Purple Candies (Chapter 1, page 1 of 1)

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Chapter 1



It was me

It has always been me

I sense the little pigments on my face

Their heaviness piercing through my confidence,

I level up on consciousness.

But sister, I hope every time you gaze in the mirror

You’re not searching for scars and bumps on your face,

But the glitters in your eyes

That reveal the clarity of your soul.


I was taught to smoothen my hair

And comb it straight to look more pretty like the girls on TV.

Twisting synthetic hair to cover the kinkiness of mine

Nothing soft was ever said to the tightness of my curls...

And sometimes I mentioned that I feel like I have electrical wires planted on my head,

out of pain and struggle.

I apologize to have underestimated the beauty me and my sisters carry.

I am about to teach myself to love the nature of what I learned to hate for so long.


Five girls sitting around a kitchen table,

small room yet holding in so much solidarity.

I crunch a chip and inhale on a cigar like a clumsy beginner.

Coughs and teary eyes,

No judgments, we all belong

waves, and straights

Curls and coils

Beauty too complex to be calculated.

We looked like planets rotating,

Channeling life in each other’s stories.

These years have passed so fast and so loud

Like bees

But they’ve left us tasting like honey…


We flew away from home,

Pretending so loud it was only about papers

But we were taking a decent refuge

The sad, like the joyful

The honest, like the liars

so distinguished

yet all so hungry

Thinking we are satisfied.

We all meet here without running to catch each other’s hand

it feels like touching every country, every island

Drawing circles in vineyards and swamps

Feet in the mud, head in the clouds

While we’re only standing and blinking

So alone, yet so complete.


Forehead clenched

Tension muscled all over her body, that it brings a cold blue weather in the room.

Sipped bottles,

and the money that flew past the throat,

just to leave a woman carrying mountains and valleys in her kitchen chair.

Salted food and sweet flavored drinks;

never show your daughter that she will still cry for men even in her late forties.

Awakened breasts and a plump full mouth,

she will hear your echoed shouts through her walls

and remind herself how it’s easy to stay and swallow thorns,

than to step her feet out of the door,

walking away from a man that knew the map to her heart so well.

That’s how we’ve grown into the women you call strong and weak,

beautiful and reserved.

We’ve read our mothers’ recipes

we’ve watched them swallow lumps,

For love

For anger

For pride

For their daughters.

They left us tasting like their strength and weakness,

beauty and reservation.

we already know how to stay for choking smells,

bottles and glasses,

late nights and dispute

like our mothers did.


I will throw my hands up, and hold my skirt up

Just to feel the heat that my grandmother never felt

With her mouth shut,

And throat swollen of muted quarrels.

I will laugh as loud and wide as my brother,

Even though my grandfather would have called it


I will live,

Not by fear but by choice.

In the night,

When the wind comes crawling in my bed,

I will make love in every corner,

Just to please every edge on my body.


I will not try to beautify all the wrongs I’ve done

All the bad words that skipped my mouth

The quiet little sinful thoughts.

I am unlovely like the rainy cloudy afternoons on a lonely Sunday

But some mornings, I am the yellow sun with happy brown eyes

I am undefined

Everything but perfect

Infinite beauty...


One of the hardest things I have experienced as a woman

is trying to settle a conflict between the fear that locks me into a comfort zone of traditions

and restrictions,

and my warm heart and body that know I deserve freedom of pleasure

cannot wait to live.

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