Posted in Personal Blogging

Life Update.


Clearly I didn’t die this 18 de Septiembre, yay! And to be honest I didn’t do much drinking either.

We celebrated my grandparents’ 60th wedding anniversary the way every Catholic  countrysided (is that even a word? Why did that sound better in my head?) Family does. They renewed their vows in front of a priest and what I’m sure was only about 40% of our actual family and then a had a party. Now if you knew anything about my family you would know that it ain’t a party until at least one aunt is shitfaced and there are at least two people fighting and one has left because they felt “left out and like they are the scum of the earth”… well, check, and check, and check.

But that’s a story for another oversharing day. This is just a general life update.

Mhhhh… what else is new?

Oh, yeah. I got together with some friends and we spent a truly embarasing amout of time singing Hamilton songs and planning our futures (daunting I know)… we also discussed gender policies and the problems of Chilean Queer organizations… something that apparently always happens. We just wanna change the world guys! It’s not that big of a deal!

Oh! My computer died, that’s new. Although, not really since it had been dying for a while now. Oh, and I got a new phone… so there’s that.

I’m also thinking about adding more content to this blog? Because it does say “A blog about life, writing, and avoiding responsabilities” and so far I’ve only done a little bit about some and like, random poetry posts every now and then? So I should probably be more consistent and maybe have a schedule… like Secondary Sundays…

Now since most of my weird and creepy poems were lost with my computer I will probably not be posting any of those for a while. So bear with me for a little while as I try to get everything in order.

I should probably edit this blog a little bit as well, since it’s still pretty shity.

Well, that’s all for now I guess.

Expect updates as the week goes on… Or maybe not.

Who knows?

Hint: not me.


Posted in Secondary Sundays

Secondary Sunday : About Me.

Hello! Welcome to the first Secondary Sunday in a series of stories that I will be sharing with you in the future.

Let’s hope we have more of these coming for a while (to be honest I already have at least six of these ready and some more in the making).

The first Secondary Sunday is…

About Me.


Yes, me!

I’m a secondary character in your life; only in your story when you read my words.

To you I exist only in the confines of the internet. But I have a life. I eat, breathe, cry and live when you’re not here to see me.

There are so many things you don’t know about me.

You don’t know that when I was born I didn’t cry, not for almost a minute. Not because I couldn’t but because I didn’t want to. You don’t know that most of my life has followed a similar path.

All the times that I haven’t cried have been because I didn’t want to. It’s not that I couldn’t cry when the earthquake happened, when one of my great uncles died, or when one of my friends was going away. I just didn’t want to.

I didn’t want to feel, is what I mean.

You don’t know that I once saw a man kill himself and I managed to keep it together for a full hour before it hit me that he had died. You don’t know that I cried myself to sleep that night. Not because I couldn’t stop but because I wanted to.

I wanted to feel, is what I mean.

You don’t know I inherited my name from a long, long line of Marias, all ready to dedicate their lives to Jesus and their church.

No one has ever called me María.

You don’t know how long I spent drawing lines everywhere I could, notes, ground, tables and even my own skin… for reasons I couldn’t understand.

I didn’t want to understand, is what I mean. I wasn’t ready to.

You don’t know that I’m writing these words more than a week in advance to when you’ll see them. I’m drinking a glass of coke and my mother is humming under her breath as she creates with her hands a dress from pieces of fabric. My sisters are upstairs, sleeping or watching videos, or staring at the ceiling wondering how many of their life choices truly led to this point in their lives. Or maybe that’s my cat. Maybe Lady Clementine Walburga Black is now staring with vacant eyes at a spot on the wall while my sister wonders if she’s seeing a ghost.

My sister doesn’t believe in ghosts, is what you don’t know.

I’m afraid of the dark.

I’m afraid of being alone, is what I mean.

I’ve never hated something as much as I love being alone. I’ve never loved myself as much as I’ve hated my self when I’m alone.

You have to hear your thoughts, is what I mean.

I have so many thoughts. Some of them you know, or you will know at some point in the future.

(I’m not good at shutting up)

(I’ve never said everything I thought)

I tend to swallow my words. I tend to only say what I think others could take, what they want me to say.

I used to tell my mother I couldn’t envision a heaven that turned Queer people away because I thought it was unfair to them. I once called myself an ally, I told my mother I wanted to see my friends happy. I used to think I scorned our priest’s idea of heaven because I was sad about all of those people who believed and were hated by God.

I used to be one those people, is what I mean.

I still cry when I hear Troye Sivan’s “Heaven” is what you don’t know.

There will always be a part of me that longs for heaven, is what I don’t want to know. I will always wish I could be that María that can go to heaven… I will always wish my faith hadn’t withered away with the years.

I used to wish my mother could love me the way I am, is what you don’t know.

She loves me more than words can explain, is what I know, but she can’t fully understand me or my choices, is what she wants me to know.

I once fell in love with my best friend… is what I didn’t know.

She broke my heart when she told me she hated me and thought I was a weak cry baby, and she only stayed by my side because she was afraid of what our mothers would say if she made me cry. I never really understood why it hurt so much that I can’t truly forgive her to this day.

