Frenchy.Crafty.Bruin

now, i tower over the ruin that was me. i am this mystical being, this brilliant light, this ancient stardust. now, i see.  Follow my IG acct: @maese.art.by.eileen.jimenez

[vanfrancisqo]

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Y aunque te ame con locura, ya no vuelvas

Paloma negra, eres la reja de un penar

Quiero ser libre, vivir mi vida con quien yo quiera

Díos, dame fuerza que estoy muriendo 

Por irlo a buscar

Y agarraste por tu cuenta la parranda

[estoquellamamosvida]

[fdsfjdsfjkf93723679267-deactiva]

“I am trying to write / a poem in which I am neither a monster nor a martyr”

— Kevin Kantor, a cento of poetry from his work created by Megan O’Hern, “You are Not Just Anything,” published in Crab Fat Magazine (via lifeinpoetry)

[cazadordementes]

Tlayudas en un mercado de Oaxaca, México.

[imaf00die777]

TACOS MAKE ME HAPPY . 😄👅🇲🇽🌮

[ripjonny]

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[lovelysuggestions]

can you promise me something? can you love, me even on my bad days?

[sadspell]

Im not sure it shows but I’m so full of love

[yesixicana]

I’m also full of pain.

[nathanlevasseur]

[latenights]

you never gotta worry about me cheating on you.. I might eat something that was yours but that’s about it

[cravefoodie]

[whitepaperquotes]

[oofpoetry]

“Make love to me in Spanish. Not with that other tongue. I want you juntito a mi, tender like the language crooned to babies. I want to be that lullabied, mi bien querido, that loved. I want you inside the mouth of my heart, inside the harp of my wrists, the sweet meat of the mango, in the gold that dangles from my ears and neck. Say my name. Say it. The way it’s supposed to be said. I want to know that I knew you even before I knew you.”

— Sandra Cisneros, “Dulzura”

[muchachafanzine]

You Bring Out the Mexican in Me

by Sandra Cisneros

You bring out the Mexican in me. The hunkered thick dark spiral. The core of a heart howl. The bitter bile. The tequila lágrimas on Saturday all through next weekend Sunday. You are the one I’d let go the other loves for, surrender my one-woman house. Allow you red wine in bed, even with my vintage lace linens. Maybe. Maybe.

For You.

You bring out the Dolores del Rio in me. The Mexican spitfire in me. The raw navajas, glint and passion in me. The raise Caine and dance with the rooster-footed devil in me. The spangled sequin in me. The eagle and serpent in me. The mariachi trumpets of the blood in me. The Aztec love of war in me. The fierce obsidian of the tongue in me. The berrinchuda, bien-cabrona in me. The Pandora’s curiosity in me. The pre-Columbian death and destruction in me. The rainforest disaster, nuclear threat in me. The fear of fascists in me. Yes, you do. Yes, you do.

You bring out the colonizer in me. The holocaust of desire in me. The Mexico City ’85 earthquake in me. The Popocatepetl Ixtaccíhuatl in me. The tidal wave of recession in me. The Agustín Lara hopeless romantic in me. The barbacoa taquitos on Sunday in me. The cover the mirrors with cloth in me. Sweet twin. My wicked other, I am the memory that circles your bed nights, that tugs you taut as moon tugs ocean. I claim you all mine, arrogant as Manifest Destiny. I want to rattle and rent you in two. I want to defile you and raise hell. I want to pull out the kitchen knives, dull and sharp, and whisk the air with crosses. Me sacas lo mexicana en mi, like it or not, honey.

You bring out the Uled-Nayl in me. The stand-back-white-bitch in me. The switchblade in the boot in me. The Acapulco cliff diver in me. The Flecha Roja mountain disaster in me. The dengue fever in me. The !alarma¡ murderess in me. I could kill in the name of you and think it worth it. Brandish a fork and terrorize rivals, female and male, who loiter and look at you, languid in your light. Oh,

I am evil. I am the filth goddess Tlazoltéotl. I am the swallower of sins. The lust goddess without guilt. The delicious debauchery. You bring out the primordial exquisiteness in me. The nasty obsession in me. The corporal and venial sin in me. The original transgression in me.

Red ocher. Yellow ocher. Indigo. Cochineal. Piñón. Copal. Sweetgrass. Myrhh. All you saints, blessed and terrible, Virgen de Guadalupe, diosa Coatlicue, I invoke you.

Quiero ser tuya. Only yours. Only you. Quiero amarte. Atarte. Amarrarte. Love the way a Mexican woman loves. Let me show you. Love the only way I know how.

[aurelle]

“What they don’t understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you’re eleven, you’re also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one. And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you don’t. You open your eyes and everything’s just like yesterday, only it’s today. And you don’t feel eleven at all. You feel like you’re still ten. And you are—underneath the year that makes you eleven. Like some days you might say something stupid, and that’s the part of you that’s still ten. Or maybe some days you might need to sit on your mama’s lap because you’re scared, and that’s the part of you that’s five. And maybe one day when you’re all grown up maybe you will need to cry like if you’re three, and that’s okay. That’s what I tell Mama when she’s sad and needs to cry. Maybe she’s feeling three. Because the way you grow old is kind of like an onion or like the rings inside a tree trunk or like my little wooden dolls that fit one inside the other, each year inside the next one. That’s how being eleven years old is. You don’t feel eleven. Not right away. It takes a few days, weeks even, sometimes even months before you say Eleven when they ask you. And you don’t feel smart eleven, not until you’re almost twelve. That’s the way it is.”

—

From Eleven, by Sandra Cisneros

[crystalwrote]

“If I am a witch, then so be it, I said. And I took to eating black things - huitlacoche the corn mushroom, coffee, dark chiles, the bruised part of fruit, the darkest, blackest things to make me hard and strong.”

— Sandra Cisneros, “Eyes of Zapata”