(I used to be) Frida Khalo (was my writing)
That monumental loneliness.
Almost an evil god
who claimed my sacrifice.
And me….
rebellious worshiper
chained to his altar.
A forced stillness.
My lips sewed by ignorance.
I searched for myself
in society’s totems,
in common behaviors.
Nothing mirrored me,
nothing resembled me.
My imagination became my reflection
bursting in a need to exorcise my pain.
At first they were slurred words
coming out in bites and vomit,
growling self-portraits, painted in distortion.
My writing described my sorrow, not myself.
Then softly brewing or quickly sprouting,
my verses started speaking about me.
I was my writing, my writing was me,
whatever it may mean.