I loved her in a way I haven’t loved anyone ever again, with pieces and parts of me that have long ago eroded into sawdust. I held her with the hands in my mind that would only ever be able to be delicate with her.

All of those pieces that loved her with abandon are gone now, replaced with something fierce and tender that will always be a part of me.

I love my friends, all of them. I love them without restrictions and with no conditions. They could go away and never talk to me again and a part of me would forever love them. I would never be able to hate them because I have given everything I am to them.

I have never loved anyone, is what I want you to know.

Not the way movies and books show you.

I’ve never loved myself, only the parts of me that people have told me they loved. They were made beautiful by being touched by someone else.

I used to cry myself to sleep and wish that I was dead, is what you don’t know.

I prayed to a God I couldn’t fully believe in anymore to kill me everyday for years.

I’ve never tried to kill myself, is what I mean.

I’ve only ever hurt myself, is what I want you to know.

I once fell asleep holding my legs against my chest with burning arms and shaky hands. I cried into the soft inside of my elbows and wished I had the strength to end it all. I tried to hold onto all the dangling and dying pieces of myself so fiercely that for a second I believed my mother’s God would be able to forgive me for being broken and wrong. I tried to keep all the tiny, fractured pieces that made me up inside a thick skin where they wouldn’t be touched by anyone ever again.

I told my parents I wanted to die once, or twice, or maybe a dozen times, is what you don’t know.

I can still feel my dad’s arms as he tried to hold onto me and make the bad thoughts go away, is what I mean. My mom still acts like it’s something that never happened while praying for me, my soul, so that I can be guided back to God’s arms.

“I once fell in love with a woman, mom.” Is what I wish I could tell her. “I’m not broken or wrong because I like boys and gals and non-binary pals, mom.”

I’m not broken. I wish I could tell myself.

Scars don’t make me beautiful but they do remind me of the places I’ve been.

“I’m alive.” I wish I could tell the people who made my life miserable in school. I’m alive even while we all thought I wouldn’t. Is what I tell one of my closest friends in the dead of night while she echoes similar words.

I wish I could hold her with burning arms and fierce fingers so that she will never slip away from me the way we’ve both craved so many times.

I have best friends, is what you don’t know.

I never had friends, is what I mean.

I have fallen in love with my new friends in a way my first love would never understand. I have given them everything I wished I could give to the person who broke my heart and more. I have given them the selective pieces I hold dearest, the vulnerable and passionate sides of me, hoping and knowing they wouldn’t be crushed. I have even given them the sides I know I can never love. I have given myself so completely to them there is nothing left to give, to keep, to hate.

I have found my soul mates in the shape of my best friends, is what I want you to know. I can hold onto them as strongly as they hold onto me. They will be all that is left of my heart once I’m gone.

I will never truly be gone.

I am better now.

You don’t know that I got up this morning with a fresh scratch in my arm and anxiety burning a hole through my stomach. You don’t know that I cried while reading this, drinking coke and listening to my dad as he argued with the politicians of the TV.

You don’t know that I backtracked, that I erased and replaced things.

You don’t know the things I don’t want you to know, and that’s okay.

You have a life away from this single moment in which you allow me to be a part of your story.

You will never know how happy I am that you still have a story.

You will never truly know anything I ever tell you because you will never really know if I’m lying.

But I want you to know that for this moment, right this second, I love you and I wish I could tell you I am proud that despite everything in your life you made it here.

I am happy to be a part of your story, even for the briefest of seconds, even just once in a lifetime. I’m glad our lines touched.

I’m glad you’re reading this, and I’m glad you lived.

I’m glad that no matter what, you’re still fighting.

I’m glad you’re you.

Posted in Poetry


When I look at my arms, I don’t think strong.

I think not there yet,

I think this weakness is wrong.


I’m a loose thread that has been pulled apart for too long,

I thought maybe if I kept pulling, I would someday manage to forget.

When I look at my arms, I don’t think strong.


My arms are an open canvas, a bleeding song

And I can’t wait for them to get soaked in red, and yet

I think this weakness is wrong.


My fingers tremble, ache, long

For a single blade of color to wash away the regret.

When I look at my arms, I don’t think strong.


When I close my eyes I see flowers blooming like a dying song,

I see carefully written words and a withering silhouette,

I think this weakness is wrong.


When I think strong, I think of shaking hands when I was 16 years old,

Petals cascading from my lashes and the taste of blood, lips wet.

When I look at my arms, I don’t think strong.

I think this weakness is wrong.


Posted in Secondary Sundays

Secondary Sunday! (A PSA)

Well, hello there.

I know, I’ve been missing (?) for a while. It’s not that I forgot about the blog (I swear I haven’t) it’s just soooo easy to get lost in 18 de Septiembre haze (no alcohol involved as of yet, don’t worry).


So now I’m back! and with a new part of the blog.

Remember how somewhere in here (probably the About Page or Home) it says that the site is under construction and I pretty much have no idea what I’m doing here? Oh, and that parts will be added as I go along.

Well, we already have some parts down (me oversharing, the poems… blah, blah) and now I’m adding a new one!

