I was writing since before I could ever spell a word, or put pen to paper. I would make up stories telling Mami and Titi while the arroz cooked and the sancocho simmered on the stove.

I spent afternoons

as a kid

playing by myself

talking the day a w a y

in Titi’s living room

or at the foot of her bed

her legs bent in odd shapes

that felt like home

I was writing as a teenager

about rape and the many

ways my body felt

small

attempting to reclaim

my body back

attempting to find

myself

my reasons

my breath

Writing was always my way out, my way in, my way home, my way to finding myself. Whenever I am feeling off track, whenever I feel a little lost.

It’s the page that saves me.