I’m sorry for being a nuisance.
I ask for too much.
I was born with
demands in my throat,
I was raised with
a hand to my mouth.
I was raised to believe
my voice was to
remain as quiet
as the rustle
of the roses
in my mother’s
garden, shaken
by my father’s
coat as it’s
caught in the thorns
after a weekend
at a bar.

I’m sorry for being a nuisance.
I kept speech tightly
bundled inside me
until I was 18.
I lived, a recluse,
in my room
and spent time
with my computer
instead of my family.
I grew up with
an anxiety so
I hardly knew my own face
from avoiding reflective
material for so long.

I’m sorry for being a nuisance.
I’m just now becoming
accustomed to saying
what I feel,
or anything,
at all.
It’s like I’ve been awakened,
and I’ve realized
what I have to say
is not soft,
or easy,
and by far
not the gentle petals
my mother expected–
my father demands from me.

I’m sorry.
I’m a nuisance.
I am your Latina daughter,
and my mouth is lined
with thorns,
much to your dismay.
Sometimes I will go too far,
and I apologize.
But I refuse
to go back to that
dark place,
the caverns
of silence
which I built for myself;
not now that I’ve realized
the sunrise outside
is filled with so much


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