from my journal to the quest

i’ve never walked that land 

but her pebble is in my shoe

every mile forward she moves

annoyance,hurting,piercing,bleeding

red 

like abuela’s lipstick in that 1950s picture 

it has faded over the years and crumbled 

similarly my heart has been bruised

sienna 

adulthood 

scrambling searching punching the clock

20

the finish line was a wormhole

i am trying to blossom “right”

on time 

on their time

fit into the mold

could i ever?

i am afraid i will always have this chip on my shoulder 

just a bit too wide

just a bit too angry inside

“if i were white i would be able to do this right”

i can’t fit myself and my baggage into the dreamhouse

we couldn't fit all of us into the american dream

used our tongues to pay the mortgage 

of the house on the land they later stole

today i am indebted to ghosts

generations of trauma in these bones

and i still wonder why it hurts to grow 

grier vasquez