I’ve never liked the term lucky to be alive.
No, baby. I chose to stay alive.
Mexico City, 2017 (before the earthquake).
I was living and teaching there, legally and lovingly, like the city had adopted me.
Because it had.
It gave me students who made me laugh and made me late.
It gave me sunsets through smog and sidewalks that smelled like tortillas and sweat.
It gave me language. And family. And pride.
It also gave me two men with knives.
I was walking home.
Not drunk. Not flashy. Not stupid.
Just soft.
Just me.
Backpack on, heart open.
Then came the hands.
One to my face. One to my side.
No words. No reason. No choice.
Just fear.
And pain.
They stabbed me in the chest, took my things, left me alone bleeding in the street. 🔪🩸
Weeks later,
I wanted to hunt them down.
Wanted to make them hurt, not just poetically, but physically.
But I didn’t.
Instead, I wrote them into a poem they’ll never read.
And here it is…
poema para los dos que me partieron sin matarme
(poem for the two who broke me without killing me)
me atacaron sin aviso, sin pena, sin ley,
(they attacked without warning, without shame, without law)
como sombras del miedo que nunca enfrenté.
(like shadows of fear I’d never faced before)
con un puño callaron mi risa, mi fe,
(with a fist they silenced my laugh, my faith)
y con filo grabaron que débil no fue.
(and with a blade they carved that I was never weak)
quise maldecirlos, buscarlos, vengarme,
(I wanted to curse them, hunt them, get revenge)
con rabia en la sangre, sin nadie que alarme.
(with rage in my blood, no one to warn)
quise matarlos, así, con mis manos,
(I wanted to kill them, right there, with my hands)
como bestia herida cruzando los llanos.
(like a wounded beast crossing the plains)
pero no.
(but I didn’t)
Dios me habló en el silencio total,
(God spoke to me in total silence)
y me dijo que odiar no es final.
(and told me hate is never the ending)
aprendí a sanar, a golpear si me toca,
(I learned to heal, to hit if I must)
a mirar mi reflejo sin miedo en la boca.
(to see my reflection without fear in my mouth)
ahora entreno. respiro. perdono.
(now I train. I breathe. I forgive)
y mi alma no carga lo que no le abono.
(and my soul doesn’t carry what I didn’t plant)
porque el perdón no es rendirse, es poder,
(because forgiveness isn’t surrender, it’s strength)
es pararse de nuevo y volver a creer.
(it’s standing up again and learning to believe)
así que escúchenme bien, fantasmas del ayer:
(so hear me clearly, ghosts of yesterday)
no me mataron. me hicieron renacer.
(you didn’t kill me. you made me reborn)
That’s what happens when you try to break someone who’s already been broken beautifully.
I’m not mad anymore.
Not because I forgot.
Because I got stronger.
Physically, yeah, I’m buff now.
I could bench both those fools while reciting Shakespeare and still have breath left for a prayer.
But the real power?
Came from walking through that pain without dragging it behind me like a badge.
Came from choosing not to rot in vengeance.
Came from knowing I could seek revenge and end a life, but instead, I chose to rebuild mine.
Romans 12:21.
“Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.”
So no, I didn’t get even.
I got poetic.
I got fit.
I got free.
And if I ever see them again?
I won’t run.
I won’t break.
I’ll meet their eyes with the weight of everything I’ve rebuilt.
Not to threaten. Not to hurt them.
Just to show them I’m still here…
breathing, brilliant, and unafraid.
🍒🎰🧃🌈🫦🎲🫦🌈🧃🎰🍒
Survived, rhymed it, still soft, still ripped. tip for the trauma and the flow.
👇
