It was the intoxication for you that made me realize that I’ve been getting drunk of the wrong things for way to long

I’ve been sober before your lips, before your hands on my hips

You made me rethink the concept of being in a state sobriety

Because I would always see my self staring at the end of a bottle for a daring push into the world of extraordinary cliches to feel a sense of normalcy, different than awkward social convention I shoved myself into 

But then I found myself drinking you, and felt at ease, felt at peace

Because liquor isn’t supposed to transform you

It’s supposed to bring out your truest shade out form the shadows

Shadows that were born out of the constricted norms embedded into my mind before I could even think about playing with my barbie dolls

And then I drank a tangy mixture of cheap vodka, expensive self-derailemt and an aftertaste of a misplaced childhood.

And for the first time in my predetermined existence

For the first time in my etiquette driven, formulaic personality

For the first time my mask fell of my face

Tumbled down on to the floor

And fell between your fingertips

For the first time I wasn’t afraid of pain

I found comfort in the scars you left on my neck

Open wounds that got infected with delusions and ill-adviced caresses

Because with every stroke they became deeper

And now here I stand

That result of your carnage

Battered black and blue but holding on to your control over me


Waiting for you to bite deeper into me until I’m lost in my own oblivion

Only to find myself in your arms

Wanting to feel weak again

Craving the hangover 


My goal of writing a post every Monday has become a complete failure. What can I say, me and deadlines just don’t mix when it comes to inspiration. I don’t know what is happening to me lately that I can’t get inspired. Maybe it’s because I feel under complete control and words can’t seem to flow through my inner core up to my hands to express the feeling of utter helplessness and fear of simply thinking. That, or I’m simply coming down with a heavy does of seniortis and I have no interest other than Netflix, and that’s not a very good source of inspiration. 

But seriously, I feel straight out of the book 1984 where even having thoughts that are remotely out of line are punished. I can’t have a conversation with someone without being careful with how I word things because I might be taped. Psychological trauma has forced me to think things and say things I wouldn’t say otherwise, to act differently. As I write this post I’m terrified that it might come back to haunt me, but I have to figure out if someone she has found my one true escape. I do realize all this sounds outlandish, straight out of a bad suspense movie, but I can’t help but feel my heart and opinions being mangled by the one person who swore would protect them. Screw healthy formation, if you want someone to follow your set opinion as to how they should act, make them fear their own existence. 

It’s become such a pull on me that I’m afraid to fall in love, because I know no one will ever be good enough, no one will ever bring back the sense of safety that she’s taken away. 

It’s no joke that as I type these words my heart races in utter anxiety that after this post I’ll be annexed from my first amendment right. 

El diablo cajuelo que me atormenta

“Porque nadie se tiene que dar cuenta”, 

He said with that wicked smile,

That got me every time, 

And melted me away,

Como burbujas en una pecera,

Que desaparecen mientras te ahogas. 

And he keeps me down, 

Doesn’t let me slip away,

Making me believe that I was safe between el merengue, 

Y el suspiro,

Not realising that I didn’t matter.

Never did.

Not to him.

My carnaval un 27, 

Became el diablo cajuelo que me atormenta,

Cause you pull me in with your color,

And power,

But scare me with it just the same. 

Y si te veo en La Vega corro,

Cause I can’t take another blow. 

So I loose myself in the rum,

Y escucho una bachata en tu honor, 

Cause your memory I can’t let go of.

From childhood comparsas,

To movies en el malecón.

From stolen kisses that felt right, 

To intentions that felt wrong. 

And those secret glances en La Romana 

That let me forget I was raised in la Pedro Enrrique, 

And reminded me that I’m more that who I seem to be,

But made me forget that who I was, and hope to sill be is strong

All on my own. 



It’s not every night that one of your best friends calls you to tell you he has a gambling problem.

I picked up my cell just like any other night, usual phone call from someone I consider to be my older brother. He didn’t even say hello and just blutered out a hasted phrase, “I have a gambling problem and I just lost everything I had left.” I’ve never felt my heart sink so low so fast, and not only because of his problem, but because I found no words to say. That had to be the first time that I didn’t – and I still don’t – have any advice to say to someone I care about in regards to facing their problem, and the frustration is unbearable. Yes, he is an idiot and yes, he brought this on himself because he has no reason as to why he would need to gamble pretty much his life, but he did. And I can’t do anything about it other than worry.

There is no feeling that compares to hearing genuine fear on the other side of a phone line. It’s kind of feeling chills down the spine, but with a sinister connotation and a taunting from every hair that raises from the neck  that seems to laugh and say “There’s no hope for him anyway so why do you even care?” Unfortunately I can’t bring myself to not stress about his issue, but at the same time I know it’s something he has to deal with on his own. 

I’m still shaken by his voice. He’s 18! He shouldn’t be worried about debts to well, certain kinds of people – and I really do hope he exaggerated that phrase of my overactive imagination is getting to me. All I can do is wonder how he fell so far and how the hell can I help to pull him out of something that could end up suffocating him. The saddest part is I know how he fell, sadder than that is that it’s probably my fault as much as any of his douchy friends. He was never one to have much, but all his friends do, and as much as he convinces himself that it doesn’t matter, I know he cares. Apparently betting and gambling was the only logical way for him to make enough money to be on the same level and the asses he calls friends. The things I’ve said to him haven’t helped at all either. 

I’m not sure what he got into exactly and I’m scared for him.

And that’s all I can be.