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The Autobiography of Swirl

“Through a painting we can see the whole world.” - Hans Hofmann

By Alexia VillanuevaPublished 6 years ago 2 min read
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A lot of people don't respect the fact that you don't have to be the same race or the same colour to be with the person you are. I think it’s unfair when people especially black people take it as offense when they see a young black woman with a white boy and suddenly judge her by saying she doesn't know well or she wants mixed kids. I dated black men and a lot of different races but now i'm in relationship with the most wonderful young man ever, he’s there for me when needed and cherish and love me as the queen i always wanted to be. Yes he’s white i don't care about his race. I cared about his heart and he’s the most generous person that i know. I in love with him and not because you feeling some type of way about my relationship doesn't mean i have to stop being happy and loving the person that i want.Bethyna Saint Laurent

Mulatto; Mulatta

Mestizo; Blanca

Wedita; Hapa

Weda; Half cast

Africana; Halfrican

Mulatta: Africana,

Mestiza: Americana,

Weda: Guerra

Wedita: Blanca

More than a curse, a slur of an object that you have controlled what people see. I am more than these words, you see. These sidewalks have embraced your colored veins.

First school was filled with honeyed taffy skin, second school vanilla hair, the third terracotta lips, and the last a melting pot of hokums. Every morning the sun reigns over me with its incalescence painting with paintbrushes.

Your bristles mark me with specks of ivory, as café fills my lungs with a caramel sensation.

Coffee beans filled in the glass.

The cheval glass shows me what you have embedded into me. Acting as carapace, hiding within mirrors of swirl, you don’t define me. I’ve lived my life as a mulatta, a mestiza, and a blanca, you. The worst is when being ripped apart with you in my blood, renting a foreign tongue of being named illegal. Huevo’s, chile, and tostada's fill the air.

Eggs, bacon, and bread lay in the pit of my stomach like a volcano.

I am swirled like the food I eat and the boarders I cross.

Victimized in the magical words that open us wide open.

City Anthem playing on youtube but through my headphones Baila Esta Cumbia. Panicking like a mannequin, I didn’t always see you. It was others that opened my eyes to that you existed. Yes we have been poisoned with you in my veins but this curse is nothing more then trouble. Questions invading our mindsets, second questioning my identity. In a way I grew up half honeyed taffy and vanilla, along with the questions “What are you?” Or “Are you this or that?” Like music guess you’ve swirled me with both. People thinking being you whirled and swirled is always easy. It’s the complete opposite.

Insecure with your looks because of the paintbrushes that brushes my makeup and skin with the home for atelophobia to stay.

The fear to accept what you and your tangled hair, small lips, vanilla eyes and terracotta lips have interjected into the features that confuse the flowers that

Walk these walls.

Your words are limiting like flows of water. You’ve come in every mixing size, shape, and dialects of fruitful yearnings. There’s no word that fits all. I didn’t always see color.

It was others that opened my eyes to that you existed. That I was different.

surreal poetry
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