak in silence when

I forgot the timbre in my voice.

Who kept the timbre of my voice

A paper.

I feel flowers growing at the pit of my stomach,

Flowers growing under my ribs,

But these stories do not always feel like flowers.

Some choke me, some hold me, and writing feels like I’m drinking un cafecito

bitterly calming.

This piece was published on La Galeria Magazine at

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.