Whoever’s reading this, I introduce to you: Secondary Sundays.

Secondary Sundays will be the days (Sundays) where I will be posting small stories about “secondary characters” in your life. This is something that I’ve been thinking of doing for a while, and only now I just realized that I had enough stories saved up to make it into a weekly thing.

So now, you can look forward (or not) to at least one day in the week where I will consistently upload something.

Oh, and if you have suggestions of characters you’d like me to write about please let me know 😉


Posted in Poetry

Fears that I have Lived

You don’t conquer a fear, you face it.

Every day for the rest of your life.

Sometimes you do it head on,

others you politely ask it to move aside.


Most days, you stare at it right in the face

and you know this will be the day.

This is the day you’ll be paralyzed by its knowledge of you,

by what it knows and what you don’t yet know.

You’ll stand there, frozen,

while everyone else walks by  and wonder,

“Why aren’t you moving?”


Because while you face fear, others can’t see it.

As you stand there, frozen and motionless

fear can see you, can feel you.

It traces your thoughts into clay like skin,

sinking fingerprints into a glass that was never taught how to be glass.


You were never meant to be clay.

You were probably steal before the fear came.

Glass and sand and pretty fingers with well-kept nails.

But the fear saw you and it wanted you.


So you stare at each other as people come and go,

and they wonder “Why aren’t you moving?”

but fear holds you for ransom so you cannot speak,

cannot see beyond black pools of loneliness and anger.

You can’t see beyond the chasm that is yourself.


Because fear wants you in the only way you can want yourself,

it wants to feed off you,

wants you to understand that it knows you because it is you.


Fear owns you like you have never owned anything before.


You cannot conquer fear,

you become it.

You welcome it with open arms and loose wrists.

You twist it into words others understand

until it’s just another part of you.


You don’t conquer a fear, you face it.

Every day for the rest of your life,

confronting it for who it is.

Sometimes you do it head on,

waving your hand against your reflection in the mirror,

others you politely ask it to move aside,

twisting careful feet in sheets to get up in the morning.


You don’t conquer fear,

you become it.

You own it.

It owns you.


Posted in Poetry


Girls are quiet, even when mad

Girls put their head downs, especially when they don’t agree.

If someone is talking, agree.

When everyone’s quiet, stay still.


Girls are quiet and sweet,

Girls are quiet.

They don’t disagree with others,

They know who their betters are.

Girls don’t know better.


I remember I was a Quiet Girl.

I remember when I grew up and I realized Quiet Girl was tired.

Quiet Girl was tired of being Quiet.

Quiet girl couldn’t breathe.

Quiet girl tripped on her own hair,

Quiet girl could run on tears for days.


And then Quiet Girl realized she could run.

So she did.


Quiet Girl ran toward the exit of her bubble,

She was mangled and hurt

But she wasn’t quiet.

She had glass for hands and hair short

‘like a boy’.

The rest she left behind in the prison.


Glass Girl had a mirror,

And she was pretty,

And she thought that was stupid.


Glass girl cowered from mirrors,

Glass girl was ‘not like the other girls’

Even though she was,

Even though that’s everything she needed to be,

A Girl.


Glass Girl, was quiet

But not like Quiet Girl.

Her silence was a defiance; a sentence in its own.

Glass Girl was Icy Girl.

Glass Girl was a bitch.


Glass girl was cold hands and sardonic laughter,

But she was also fear,

Fear of others, of being seen, of seeing herself.

Glass Girl couldn’t feel.

Glass Girl felt too much.


So Glass Girl was Quiet,

But she wasn’t Quiet Girl.

She wasn’t like the other girls.


Was she?



She was.


Posted in Poetry


I spent most of my life held inside a bubble.

It was soft and made of rubber and sand.

If you looked at it in the right light, you might’ve seen the shards,

Glass shards.

Everyone who tried to get in was meant to get hurt

And anytime I tried to leave

my hands, my arms, my mouth, my eyes

everything would be soaked in bubbly red.


I guess I always thought it was easier to breathe inside the bubble,

Especially at times when it wasn’t.

I loved breathing in air in short gasping breaths,

One panicked inhale followed by a loud wheezing of air.

In a way, I guess the air always tasted like tangerines and copper.

Oh, how I loved tangerines.

Oh, how I miss the copper.

Bitten lips drank in greedily a scent that tasted like dusty water

And rusty air,

But it was the only air I knew how to breathe,

And, God how I breathed.

Breath, after breath, after breath, after sob,

Until I couldn’t tell what was oxygen and what was my own exhale.


The bubble didn’t make me unreachable,

But it did make me wary.

If you asked me a question,

You may not have gotten an answer…


If you took your time,

And had patience,

I may have endured the glass shards just so I could pretend to hold you.


In the bubble things were always too much

Too big clothes, worn shoes, thick eyebrows, and chokingly long hair.

A nose that was too big, and eyes sunk into a forehead that could be called a head.

A body too thin, hands too small,

And social skills so bad they often made me breathless.

In the bubble everything was a mixture of old and broken pieces.

But I was happy.


I was so happy.


I was so scared.