Latina Whole | Broken

They wanted me whole in their image: digestible. Pardon my English. Pardon my trauma. Pardon my survival that still shakes when I hear certain doors slam.

Broken? No, baby. I'm whole — just not for you. Not yet. Not until you learn to love the sound of my shattering as much as my singing. broken latina whole

I grew up in the hyphen — too spicy for the suburbs, too quiet for the family parties, too fluent in pain for people who only wanted my music, my food, my curves, my fiesta, not my fury. They wanted me whole in their image: digestible

So yes, I am a broken latina whole. Whole because of the breaking. Whole because my ancestors stitched me with threads of revolution and lullabies. Whole because I stopped apologizing for my jagged edges. Pardon my survival that still shakes when I

— A daughter of the diaspora, still becoming. Would you like a shorter version for Instagram (150–200 characters), or one in Spanish/Spanglish?