A Latina’s Guide to Spirituality and Sex

Earlier today I received a beautiful message from someone dear to me that concluded by asking me how I was doing.

I replied: Stressed and feeling old.

And then I received his reply, and I thought why not transform this into my mantra for spring; a time of renewal, rebirth, transformation, and new a new mentality…

You’re a youthful, timeless beauty, Sunshine!  Love walks with you always!

What a way to start a new cycle!  Love to you…you know who you are!

From Eat, Pray, Love:

” I disappear into the person I love.  I am the permeable membrane.  If I love you, you can have it all – my money, my time, my body, my dog, my dog’s money.  I will assume all of your debts and project upon you all sorts of nifty qualities you’ve actually never cultivated in yourself.  I will give you all this and more until I am so exhausted and depleted, the only way I can recover is by becoming infatuated with someone else.”

Regrets.  I’m full of them sometimes.

I should have stayed away after that night

of rolling onto desert roses,

I should have stayed with him, in his bed

of love and pain.

I should have left him,

in his fortress of solitude,

Flown to Florence, towards my dreams.

I should have moved to Paris, to Berkeley,

to a home Venus rules us both,

A place where my love and intensity

are understood, not dismissed.

A place where my spirit is assuaged,

Where my virtues shine, and my

faults overlooked in search of the

panoramic view.

I should have, but I didn’t,

and now, here I am,

cradling all my shattered dreams.

You swayed in for a brief stay,

a season,

a second,

a moment frozen

into perfection, holding

a mirror, up to my face,

beckoning me to question,

swiveling me

 towards a different direction.

Veils lifted,

Defenses gone,

Politeness melted,

No barriers between us, 

as your wounded, young girl hands

plunged, your dagger of insecurity and fear,

deep, into my soft, thin, unsuspecting

skin, that once welcomed you. 

You tapped on my window, with a note

 on a fork, suspended from

A piece of rope, held by your hand,

which read

“Ready?” 

No, I’m not ready.

I don’t think I am, at least.  

You’re the sign at the crossroad, 

signaling a need for change, a time 

for change. 

Is one ever ready?  

You opened my eyes, pulled aside the 

veil, just enough for me to see clearly once again, refilled

my basin of hope, of creativity,

held a mirror to my

face, now wrinkled,

since last I saw my reflection.

Now, you’ve left me holding the mirror,

still warm

from your touch. 

You know when I’m not around…New Keen’s thrown right near the end table,

A gardening book laying on the couch near a roach,

The scattered clothes and glasses of dried up milk,

Dishes piled up in the sink waiting to be cleansed,

The laptop open, running, mobile,

The wireless mouse on the ‘on’ position,

The printer cable removed,

The chair I bought to cushion my back,

Swiveled around,

Cum-stained clothes,

Some in the hamper, some near your bed,

Old, porn movies shuffled around,

The only one I’ll watch with you,

My school girl skirt and thong absent.

You didn’t clean the house,

You didn’t pick up your camping shit,

You didn’t even wash the fucking dishes,

You sat there,

Numb,

With your dick in your hand,

Trying to forget the bitch slap,

Trying to forget my left side hitting the floor,

Trying to forget how your Eleggua cradled my head.

Trying to forget how I packed up all the wet clothes into

Earth-friendly bags.

The wet clothes, dried,

The bruises will heal,

Eleggua will keep cradling my head

And you, you’ll just continue to sit there,

Anesthetized and lonely,

Trying to forget how you killed your last chance.

As the sun creeps in,

My mind begins its morning spiral,

Eyes closed,

Skin ground against burgundy silk,

The yellow studio, tiny, mine,

I feel the peace found in that in-between state,

My eyes begin to open,

Your image beside me fades into the light,

The scent of your skin absorbed into the memory of a dream,

Where I am enveloped in your arms,

The sun tracing the silhouette of our bodies on white sheets

with only that red, woolen throw over us…

Whose snagged threads still linger on my lilac blouse,

your old, black couch,

In hidden corners here and there,

 persistent,

surprising us with its tenacity,

Those haunting bits of thread that sat beside us when our love was so explosive

It took us five days to watch

that sappy one star film

back when we laid inebriated

with love, covered by the red throw.

That throw I loved so much,

Comforting me every time we fought,

Reminding me of the love I fight to keep,

The red throw you tried desperately to be rid of,

Antagonizing you in my absence,

Reminding you of the love you fight to forget.

Sitting at the kitchen counter, listening to Rapunzel, your arms wrapped around me, your chin settled near the nape of my neck …

Don’t worry, it’ll be ok.

Days later there’s broken glass, severed plans, and fractured spirits.

Don’t worry, it’ll be ok.

Sitting near you, writing silly notes, witnessing a vigilantes sweet release, your cheeks red from repressed desire…

Don’t worry, it’ll be ok.

Days later there’s a cold wind, boundaries, and wasted time.

Don’t worry, it’ll be ok.

Cooking picadillo, listening to Yellow, your grief-stricken eyes staring at me softly, Christmas tree with love and broken bulbs, ice cream run, embraced by your warmth, early morning flight, cinnamon buns and hazelnut coffee,  warm lips that I’d missed so much…

Don’t worry, it’ll be ok.

Breakfasts, brunches, mimosas,

Friends: Luco, Brujitas, Bald Love, and Crazy Kids.

French doors open,

smoking on the deck,

sometimes cigs, sometimes not.

Earth hour, candles, darkness, laughter,

strawberry-scented waxy s’mores.

knauss berry, tomato picking, cinnamon rolls, shakes,

zen ponds, cauley square.

Immortalized afternoons,

witches game, bbqs, bloody marys,

guitar hero’s ‘black’.

Nostalgia. Love. Home.

What She calls Pure Happiness.