Love bug. honeybee. amorcito. mi corazon. These are all names nestled in between words of love and tenderness, the kind maybe mothers or grandmothers placed upon our heads like hand made flower crowns- they adorned us with smiles and gentle cariños. But when does the silky smoothness of their voices, the singing lullabies and encouragment for later years suddenly drop- as if the once tender fruit in their hand ripened, ready to be devoured by those they couldn't protect us from. And then the raspiness escapes their throats, like wolves hunting their next prey under full moon, and we are not the meals, but we run from the sound of snapping teeth and men with guns and spears.
I know our mamís y abuelitas love, and they fight, because it takes a village to raise us and maternal warriors to protect us, from all that claim our 'purity' but want nothing to do with our goddess like spirit.
This is for all who have fought the war to keep us alive and at one point had to let us drown so we could be self taught in the ways of throwing pata, pierna, y muslo against currents, and shitty men.
And if we ever choose to leave the lion dens of protection and guidance, we take each other, struggles interlocked y nuestra luna nos guiara.
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