Dear white boy,

I love you.

I want to be loved by you. 

I want to be held 

and to be kissed

And to be adored 

by you.

I want to hold your hand, tight, 

as I meet your mother.

Her smiles will be sleight,

And just quite like many guilt trips,

She’ll stare just above my ribs

And further south

As she inevitably compliments my… pants. 

I want to stay at your side 

as I shake your father’s hand,

To which he is proudly smiling,

disregarding the band

On his left hand

So his gaze can pan

Up and down my body

His gaze’ll only meet yours,

His eyes are screaming, “wh*re”

But his lips, not shy of coy

Are singing their reprieve of, 

“That’s my boy!”

At that moment, I won’t understand

why you were being praised.

When I was at hand,

When I was the one 

in their detestable gaze.

The gaze that’ll haunt me 

and my people

For the rest of our days.

The beam of indifference that builds us our cage

We are trapped in a helpless, fetish-y maze

That your mom can see.

That your dad can see, too.

So I can’t help but wonder,

Who am I to you?

Am I the hint of indigenous spice that you taste in your bed?

Am I awfully green card to whom you will wed?

Am I the p*rn category you click into each night?

Am I the intemperate woman whose mouth will put up a fight,

For her, the perfect woman I’ve yet to embody,

So why the hell is our focus still on my body?

The fetishization of Latina women 

was not in the constitution,

Yet every American,

Yes, even amongst ourselves, 

Have suffered the hands of social pollution.

Put me and my language in a room of white men,

The smog will thicken up 

And I’ll pick up my pen

And I’ll write what they say 

I’ll write it again

I’ll write it until the American men

Will write no more raps,

Will write no more movies,

That captures Latina women as useless and floozy

Prostitutes, maids, incapable, and more

But no no no, no of course,

Don’t let me ramble on,

I embody a whore,

Let’s listen to you.

The glorious man of the glorious whore.

Let’s listen, G-Eazy,

Let’s listen, Kanye West,

You two have made sure that Latinas are best,

Only when they’re bent over,

And squeezing their breasts,

In the face of a man 

Who doesn’t give a damn

On whether or not she’ll wake up tomorrow

In the comfort of a nest 

Where she’ll be safe and away

From the world that has messed.

Her.

Up.

So,

Dear white boy,

I think I love you. 

I think I want to be loved by you without asking why.

I think I want to look into each of your eyes

And see a shooting star

On which I can make a wish.

Yes, I want to see a future.

No, not a fetish.