when i borrowed the time machine

I was told, “Fake it until you make it” by a high school English teacher. As much as I hate recalling this terrible piece of advice, I live in a world where so many people abide by this philosophy. I grew up being very timid and complacent because I was always told to fit into society. Several bullies and anxiety attacks later, I refused to deal with the same crap for the rest of my life. I wanted to grow up and “bloom” like the female leads in romantic comedies. I wanted to transform into somebody who would be satisfied with themselves. This pandemic has challenged me with that ambition. 

I was told at the beginning of the global shutdown to go seek counseling after a professor noticed my depression. I neglected to get help because I was embarrassed to share my story. I felt like a dust ball under my bed.

Writing has become a staple in my life as I could never speak as freely as I write. Whenever I was pissed off, I would explode my inner thoughts onto paper. I would write about my day, my struggles, my truths, my lies, and anything else on my mind. Sometimes, I envisioned my stories turning into plays or movies. I hoped for the day that my writings would be produced by a big, famous film company. As I grew older, I noticed that writing was my safe haven. My writing was the only opportunity where I could run away and never be judged for doing so. I typically wrote about an outcast struggling to find her place in society. During the pandemic, my writing has become a commitment to bettering myself mentally and creatively through a collection of poems called The Bare Faced Curation.

when i borrowed the time machine

when i borrowed the time machine

the air so cleaN,

i could take deep breaths in Awe.

the sound of the river whistled through the foresT-

i could never hear this clearly and act so nUdely

a flame of resentment triggeRed an ache in my palms, but i continued.

images of my great grandparents walking on the equAtor appeared in my head, and

they were wearing strings of colored feathers and jeweLs wrapped on their heads.

a nauseous sensation burned my Left abdomen.

my grandfather Yelled out another speech in kichwa.

the drums bang in my memory;

my family sang and danced to spontaneous harmonies.

i wanted to smile and enjoy my beauty like them!

the history and culture of ecuador is mine too, however:

i grew up in an uncultured “melting pot”,

                 i spent years self-harming and self-loathing.

i don’t sound hispanic enough,

                 my skin is too dark for american vogue,

i just want to fit in.