Si tuviese una cajita mágica, pondría

El lunar que heredé de mi Ama.
Aquel chorrito, el que se hacia grandote y se hacia chiquito.
Los bailables con mi hermana y primas, con zapatos viejos y con el pelo suelto.


El esfuerzo que puse al aprender inglés.
Las naricitas que, con mucho cariño, a mis sobrinos les robe.
Las cartas para el chico del apartamento 512 no entregadas.


Mi debilidad a mis hermanos.
Aquellas tardes en bici por Tulum, gritando “tope!”
La luna madrileña quien cuido de mi esas noches azules y frías.


Una naranja dulce, y un limón partido.
Un vals, para un día bailar con mi papa en el cielo.
Las alas de mis sueños, para ser libre y feroz frente al fracaso.

Ah sí, también pondría
El consuelo escondido dentro de una tortilla con sal.



One light. That’s all it takes. One tiny, little light, to illuminate the deep darkness that depression engulfs entire souls in. A spark, so you can better understand me, is the glimpse of hope that another human being can give you.

Amidst the sadness and hopelessness that characteristically come with depression; a tiny spark suffices to light up your world. Like candlelight magic, it allows you to better see your surroundings. Suddenly, you can see that you are not alone. Better yet, that you shouldn’t feel ashamed of being in so much pain. More often than not, this light is very compassionate and loving.

If you are going through depression, you really, really are not alone. Don’t impose shame on yourself, and do your best to share with one person whom you deeply trust. Allow someone who loves you to be your little spark of light!



Crumpled napkins are said to hold truer truths than entire novels.
Like, JK’s words before they were hard-covered.
Like, the red lipstick he wiped off before getting home.
Like, the bucket list she wrote after graduation.
Like, the binky his daughter threw after a tantrum.
Crumpled napkins hold truer truths than entire novels.


Amsterdam Dad

His countenance called me with a strange urgency; almost with the same urgency his legs pedaled that bike forward with one goal in mind: don’t stop. Perhaps, he was in a rush to drop off his son at daycare, just before his afternoon meeting. Maybe, he just really needed to pee.

Hoping for a hint of who he is and where he might be going, I snapped this picture on Thursday May 28, 2015 at exactly 2:47pm in Amsterdam. Unable to find answers, this is what my imagination has conjured up bout this man, based on his guise:  Continue reading


Dad, what is it like to be a killer?
Let me tell you what it’s like to be your daughter.

I hate you.
And I mean it.
Depriving your own wife
of her own life.
Depriving your own children
of their mother’s love.
Depriving the world of a dazzling light.

I hate you.
And I mean it.
It took Him seven days to create the world,
and you, one, to destroy your children’s.
Your ungodly powers brought your offspring
to their knees, forced to burry their own heart.
A red rose and a handful of dirt as a goodbye.

I hate you.
And I mean it.
Your children wear sadness like stains in a table cloth.
Stains in the form of lost childhoods.
Stains in the form of unsent letters to heaven.
Disguised stains only detectible to those
keen eyes able to decipher them.

I don’t know what it’s like to be a killer,
but this is what being your daughter is like.
I love you, dad.
And I mean it.


One letter.
One word.
One sentence.
One story.

Water can burn too. I’d encinerate my writing under cold water to make the ink bleed and dissipate into obliteration. Afterall, burning is less hazardous than judgement.  Until a friend’s soft whisper said, “never burn after writing.” What resulted from those words, is this blog and a children’s novel in the making. My writing process has since evolved: burn.