the mixture
–
explanations flow from my lips,
clouding the air around me,
falling like rain.
things are not simple for people like me.
the surface is false.
the only truth lies on the inside
where it is too much of a mess to separate
one thing from the other.
The Mixture is beautiful, really.
unwittingly, i find buckets of pride
hidden within barely concealed shame.
yet.
yet,
i am puerto rican but not from the island.
i am white but my father is not.
i am mexican but not quite enough.
blue eyes.
shame.
fair skin.
shame.
blonde hair.
shame.
and even when my hair turned darker
and even when it curled naturally,
still, shame settled somewhere
unmovable.
why can i not look like how i feel?
when the shame decides to leave,
maybe then i can be loyal to myself.
a sore thumb–
that was me,
sticking out in any Rivera family gathering.
it was a novelty, having a little white girl
amongst the Boricuas.
they fawned over me,
loving the way
my pale cheeks turned rosy when pinched.
the novelty quickly wore off.
it was no longer
ay, que preciosa, la chiquita blanca
it was,
mira, esa chica gringa ¡ay dios mío, qué vergüenza!
and i knew they were just jokes,
and I knew i was still precious.
but the echo of my shame
grew louder as their voices mingled in.
qué vergüenza.
what a shame.
how can i possibly find it in me to love myself
when i will never be enough?
children of the cold
–
the buildings aren’t really that big, not compared to where i’m from.
i am from a place where the sky is kissed
by the pointed tops of buildings of unfathomable might.
i am from a place where nature
is never without several buildings peeking through the line of trees.
i am from a place where steel and concrete makes up our lives.
so no, the buildings where i am now are really not that big.
they rest.
they simply rest atop small hills and dot the campus with their emerald tops.
there they sit, crawling with complexities.
they are unfinished in a vague sort of way.
not physically, for the stone is carved into statues
and the steps are made of marble.
rather, they are unfinished because we are unfinished.
we walk the halls, stroll the pristine lawns
surrounding this glamor and glory,
but we are none of those things.
we are what taunts the makers,
we are stains in the carpets and scuffs in the hardwood flooring.
by simply existing, we taint all that is pure.
i enjoy the strolls when the wind is cold enough to chill my skin.
the coolness of the air makes me feel a purpose unlike any other.
have i adopted the cold as something close to me?
have i attributed my successes from my surroundings, as close as the air?
i feel a fondness for the chilling air draping me in a frigid embrace,
simply because it no longer fazes me.
i am a child of the early winter,
the days where the cold creeps in with eyes bright, body hunched over.
the cold closes off so many people,
but it unlocks a door for me.
the people here are warm in many ways.
they surround me in a comfortable embrace, and i don’t feel stifled.
still, the wind brings me peace like no other.
it holds my hand in a way no one around me will ever be able to.
i find myself smiling amidst the gleaming of the golden sun
peeking through stone buildings with green gems atop.
it is not the buildings that make me smile as i do,
but the vitality of the air around me.
An Ode to Overthinking
–
There is a rush, a rumbling warns my brain.
The sort of love that crumples words unsaid,
My features harden, your blood clogs my veins.
Smooth and cold, the longing I once bled
Finds solace in a lack of apathy.
Mirror images shine all of my thoughts,
Where hands in hair is hair pulled out, enraged
I lost a chunk of who I used to be.
The bitter bite, I tied myself in knots
To evade the pressure of being caged.
When will this codependence ever cease?
A scrambling, pulsing stress coats all my life
So that to think is to be a disease.
Define the problem– it’s a gleaming knife
Poking and prodding at my self respect.
Amidst the blood and bone exposed by force
My weary mind loops and loops through the past.
It’s blurred by time but still I see my fault.
In hindsight, I always find I’m the source
Of every problem, even when outcast.
I feel too much. I feel as a default.
Break the cycle just to fail in three days.
Distract myself, but my mind never leaves.
I try to read but words can’t catch my gaze.
My thoughts are sneaking, spineless gangs of thieves,
Which swarm the spots I neglect caring for.
My mouth is sewn shut at the worst of times.
Why can’t I love this girl whose shoes I fill?
Inside my mind lies a place I abhor,
Where tattered screens replay all of my crimes.
To overthink, to lack, to lose free will.
Hourglass
–
My time lies in a wasted mound of sand,
The curved glass trapping my only respite.
Years pass idly, dreams still remain unplanned.
Within this hollowness I do command
A storm of crumbled rocks. Still I admit
My time lies in a wasted mound of sand.
Some memories plant roots deep in the land.
I wish it was so easy to forget!
Years pass idly, dreams still remain unplanned.
The mirror shows my face but burns my hand.
I start to destroy myself bit by bit.
My time lies in a wasted mound of sand.
It seems as if the sand will now expand,
Molasses, sugary sweet slow moving wit.
Years pass idly, dreams still remain unplanned.
I’ve been flipped over, time is broad and grand
Most of my life I just wanted to fit.
My time lies in a wasted mound of sand,
Years pass idly, dreams still remain unplanned.
Martha Rivera is a freshman at Boston College, studying English with a concentration in Creative Writing and a minor in Hispanic Studies. She is from Chicago Illinois, where her passion for writing was born and grew with her. Other interests include music, which she has been involved in since third grade.