They call her a “broken latina whole” — like the fracture is the flaw. Like the stitches aren't sacred. Like resilience isn't woven into the very rhythm of her name.
You want my whole story? Good. Bring your gentleness. Bring your willingness to sit in the rubble with me. But don't you dare call me broken unless you're ready to witness how beautifully I put myself back together — in my own tongue, on my own time, with my own two hands. broken latina whole
They wanted me whole in their image: digestible. Pardon my English. Pardon my trauma. Pardon my survival that still shakes when I hear certain doors slam. They call her a “broken latina whole” —
So yes, I am a broken latina whole. Whole because of the breaking. Whole because my ancestors stitched me with threads of revolution and lullabies. Whole because I stopped apologizing for my jagged edges. You want my whole story